July 27, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The Same, But Different Edition

I had this pipe dream when we moved. I'd thought that maybe, the massive increase in my panic attacks over the past seven years was in direct correlation to life in the crapshack in the Redneck Jungle, and that once removed, they'd magically disappear.

They haven't.

That said, they're better. When I'm anxious or, on the rare occasion, panicked, my first instinct isn't to run away from home, but rather to stay there. I've always been thankful that my particular version of agoraphobia got me out of the house instead of imprisoning me in it.

I had my first big attack since the move today. Not that it surprised me. It's the time of the month that leads to the attacks. My schedule was thrown off, thanks to everyone sleeping far too late this morning, which always puts me on edge. I woke up with a start at 10:27, terrified because Clara Jane hadn't woken me up She was fine. Just snoozing in after not taking a much-needed nap yesterday. Then Chloe, the Basset hound, had some issues walking up the steps, which sent me over the edge into sweaty, heart-racing fear.

She's fine. She just needs her butt popped again. Anal gland problems. They were full when my pal Jen the Groomer drained them on Tuesday. When they get overfull like that, the fill up again within a few days. It takes a few butt-poppings to get her back on track. Regardless, it's enough to throw me into a spin, especially when the time of the month is wrong, my schedule's off, and I've been over-busy.

We had some errands to run today, anyway, and I was thankful. I know I would have been okay at home, but I was relieved to have an excuse to not be there. We ran our errands and now we're at Cooperella for lunch. I thought we had arrived late enough to miss the bulk of the noisy crowd, but I was wrong. Apparently, today there's a meeting of St. Louis Shriekers Anonymous. I'm just glad that my kid is snuggled up beside me, quietly eating her turkey and swiss sandwich. Oh, and look who just walked in. The dad who, last time I blogged at Cooperella, blew a gasket because his son cast a sidelong, interested glance at a pink tutu. NO! Not for boys! NO! He's been here five minutes and he's already managed to lose the boy, who's probably in the boutique, trying on party dresses. I hope.

It's a good thing one of those errands I ran earlier today was to get my panic and anxiety drugs. Give me enough today to make me able to do little more than shuffle around, staring at my feet in oblivious bliss until the next few days pass.

1. The End of Medicine - The New Pornographers
2. Van Lear Rose - Loretta Lynn
3. Wang Dang Doodle - Koko Taylor
4. Wipe the Clock - Uncle Tupelo (who I've been listening to all day)
5. Something to Brag About - George Jones and Tammy Wynette
6. Take the Skinheads Bowling - Camper Van Beethoven
7. Mama Said - The Shirelles
8. Happy When it Rains - Jesus and Mary Chain
9. Novocaine for the Soul - The Eels
10. All He Wants to Do is Fish - The Replacements

Posted by Robin at 01:07 PM | Comments (8)

July 20, 2007

Friday Shuffle - Subterranean Homebound Blues Edition

I love people. I do. If I didn't, I wouldn't have thrown that big auction last weekend, right? Right now, though, I'm a bit peopled out. I've only had one day this week where I didn't spend time with at least one friend (Tuesday, when Clara Jane and the unholy beast that had morphed from the piles of unwashed laundry begged me to stay home). And that's good. I can say in all honesty that I have the best friends now that I've had in my entire life. I love that my life is such that I can spend a lot of time with my friends. I'm lucky that this shirt applies greatly to my life, and that I get to do the coffee-drinking and slacking with good people.

I think the past few months have officially caught up to me, because this week, when not out having a hoot, I've wanted to do nothing but sequester myself in the basement's rumpus room. Don't you dare come down here, either. I've got a fridge full of Vitamin Water and beer, nine hours of History Channel shows about doomsday, the antichrist, and Hell on the DVR, half a box of shortbread Girl Scout Cookies, and knitting to do. That's a lethal combination, my friends. Lethal to whoever makes the bad decision to attempt interaction with me while I'm rumpusing.

I've done some knitting, which I have barely done since we moved:

Pretty, but methinks trouble lies ahead:

My yarnball is puking knots, which I'm undoing as I knit. If you interrupt me while I'm doing this, so help me, I'm taking you down with those wee little needles.

I used up all my nice with the auction last week. Julie, however, has so much nice that she'll never run out. This week she gave me a copy of the photo I so wanted to buy at the auction. And I would have, too, had Count Sassy not outbid me by $100. Instead I bought a purse and the notecards in the upper left corner. Yeah, you feel pity on me for having to settle for a gorgeous, hand-made one-of-a-kind purse and notecards so pretty I'm considering gluing them to a wall in the rumpus room so I'll have something to stare at while rumpusing and eschewing humanity.

I feel a little guilty about Julie's gift, as I made quite a display of whining and moaning and threatening to send large Minnesotans (I know a few) to Count Sassy's door to collect what I felt was rightfully mine.

I whine when I don't get what I want. Therefore, I have grounded myself to the basement to wrestle with yarn puke-knots. Seems fair enough.

(Julie also took some beautiful photos of the quilt she bought at the auction, made by Granny Viv. They're awesome, of course.)

Next break in History Channel's Satan Week marathon, I'll shuffle over to the bar for cookies and beer. No, you can't have any. I'm not sharing today.

1. The Hardest Button to Button - White Stripes(Yes! For I, too, have a brain that feels like pancake batter.)
2. Maybe Sparrow - Neko Case
3. The Consort - Rufus Wainwright
4. Get Up - REM
5. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots - Flaming Lips
6. Twilight - U2
7. The Swimmer - Sleater-Kinney
8. Head On - Jesus & Mary Chain
9. The Whole World - Outkast
10. Saturn - Stevie Wonder

Posted by Robin at 07:30 PM | Comments (8)

July 06, 2007

Friday Shuffle - Now Actually on Friday Edition!

Not that there's much to say, since all the action's over at Boob-Ha-Ha. Donations keep rolling in. I keep being astounded. Can't post them fast enough. You know the drill. It's a pretty awesome drill, all told.

How did I live before I got my MacBook? This auction would be really, really hard.

Clara Jane and I had a lovely, normal day. We went to the market and the coffeehouse up the street. I'm still blissed about how errand-running can be done in less than an hour now. Clara Jane's been a bit of a terror this week, and having a low-key day with some extra attention did us both some good. We made a Splenda birthday cake for my diabetic dad, which she decorated with lots of non-diabetic nonpariels. We don't know how it tastes yet, but it's definitely pretty. This is what she told me while we were making cream cheese frosting: "When we give Grandpa his cake, I'm going to lick frosting off of it and get it on my face. Then everyone will laugh and call me Frosting Face. Huh huh huh ... It'll be so funny!" Yep, she's definitely inherited our sense of humor.

Tonight, I'll be leaving the house when the hours are in the double-digits to babysit. I can't remember the last time I left the house after, oh, 7 PM. If all goes well, the babysitee will be asleep and I'll have a peaceful night of Boob-Ha-Ha stuff, knitting, and such. I took a nap. I'm ready.

I wish I could shuffle from my MacBook, but with the busyness, there isnt' one single song on this machine yet. Can you believe that? So off we shuffle to Beatrice, the elder Apple product of the household.

1. Good-Hearted Woman - Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson
2. Ride Along - John Hiatt
3. The River - Bruce Springsteen
4. Only in Dreams - Weezer
5. Hell Yes - Beck
6. Underneath the Bunker - REM
7. Tennessee Homesick Blues - Dolly Parton
8. There is an End - The Greenhornes (which is, like, the third time I've heard them today)
9. When Something is Wrong with My Baby - Sam & Dave
10. Get It Get It - Scissor Sisters

Posted by Robin at 07:23 PM | Comments (7)

June 30, 2007

Friday(ish) Shuffle - The Again with the Ish Business Edition

My blog mojo is seriously lacking these days. Fact is, there's really not much to write about right now. You can only read, "Omigod! I love my house! I love Prettytown!" so many times before you start lobbing dirt bike wheels at me.

You also don't want to read more about Murphy, who's been the crux of this week. In addition to Tuesday's escape, she had a bout of diarrhea, which christened one of the rooms in the house on Thursday. She's fine. I have a feeling she ate a monkey ball from one of our sweetgum trees. I'm not sure of this, but I wouldn't put it past her.

Last night Murphy made another blatant escape, this one while B. was letting her in the house. She had to investigate what is the new slightly irritating, unusual vehicle in our new neighborhood - a coach bus idling in the parking lot across the street. Actually, she chased the bus' driver, who lives two houses down from us. He's been on the road since before our move.

"When I heard her howl, I thought, 'Oh, she's beautiful! She sounds just like Nutmeg!'"

Not only have we moved to a quiet, pretty, friendly, easy-going neighborhood, it's also a neighborhood where every single person we meet adores Murphy, hound dog howl and all. This has several possible answers: 1) I live in a neighborhood of polite liars, 2) I live in a neighborhood of people with odd taste in dogs, or 3) I live in paradise which, contrary to the belief of some Missouri-side St. Louis Metro area, does not house dragons. Well, only friendly ones that'll give you a hand if you need a flame for s'more-making.

My knit mojo has returned. I'm sure you're thrilled.

I had my first guests yesterday who weren't immediately put to work. My friend Jill and her daughters, one who's a day younger than Clara Jane, came over for pizza, corn dogs, conversation, and the patented kind of noise that can only be created by three little girls having a good time.

There's still a lot of unpacking. Fuck.

I moved to a town that has a wing joint with over 50 varieties of flavors. Last night I had garlic parmesan wings, horseradish wings, and my first bottle of Stag, which I think means I'm an official Bellevillian now.

I'm about to unveil one of the things that's kept me away from my blog. It's big. Or will be, if I get a chance to get rolling on it this weekend. It's something to raise money for boobs. It's so big it requires its own domain name, much like my own boobs. Prepare yourself, and start putting away your pennies. You're going to want to part with them very soon.

Since I'm such a slack-ass, here's a bit of a musical bonus in addition to the shuffle. Devil Baby Freakshow, the band co-fronted by my pal Beqi, made their live radio debut yesterday afternoon, which had me dancing around my kitchen with a mop. No joke. That really happened. Because I've obviously moved to Pleasantville, as everyone keeps telling me. Anyway, you can listen to their set, along with the two-hour entirity of Dangerous Curves by clicking the "stream" button for the June 29th show. They're about 45 minutes into the program, but listen to the whole thing. Where else are you going to hear Wanda Jackson and a Shangri-Las record other than "Leader of the Pack"? It'll make your kitchen sparkle, I swear.

These songs, in comparison to "Dangerous Curves", will probably just make you shuffle around, staring at your shoes, wondering if anyone's peed in them lately.

1. Selfless, Cold and Composed - Ben Folds Five
2. Land of Caanan - Indigo Girls
3. We'll Meet Again - Johnny Cash
4. Holiday in Harlem - Ella Fitzgerald
5. You Don't Know How it Feels - Tom Petty
6. Friday I'm in Love - The Cure
7. River Knows Your Name - John Hiatt
8. Ana Ng - They Might be Giants
9. The Show Must Go On - The Real Tuesday Weld
10. Too Much - Elvis Presley

Posted by Robin at 09:17 AM | Comments (1)

June 23, 2007

Friday(ish) Shuffle - The Dots That Keep Me From Posting Edition

You know this is a busy time, right? Here's how much so:

• My new modem's crap. I don't think I've ever signed up for internet service and gotten a good modem the first time 'round. B. and I have spent a lot of time on the phone with our ISP, who have actually been nice and easy to deal with. New modem's on its way. In the meantime, the internet, she comes and she goes.
• Can't stop listening to Icky Thump long enough to form coherent sentences.
• When not listening to Icky Thump, life has been taken over by Little Steven's Underground Garage, which plays 24/7 on our satellite system. This show gave me that moment even mother dreams of: the moment when she walks into the living room to find her daughter, naked from the waist down, pogoing and screaming along to "High School" by the MC5.
• Speaking of naked from the waist-down, Clara Jane's feeling right at home in Prettytown. Comfortable enough to stand in the front window of a local coffee and ice cream establishment, bend over, and drop trou. You can take the girl out of the Redneck Jungle ...
• There are two - two!! - competing farmer's markets in this town. This morning I bought all my favorite veggies: broccoli picked this morning, zukes, sweet corn, green tomatoes, gooseberry pie, and strawberry jelly roll.
• I'm far too busy buying used furniture in East St. Louis to post.
• All that motherfucking unpacking.
• Planning a fundraiser-gone-amok for The Cuz that might lead to one of us sporting bright pink hair and the other sporting no hair at all, if all goes well.
• Wasting my time "auditioning" for a job with a large internet company called clusterfuck.com. Not their real name, but it's just about appropriate, all things considered. When you want to quit the job before you've landed the job, that's not a good sign.

  Would you like to see some photos of the new house in its current horrible state?

  
  
  I bought this to house all those vintage cocktail glasses I bought a few weeks ago. The Styrofoam under the leg will be replaced with a caster just as soon as we get time, around Clara Jane's junior year of college.

  
  This is the one organized area in my house.

  
  I just want to sit here and knit. But not until the unpacking's done. And not until the chains are fixed so I don't face-plant into the brick wall every time I sit down.

  
  At least we don't have piles of our personal belongings in the front yard anymore, thanks to one of our nice neighbors.

  
  Again, the important parts of the house are in order.

  
  "Hey B.? Did you remember to unpack Clara Jane? I can't find a damn thing in her room."

  
  B. can't find his heel cream (it's in that plastic box right there, but he has no problem finding the 3-year-old bag of masdoor dal on his dresser. Again, priorities.

  
  Oh good. She's unpacked and lounging in the formal living room. You can tell it's formal because there are only eight boxes in it instead of the 156 each of our casual rooms contain.

  
  See that bag of potato chips on the dining room table? Until today's farmer's market run, that was the most nutritious thing any of us had eaten in over a week.

  But this is pretty:
  

  And so is this:
  
  PKB gave me that turquoise cake safe. She found it at a yard sale nearly seven years ago while driving to work. I'm required by law to tell people that. Seriously. She somehow had a law passed that my ass goes to the slammer if I don't tell people she's responsible for that cake safe, and that it's my favorite.

  
  You know what happens when you unearth a St. Joe who's been buried for six months? You find yourself with a St. Joe full of dead earthworms. Had I known that when I took this photo, I would have cried. He lives on my kitchen window ledge, along with an illegal German Elvis and the naked lady vase, where they shuffle the day away in Prettytown delight.
  

  1. Coal to Diamonds - The Gossip
  2. I Can't Feel You Anymore - Loretta Lynn
  3. Bird on a Wire - Johnny Cash
  4. English Civil War - The Clash
  5. Crazy Love - Van Morrison
  6. Breakdown - Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
  7. Dumb Blonde - Dolly Parton
  8. I Can Love You Better - Dixie Chicks
  9. 10 A.M. Automatic - Black Keys
  10. Holiday in Cambodia - Dead Kennedys

  Posted by Robin at 09:30 PM | Comments (8)

  June 08, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The Move to Stupidville, Population Me, Edition

  Less than one week until we move.

  Panic hasn't set in. Yet. Sentimentality hasn't set it. Yet. I'm not expecting it to. I've never been so unsentimental about a move in my entire life. And I get a little misty whenever I drive past every single place I've ever lived. Even the four-plex that was 3/4 crack addicts and 1/4 me.

  The nearest "restaurant" - Sonic - was giving away free root beer floats last night. B. and Clara Jane made the trip up the block, but I passed in favor of getting a few more boxes packed.

  That's right. I skipped one last opportunity to see my redneck neighbors, flocking for free crap, because I wanted to pack the bathroom. If I were an advertiser on this blog, I'd pull my ad in protest, especially in light of the number of braless women who were there. My sweet tight-panted neighbor at least stopped by while we were sitting on the stoop, eating our free crap. I can, at least, report that she was wearing a white spaghetti-strapped jumpsuit emblazened with brightly-colored rhombuses and other uncommon geometric shapes. She's nice. I'll miss her. A little. I'll definitely miss her outfits.

  B. informed me that there were a lot of women, shaped similarly to me, at free root beer float night. Of course. Women shaped like me don't pass up free ice cream and root beer. He suggested that, even though free root beer float night is a rather informal affair, perhaps some of the full-bodied sisters might have at least considered putting on bras for the occasion.

  I didn't bother to put on a bra while we sat on the stoop with our free crap. Let the floppy neighbors see me flop. For the only time in eight years, we fit in!

  We have rarely sat on our stoop. That only happens if I'm throwing a party. The smokers migrate to the stoop, and pretty soon everyone else follows to see what kind of fun they're missing. I'm not sure why we sat out there last night. I got chewed to bits by mosquitos. But we did get to watch some hot dune buggy action. Not that I bothered to give the mosquitos a break long enough to go inside and get my camera. Sorry.

  I've realized something, which is a big deal, considering what I realized: something about this move has turned me completely stupid. I don't know what kind of asbestos/lead paint/mold cocktail I've been inhaling while working in the basement, but it's having a negative affect. How else can you explain me, blindly turning down so many neighbor-mocking opportunities in one night?

  There are other things, too. Like the root beer floats. B. only got the freebies for himself and me. Clara Jane had a little ice cream cone, because I'm militant about not giving this child soda.

  But somehow, root beer with ice cream in it doesn't count. Because it has calcium. Yeah. And high fructose corn syrup. That sounds ... vegetably. Sure, she can have a slug of my float. And by "slug" I mean, "slurp down half the whole mess in one gulp".

  Did I mention that Sonic uses the one brand of root beer that contains caffeine? It was a long night.

  Yes, I've accidentally let my kid have caffeine twice this week. Stupid. I've gone completely, utterly stupid in a way that's caused me to forget my own self-imposed rules and regulations. It's also caused me to forget where, exactly, I live, and my phone number of the past five years.

  Yesterday morning I sent an email to a bunch of friends, passing along the information regarding our move, including the new address and house phone number. I included a note that my cell phone number - the one I've had since 2002, when my phone played a MIDI of Weezer's "Hashpipe" every time it rang - would remain the same for a bit longer.

  Within minutes I got an email from PKB that said, "Sister, that ain't your cell number!"

  I'd given my home number instead.

  It was a few hours later that I realized the new address I'd given was for a house a block away from my new one.

  I no longer know how to feed my child. I no longer know my correct phone number. I certainly don't know where I live. I don't even know a prime blog fodder opportunity when it falls at my feet like so much melted root beer-flavored soft serve, flung about by a hyped-up three-year-old. I'm going to shuffle through this world, brain damaged and dull, with my hyper little root beer-addled child chained to my wrist.

  We're going to fit in great in the new neighborhood! Wherever the hell it is. I forget.

  1. Take it Easy (Love Nothing) - Bright Eyes
  2. Pop a Top - Alan Jackson
  3. Rockin' in the Free World (Fahrenheit 9/11 Mix) - Neil Young (which, had I not gone stupid, would have been the perfect song to blast during our stoop-sitting last night, as the dune buggy people do like our president a lot.)
  4. Good Day - Paul Westerberg
  5. A String to Your Heart - Jimmy Reed
  6. Grand Illusion - Joan Osbourne
  7. Sons & Daughters - The Decmberists
  8. To Make Me Who I Am - Aaron Neville
  9. Thursday - Morphine
  10. Fire - Red Hot Chili Peppers

  Posted by Robin at 08:20 AM | Comments (127)

  June 01, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The Panic! Pie! Edition

  This has nothing to do with the rest of the entry, but I thought I should tell you about this, since tales of my neighborhood will soon be a thing of the past. I had a moment today where, had I not been driving, I wouldn't have known which direction to aim my camera. On one side of the street, a cop had pulled over a school bus. On the other was a local tattoo shop, where a little red truck is often parked. Across the truck's back window is a URL - www.eroticnightdreams.com. I'm not linking to it directly, because I'm a chicken, but feel free to visit them. But probably not if you're at work, unless you work at a place that doesn't have a problem with really unerotic erotic photography. At least now I know where my neighborhood dungeon is located.

  Anyway, I've seen this truck many times in my years of living in this neighborhood. I'm pretty sure I've even mentioned it here awhile back. Well, today, while the cop was pulling over the school bus, I got to see what I'm assuming is the unerotic nightmare photographer. He was maybe 60 years old. Or he was 30 and has been nursing a methamphetamine habit for a few years. It's hard to tell around here. Dressed in a faded gray muscle t-shirt, arms covered with faded tattoos, and sporting what is, without question, the most horrifically fabulous hairdo I've ever seen in this neighborhood. And that's saying something, because I live down the street from '80s Lady. Bleached, possibly with Clorox, it would have made a lovely substitute for raffia in, say, a Thanksgiving centerpiece. Not that you'd want this guy's hair on your table. Or in your house. Bangs, much like mine, the rest of his yellow, yellow, yellow as the sun hair reached halfway down his back.

  I'm not sure, but I think I recognize him from a Ronnie James Dio video.

  Anyway, pie. This is about pie. Specifically, my new recipe, which I've named Panic! Pie!

  Why all the exclaimation points? Because I made the pie in a panic, that's why. If you've been reading for any length of time, you know that I have some serious Martha Stewart-style mental problems. Like last week, when I fretted about my recent lack of cooking.

  Since we have less than two weeks left in the crapshack, I figured I wouldn't be doing much baking. On Wednesday, I packed my pie plates.

  On Thursday, Beqi invited us to Friday night dinner. I bought two pounds of strawberries and a pint of whipping cream. I'll make strawberry pie! With shortbread crust!

  Two things happened on Thursday night that led to the mild panic. 1) I spent four hours on the phone, chatting with an old friend of mine, totally forgetting that I was going to make shortbread crust, and 2) I remembered that I'd packed my pie plates.

  Panic!

  I told you, I have mental problems. Bear with me. It's not like Beqi even asked me to bring dessert. I took that upon myself. Why? Mental problems.

  I could have bought a crust, and I intended to, but I spent the entire day at the coffeehouse with Beqi and Raquel and didn't have time. Panic!

  We got home, threw Clara Jane down for a brief nap, while I went to work at concocting a pie without a pie plate or crust of any form, with an hour to spare.

  First, calm the hell down. It's just pie! Put it on a damn plate.

  Second, I've made crumb crusts out of just about anything that I can crumble. Even though I'm in the process of unstocking our pantry, I did manage to find the dregs of a stale box of Annie's Chocolate Chip Bunny Grahams and a tiny box of dollar-store Teddy Graham knock-offs. I dumped it all in a plastic bag, beat the hell out of it with a wine bottle (I was frustrated), and mixed in some butter. A lot of butter.

  

  Next, the strawberries. Too sour to just throw onto the crust. I dumped some sugar on them. Too sweet! Gritty! Panic! Wait - the dregs of a bottle of balsamic vinegar! Yes, vinegar. Shut up. Did you go to culinary school? I didn't think so. Balsamic vinegar and strawberries are made for each other. Besides, I was panicky and it felt good to macerate.

  

  The next part was easy. Homemade whipped cream makes everything good.

  But then ... more panic! The macerated berries, while delicious, were soggy. Putting them on my butter-with-crumbs crust? It would soak right through. But I have extra strawberries! I'll make a maceration barrier!

  

  In the background of the photo, you'll notice discarded possible crust ingredients: old panko, whole wheat white hamburger buns leftover from last night's dinner, and half a bag of stale Jay's Sweet n' Sour potato chips.

  Next, dump the macerated berries onto the berry barrier in a panic:

  

  Throw on the whipped cream, and add the one strawberry you forgot about to the top, so it looks like you put some thought into this whole crackerjack operation. Hmmm ... Cracker Jacks might make a good crust ...

  

  Finally, transport your pie across town in Friday's waning rush hour traffic, through road construction, in a thunderstorm. Wait panickedly for entire pie to slide off the unprotected side of the plate and onto spouse's lap. Catastrophe doesn't happen. Worry that perhaps some crushed Klonopin would have been an appropriate garnish. Consider going back home to add it.

  Arrive at host's home with child who is sleeping in the car seat, wearing nothing but a Pull-Up, because you were too busy making Panic! Pie! to properly wake her from a nap and, you know, put clothes on her. That's okay. Children can get away with near-nudity at a dinner party. And if a child happens to flick a booger the size of a rotini noodle at a dinner guest, well, that's just good entertainment.

  Enjoy the pie, along with three hogs' worth of ribs and some damn fine company. Relax, finally, knowing that you can shuffle through the world bearing the ability to make a pie under any circumstances with anything you have on hand. Because you rule.

  1. A Call to Apathy - The Shins
  2. Starman - Seu Jorge
  3. Picture Book - The Kinks
  4. How Do You Keep Love Alive - Ryan Adams
  5. I've Been Lonely (For So Long) - Frederick Knight
  6. Take a Picture - Filter
  7. Talk to Me of Mendocino - Kate & Anna McGarrigle
  8. Wild Cat Blues - Clarence Williams' Blue Five
  9. Abra Cadaver - The Hives
  10. Got a Lot on My Head - The Cars

  Posted by Robin at 09:52 PM | Comments (8)

  May 26, 2007

  Friday(ish) Shuffle - It's Saturday, So This Must Be Sedalia Edition

  On Thursday, after not going to her last day of daycare because flies! Flies eat babies!, Clara Jane and I hopped a train for my hometown. We had a pair of tickets from three weeks ago, when our train was cancelled due to flooding. I was told that there was a $3.60 price difference, which I could give to the conductor on the train. Nice fellow that he was, the conductor told me to keep my money.

  I bet he was wishing he'd taken my $3.60 when, four hours later, I alerted him to the puddle of urine Clara Jane had left on her train seat. Let's just say that when one has a Pull-Up wedgie, the Pull-Up ceases to be absorbant. She put at least $3.45-worth of cracker crumbs on the floor, and I'm sure the pee puddle was worth way more than $0.15.

  Before I had kids, they annoyed me, as did their parents. Then I became a parent and took offense at people who had no patience for small children and their adult hostages. After three years, though, I'm back to empathizing with those who get annoyed because honestly, us parents with small children can be rather deplorable. Just ask our Thursday night train conductor.

  I'll be making the trip home on Sunday night, sans the Peemiester 2004, if she will let me. My independent child is still clingy and easily spooked from all the moving and craziness. Yesterday she told me on three occasions, "We need to go home. Fast." Today's been better. Hopefully by tomorrow she'll be sick to death of me and will be happy to see me go.

  I feel a bit guilty, not being at home helping B. rebuild our house from the ground up, per the municipality's inspection. He assured me that I am a huge hinderance and would be much more helpful on the other side of the state. He's currently reinstalling our water heater, which frightens me to no end.

  At least he started working on it in the morning. The last time he installed this water heater, he began at 7:30 PM. Oh, and we were leaving for Michigan 11.5 hours later. Perfect time to work with water pipes and natural gas! We'd been married six weeks. At 2:30 AM, I informed him that unless he gave up right that minute, I had no qualms about leaving his ass because nowhere in our vows did it say that installing major gas appliances in the middle of the night before leaving town would be tolerated.

  Now, whenever either of us has pushed beyond the limits of good sense and is stubbornly pursuing an activity that might lead to 1) explosion, 2) flooding, 3) a stress-induced cardiovascular mishap, or 4) one of us moving to Nevada for a quickie divorce, all the other has to do is utter two words: "Water heater." It's as good as any legal Cease & Dissist Order.

  Now do you see why he sent me away for the weekend?

  Even though I'm not there, I'm doing my part to help with the moving process. You see, my hometown is home to umpteen bazillion discount/discontinued/fell-off-the-truck-and-found-in-a-ditch furniture retailers. The giant red Pottery Barn-esque chair often seen in photos of my living room? $180 at one of the stores in my hometown.

  I don't ask where the stuff comes from. I just buy it. Like today. I bought a wood and suede lovecouch (smaller than a couch, bigger than a loveseat) and a brocade armchair for the new front room, all for the low, low price of $407. I also got a pair of black patent leather peeptoe wedge heels, a beaded necklace that matches the socks I'm knitting, and three chunky beaded bracelets for a whopping $9.

  I love that I'm such a tightwad. I really do. I think it's one of my more redeeming qualities.

  I think I wrote awhile back about how I always expect to see people I know when I visit my hometown, and I finally realized that, since I haven't lived here since 1991, the chances of that happening are slim to none. Even if I would run into someone I once knew, chances are I wouldn't recognize her, or I wouldn't be recognized.

  After my cheap furniture bonanza, I was searching the store for my mom and child (who I feared I might have accidentally bartered in my transaction). I didn't find them, but I did find my high school creative writing teacher. Thank God she was wearing a name tag, which saved me from having to go to the next aisle, yell, "Nedra!", and then innocently wandering by to see if she was looking for the person who yelled her name.

  Now really. If I'm going to run into an old teacher, which one do you think I'd most want to see? A math teacher? I don't even remember their names. Of course I'd want to see my creative writing teacher!

  I loved being able to say, "Hey. Guess what I do for a living? I write," to her. I hope I remembered to thank her. I meant to. I've thought about doing that many times over the past 16 years. I had three teachers along the way who encouraged my writing and told me I had talent: my third grade teacher, my sixth grade teacher, and Mrs. Z. in high school.

  I gave her my URL, so if you're reading Mrs. Z. and if I forgot to say it today, thank you for the push every 17-year-old needs. I apologize in advance for all the profanities you might read while you shuffle through my writing.

  1. Just Because - Nikka Costa
  2. If Yesterday Could Only be Tomorrow - Tony Bennett
  3. Song for the Deaf - Queens of the Stone Age
  4. Our Secret - Beat Happening
  5. Exodus - Edith Piaf
  6. Don't Fail Me Now - Ryan Adams & the Cardinals
  7. Garageland - The Clash
  8. Love Will Come to You - Indigo Girls
  9. That's What Love Will Make You Do - Little Milton
  10. A Better Future - David Bowie

  (What's the shuffle? Every Friday(ish), I put Beatrice, my iPod, on shuffle and post the first ten songs she plays. Why? I have no idea. Habit, perhaps.)

  Posted by Robin at 04:19 PM | Comments (2)

  May 18, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - Did We All Get Sick and Keel Over Edition

  My goodness. Develop one nasty bronchial infection and everyone disappears. Not that I blame you. Mildly ill blogging's pretty damn dull.

  I'm better.

  Quick story from Thursday: Clara Jane missed her next-to-last day of daycare. Not because she was sick, although she's already figured out that being sick will get her out of going to school. No, she didn't go because last week, she saw a fly on the playground and it terrorized her. I knew about this, and I thought she was over it, but apparently not. When I started getting her dressed for daycare yesterday, she broke down in the screaming, sobbing, heaving meemees that lasted for 45 minutes. I was sure either puking, passing out, or both would occur. So, being the good parent I am, I kept her home and taught her about agoraphobia.

  Mental illness: share it with your children!

  Anyway. I need to get our family's names off of the junk mail lists. With the move to the new house, I'm making efforts to live even more green. Stopping the flow of useless trash into my home just makes good sense. Save trees. Save landfill space. Save the cost of transporting tons and tons of junk across the country.

  But if I do that, I'll miss the entertainment of junk like these two recent gems we've received in the mail.

  First, a bit of background. A week before our house sold, it was shown by a real estate agent - not ours - who left a scathing review. She said our house was cluttered, dirty, dated, and would never, ever bring the asking price. It was bad. So bad that our agent said it was unduely harsh, false, and we should flat-out disregard it. None of the other feedback matched hers, but still, this knocked me flat for a few days. All the work we'd done on our house, only to have it called such mean things. Nevermind what it did to my morale.

  Oh, but it gets interesting. While she was showing our house, she visited with our neighbors, who were preparing to list their house for sale. Guess who was at their house that night, passing out business cards? That's right - Mean Agent. Our neighbors have listed with her.

  In other words, she trashed our house to her clients in hopes of selling the neighbors' house to them. Which she hasn't. In the three weeks the neighbors' house has been on the market, how many times has Mean Agent shown it? Once. Maybe. Our neighbor told us that they had a possible appointment last night.

  Needless to say, B. and I have been chuckling under our breath about this terrible, awful agent.

  Oh! But it gets better! This is what we got in today's mail:

  
  What's so funny, you say? Why, this is the house next door to ours! Listed by Mean Agent! Would we like to buy the house next door to the one we just sold? Sure! It's a smidge closer to all that dune buggy and dirt bike action! Here's my $80,000! Sign me up for 300 square-feet less space than what I just ditched!

  But! But! But! It gets even better, if you can believe it:
  
  Thinking about buying or selling, you say? You want to sell my house, you dumb bitch? The one that you described in words worse than my beloved "crapshack"? Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!

  No, I'm not thinking about buying or selling. I've bought. I've sold. But I am thinking about sending her junk mail back to her with the URL of this post, as I can't be bothered to write a mean letter to her. And if I do happen to do such a thing, I have a message for you, Mean Agent: you're dated, your brain is obviously cluttered, you're lazy, and I'll just bet your underpants are dirty.

  Speaking of being old and dried-up, we got another piece of junk mail that has B.'s (clean) underpants in a twist. You see, B. turned 37 six months ago and for the first time, he's having some age anxiety. "Do you know how close 37 is to 40?" he's asked over and over since November. To which I have to say, "Three years. You're an engineer; I'm surprised you couldn't figure that out all by yourself."

  This anxiety wasn't helped one bit when a brochure - not a coupon or a flyer, but an actual tri-fold brochure - arrived in his name from the makers of Just for Men Haircolor:
  

  If anything arrives in the mail involving weenie dysfunction or injecting poisons into ones face, I'm afraid it might kill him, old and gray and frail as he's become.

  This brochure, I must say, is a piece of marketing brilliance. Beauty ad campaigns have been making women feel shitty for years. It's high time men parted with their money and did things to their bodies in the name of low self-esteem!
  
  It should be noted that, in another part of the brochure, there's a small (too small to be effectively photographed with my camera, sadly) illustration on how this product only dyes the gray hair and leaves the virile, manly, natural hair alone. Because coloring hair that isn't gray makes you gay.

  
  It's romantic. Translation: no lay if you're gray!

  You know, B. does have a fair amount of gray hair. Maybe that's why only fat chicks will do him.

  
  Your dad was a geezer with gray hair, dried-up nads, and he never got any sweet, sweet lovin' after the age of 32.

  Speaking of nads, I wonder what kind of warning this product has regarding the coloring of down-there-hair. I know that hair color products marketed to women contain a small warning about not using the product there. But think about this: if there are men as insecure about gray hair on their heads as this brochure indicates, the idea of other gray hair likely contributes to at least 37% of the stress-related cardiovascular disease in the male population. I'm estimating, of course. But if the degree of insecurity is so high, the desperation to do away with that gray hair has got to be strong enough to merit a warning like this:

  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DUDE, DO NOT PUT THIS ANYWHERE NEAR YOUR PUBES!!! ARE YOU AN IDIOT? YOU'LL BURN THE WHOLE WORKS OFF!!!

  So that's where we are. Clara Jane's afraid to leave the house because the flies are going to kill her. I'm raging at a real estate agent I've never met. B.'s huddled in the corner with a pair of tweezers, plucking grays from every square inch of his body. We're shuffling emotional basketcases.

  1. Merry Go Round - The Replacements
  2. The Well and the Light - Arcade Fire
  3. Way Down - Tori Amos
  4. Hot Cha - They Might Be Giants
  5. Bela Lugosi's Dead - Bauhaus
  6. Time to Get Ill - Beastie Boys
  7. Steal the Crumbs - Uncle Tupelo
  8. Be Real - Bottle Rockets
  9. Stairway to Heaven - Dolly Parton
  10. Doin' My Time - Johnny Cash

  Posted by Robin at 05:39 PM | Comments (11)

  May 12, 2007

  Friday(ish) Shuffle - Like I Ever Post on Fridays From My Hometown Edition

  And like I can form coherent paragraphs this week. Here's the short version.

  Drive to hometown Friday night. Sucked. No air conditioning. Truck. Two adults, one child, two hot, stinky dogs. We usually make the drive without stops, but we were so hot we stopped halfway for 20 minutes of fresh air and convenience store air conditioning. In a stroke of pure luck, had we not stopped we would have been smack-dab in the middle of a huge, ugly wreck at the turn-off to my parents' road.

  I finally made it to the local yarn shop. The owner is pretty nuts, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I bought four skeins of Brown Sheep sock yarn and two skeins of Brown Sheep worsted weight wool, and spent less than $20.

  Since I didn't get my mom's ugly orthopedic Crocs for Mother's Day, I got her a gorgeous chocolate cake at the new fancy-pants local bakery that I love. We're going to eat it for breakfast tomorrow. Just the moms.

  We went for a family horse-drawn surrey ride this morning. I wasn't ready, as I was still braless and in pajamas. A word to the wise - braless surrey rides hurt.

  But the horses love me. I think one of them wanted to make sweet love to me, even. Let's just say I had horse slobber down my back and leave it at that.

  It just wouldn't be Mother's Day if my dogs didn't escape from my parents' yard and go adventuring. At least it happened while I was cake and yarn-shopping and I didn't find out until after the fact, as the annual Mother's Day Weekend Hound Escape! tends to bring on massive panic attacks and family feuds.

  Clara Jane got a giant swing set for the new house for Mother's Day. I'm not sure how she managed the $200 gift, considering how little birth she's given. But that's cool.

  She also got a t-shirt from The Cuz - black with an old-school tattoo-style heart that says "Mom". But when you ask Clara Jane what it says, she replies, "It says Bob." Hi. I'm Bob.

  Speaking of tattoo-style shirts, my 76-year-old great-aunt Helen showed up tonight wearing a similar shirt to Clara Jane's. Except instead of Mom or Bob, it said "Hot Stuff". I'll bet you wish I wasn't so lazy right now and would upload the pictures of it. Because there's just something about a 76-year-old great-aunt in a shirt that says "Hot Stuff".

  Great-Aunt Helen told a story tonight about how she's been getting calls from some guy who claims he saw her add on Modern Mature Lady dot com. My great-aunt, hot stuff she may be, but she doesn't own a computer. This guy also claimed that her imaginary ad claimed that she's "a full-bodied woman". Apparently, he's just randomly calling women in the phone book in hopes of finding an old, fat, single chick. Granny Viv says that this is a good reason for single ladies to have their phone listings with just their first initial. I argue that, if that happens, how are guys ever going to meet old, fat, single chicks?

  I'm so tired I can barely shuffle.

  1. Pocket Knife - PJ Harvey
  2. Bonzo Goes to Bitburg - Ramones
  3. Gun - Uncle Tupelo
  4. Prodigal Son - Rolling Stones
  5. Tennessee Homesick Blues - Dolly Parton
  6. Do Right Woman - The Flying Burrito Brothers
  7. Raining Blood - Tori Amos
  8. Take the Fifth - Spoon
  9. Let's Not Belong Together - Paul Westerberg
  10. The Crane Wife 3 - The Decemberists

  Posted by Robin at 10:34 PM | Comments (6)

  May 04, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The Neglectful Edition

  Like I'd get my Friday post up anytime early in the day this week. You're lucky I'm making it at all.

  The housing update: The sale on our house is written in blood. All that's left are the occupancy inspections and closing. We've got a signed contract in our hands and a "Sold" sign in the yard.

  We've made an offer on The House of Which I Shall Not Speak. I'm a little paranoid, considering all the melodrama I inflicted over the house we didn't get. We'll know by 8 PM Saturday night if our offer's accepted. After that, I'll spill more details about the house.

  Now, on to other things that don't revolve around buying and selling houses. Well, not quite as much, at least.

  To say B. and I have been distracted this week? Understatement doesn't even begin to cover it. The whole family's suffering because of it. We haven't eaten a decent meal in ages. Tonight, we brought home a variety of chicken wings from one of the local grocery store delis. Upon bringing in all the groceries, B. asked, "Where are the wings?"

  "How should I know? I've been sitting on my ass for 15 minutes, talking on the phone while you haul in our sleeping child and a week's worth of food."

  We lost the chicken wings.

  Not that it was hard to find them. They were in the truck, exactly where the the rest of the groceries had been five minutes earlier.

  Night before last, we ate chicken kebobs for dinner. Not homemade ones, of course, but ones that were skewered, injected with marinade, cooked, frozen, sold to me by Target, and thrown in a pan by B. They were served alongside frozen Alexia oven fries and some bagged broccoli a few days past its prime.

  I think it goes without saying that we shouldn't have given the three-year-old a pointy meat-filled stick. But we did, and then we didn't pay attention until she screamed, "Murphy! No! Give it back!" and I looked to find the pointy meat-filled stick not in my child's hand or mouth, but gouged down my stupid little dog's gullet as she tried to swallow the whole thing, snake-style.

  I paid the utmost attention when I reached my hand down the dog's mouth and extracted the stick.

  Don't worry, Murphy's fine. As fine as she ever was, anyway. So's our cat, Romi, who we didn't miss a bit during the 24-48 hours she was locked in the back room of our basement. She must have gotten in there when our house-buyers were here Monday night. B. released her sometime Wednesday. I didn't even question why this cat I've lived with since 1999 was suddenly gone, and then suddenly clinging to me like she was being persued by the spectre of dark death.

  Today, I was so distracted by umpteen bazillion phone calls that I didn't realize Clara Jane had decided to de-neutralize our Sugar Wafer dining room:
  

  That green stuff on the dining room floor that sort of doesn't technically belong to us anymore? That's paint. Applied by my child, who also did this:
  
  I let her keep the body art because, you know, it's pretty cool and stuff, but I did hold her responsible for the condition of the floor:
  

  Shuffle along with that cleaning rag, Clara Jane. Stay out of trouble while I sit here and worry, okay?

  1. Hickory Wind - Gram Parsons
  2. Tommy Gets His Tonsils Out - The Replacements (which never fails to make me laugh my ass off)
  3. Turn You Inside-Out - REM
  4. Badger Song - Dead Milkmen (which also never fails to make me laugh my ass off)
  5. Cotton Fields (The Cotton Song) - Johnny Cash
  6. Suicide Blonde - INXS
  7. Slip Slidin' Away - Paul Simon
  8. Mean Woman Blues - Elvis
  9. The Needle Has Landed - Neko Case
  10. Gone - U2

  Posted by Robin at 09:29 PM | Comments (7)

  April 27, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The Sort of Tired, Sort of Sick, and Totally Sick & Tired Edition

  I haven't said anything about this, because I hate it when people complain about low-grade maladies and I try to avoid such behavior, because I really hate it when I complain about low-grade maladies, but I'm a little sick. Last Saturday night I felt a throat tickle coming on. A little tickle, a little congestion, a little coughing ... never getting full-blown sick. Just sick enough to be in a constant state of mild discomfort.

  That gets really tiring after a few days. And that's all I have to say about that.

  As for being sick and tired, yes, that pertains to real estate.

  Here was the plan for tonight:

  5:00-5:30: Return home from coffeehouse.
  5:30-6:00: Prepare simple dinner.
  6:00-6:30: Eat simple dinner.
  6:30-7:00: Play.
  7:00-7:30: Bath and bed preparations for Clara Jane.
  7:30-8:15: Play.
  8:15: Put Clara Jane to bed. Sit on couch and knit until falling asleep.
  8:30: Fall asleep.

  This is what happened instead:
  5:00-5:30: Return home from coffeehouse.
  5:30: Enter house, listen to phone message from real estate scheduling company. An agent wants to show from 6:30-7:30
  5:31: Freak out because scheduling company is supposed to call my damn cell phone. Cuss.
  5:31-6:00: Commence frantic house-cleaning. Realize White Trash Dirt Bike Hoe-Down is happening in the front yard catty-corner from us. There are shirtless children everywhere. Cuss.
  6:01: Why is Clara Jane drawing on the hardwood floor with a green dry erase marker? She's never done that before. Cuss.
  6:02-6:18: More frantic cleaning.
  6:18-6:21: World comes to hault so that Clara Jane, who's refusing clean undergarments, can sit in time out.
  6:21-6:28: Boot angry husband out of the house. Dress angry child. Cuss.
  6:28-6:30: Leave house. Notice that, in addition to White Trash Dirt Bike Hoe-Down, the dune buggy guy's got junker cars all over the street while he works on one in his driveway. Cuss.
  6:30-7:25: Eat dinner at mediocre local buffet, since it's close and we're starving. You know what's depressing? People-watching at a buffet on a Friday night.

  Did I mention that I spent $40 on interior paint and $20 on ferns today, all in an attempt to make my house sell? I did. I spent dinner hoping that my $60 had been wasted and a contract was being drawn up while Clara Jane gnawed on her over-boiled corn on the cob.

  7:25: Scheduling agency calls to inform us that real estate agent has cancelled showing. B.'s livid. B. rarely gets angry. This is twice in one hour. Commence worrying about his coronary condition, as two angry moments + mountain of buffet fried chicken = potential heart incident. "Why call and cancel five minutes before the appointment's due to end? Why not just let us believe they showed it so we don't get pissed off?" Some questions will remain mysteries of the universe, Dear.
  7:26: Try not to think that real estate agent and lookers drove down our street, saw the White Trash-o-Rama two-part event, and bailed. Try not to break steering wheel in frustration while driving home.
  7:26-present: Shuffle around hated house, listening to hated dirt bike, muttering under my breath that throwing $40 worth of paint and $20 worth of ferns at rednecks won't fix anything.

  1. Pandora's Aquarium - Tori Amos (Beatrice the iPod must know I'm IMing with a Toriphile friend while shuffling. Beatrice is smart.)
  2. Lonely Old Lies - Neko Case & Her Boyfriends
  3. ELT - Wilco
  4. One Line - PJ Harvey
  5. Answering Machine - The Replacements
  6. I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow - The Soggy Bottom Boys
  7. Jettison - Neko Case & Her Boyfriends
  8. C'mere - Interpol
  9. Bigmouth Strikes Again - The Smiths
  10. Under Pressure - David Bowie and Queen

  I swear, Beatrice the iPod is human and knows just how to calm and comfort me.

  Posted by Robin at 08:56 PM | Comments (4)

  April 20, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The Cannonball Edition

  I'm tired of complaining. I'm tired, period. I'm tired of cleaning my house and packing, only to have people who look at my house call it "cluttered". Well, life is cluttered, you stupid fuckers.

  I'm tired of bad news.

  I'm tired of constant loud buzzing motors, be they from the illegal dirt bike one neighbor keeps running up and down our street late at night, or the teensy-tiny chainsaw another neighbor's using to remove a very large tree. This is the same neighbor who drunkenly careened into his trash can Sunday night. Drunk driving + illegal dirt bike + chain saw + helmetless rider = Darwinian solution to both problems, you'd think. And I'm tired of thinking like that. It's mean to mock the stupid people.

  I'm tired of my three-year-old not being potty trained. Today, I was more tired of it than I have ever been. We were at the coffeehouse, and as always happens at the coffeehouse, Clara Jane pooped. I don't know why she always poops at the coffeehouse, but she does. I'm not giving her coffee, so that can be what's causing it.

  Anyway, as usual, she pooped at the coffeehouse. I took her to the bathroom, laid her on the changing table, and removed the poopy Pull-Up. While I was dumping the Pull-Up's contents in the toilet (after I fished the Pull-Up out of the trash - I mentally blanked, as I often do these days, and accidentally threw the poop away and felt guilty), I watched in abject horror as my child's ass turned into a poop-shooting cannon.

  The first ball landed by my foot, and I screamed like Jamie Lee Curtis, circa 1976. I took some toilet paper and while I was picking it up, the second ball landed in front of me, on top of the floor drain. As I removed that ball, the third only traveled a few inches, from my child's butt to the end of the table. I guess a kid can only maintain such a high velocity for so many poop bombs before they fizzle.

  I'm too tired to make a shuffle-related pun.

  1. That's All Right - Elvis
  2. Train in Vain - The Clash
  3. Fast Cars - U2
  4. After the Fire is Gone - Loretta Lynn
  5. Cherish - Madonna
  6. Getting to Me - Kelly Willis
  7. Electron Blue - REM
  8. Heartbreaker - Dolly Parton
  9. Company in My Back - Wilco
  10. I Get a Kick Out of You - Frank Sinatra

  Obviously, Beatrice the iPod adores me and would never, ever shoot poop bombs across the room.

  Posted by Robin at 05:41 PM | Comments (14)

  April 13, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The Lazy Writer/Mediocre Photo Blogger Who Crafts Edition

  This is bothering me a little. Not enough to make me stop, but bothering me nonetheless. I've always fancied myself a writer. I've been paid to write. These days, my blog is my primary form of writing, which is fine with me. Problem is, I'm getting so lazy, thanks to my camera.

  Take yesterday. I could have described the pretty pink roses the Trader Joe's wine manager dumped into my shopping back. Instead, I took a half-assed, poorly-lit photo of it and effectively said, "I don't feel like coming up with a cool way to tell you how the pink fades into creamy white. Here. Just look at the damn picture. I've got an ass to sit on and a brain to rot."

  Since I spent four hours in the car with B. and Clara Jane today, thus nearly completing my brain-rotting process, I'm going to burden you with more pictures and less description.

  Tempe complained about my lack of knitting content, despite the fact that I've never claimed to be a knitting blog, but I'm also going to satisfy my knitting requirements.

  In the past few months I've alluded to a super-secret knitting project. The project's finally in the hands of its rightful owner, so I can post about it.

  I did a variation on Wild Stripes for Sal's new son. It combines knitting and quilting and gave me panic attacks.

  

  I finished my first Tropicana sock last night. Even though it's pretty, I'm not happy with it.
  

  I tried to increase the top to fit my chubby calf, but I'm not skilled enough to know when and how to decrease it to fit my rather normal-sized ankles. The result: pretty sock that gives me cankles. I think I'll be redoing it after I read Sensational Knitted Socks.

  In more competant crafting news, I've scored another super-cool quilt made by my granny and great-granny. The backstory: My great-grandma died in 1980. Her daughter, Granny Viv, never throws anything away. I'm not certain, but I think she recently hit a stash of Great-Granny Velma's unfinished quilt tops in her attic, and she's been finishing them. I stole one of these creations from my mom a few months ago. Not that I deserved my own quilt, thief that I am, but Granny Viv gave me another of her beyond-the-grave quilt collaborations:
  

  You know that line in Peggy Lee's "I'm a Woman" that goes, "I can make a dress out of a feedsack and I can make a man out of you?" Well, I don't know how many men my granny and great-granny made, nor do I ever, ever, ever want to know such a thing, but they sure can make pretty things out of feedsacks. That's where the fabrics in this quilt came from. You know the story behind gals making things out of feedsacks, right? You should.

  And finally, some disturbing crafty news. Remember a few days ago when I mentioned that Clara Jane was going to take a yoga class? She did, and it was fun. Well, I thought it was fun. She was a bit apprehensive about the whole thing. At the end of the class, the teacher, who - I kid you not - is a licensed joyologist - brought out the fingerpaints and asked the kids to paint their yoga experience. Clara Jane bypassed the multiple neon shades and this is what she painted:
  

  Then she told me that she wasn't feeling very Zen, and could she, please, go home, sit in her closet, and listen to her Morrissey CDs?

  As we were leaving, the joyologist asked me if Clara Jane is always so "cerebral". Yes. Yes, she is. Except when she shuffles to the barbeque joint without her pants:
  

  1. I'm Going Upside Your Head - Jimmy Reed
  2. Green Green Rocky Road - Kate & Anna McGarrigle
  3. Dream Baby - Roy Orbison
  4. Orange Blossom Special - Johnny Cash
  5. Monday - Wilco
  6. Things Get Better - Eddie Floyd
  7. Shadow in the Way - Tift Merritt
  8. You Know I'm No Good - Amy Winehouse
  9. Parakeet - REM
  10. I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry - Hank Williams

  Posted by Robin at 08:45 PM | Comments (9)

  April 07, 2007

  Friday(ish) Shuffle - The Good Friday Sausage on the Dashboard Edition

  Of course I'm a day late. I'm always a day late with the shuffle when I'm in the hometown. It didn't help that I kept thinking yesterday was Saturday. Holidays confuse me. Especially this one.

  Our travel plan didn't involve trains this time because 1) we had to bring our dogs with us, and 2) while in my hometown we were going to take advantage of cheap auto repair. The air conditioner in my truck recently croaked. Yes, I'm aware that many people in much warmer climates live without the luxury of air conditioning for their entire lives. I'm also aware of the dangers of Freon and the environment. But I'm also in constant danger of overheating and keeling over, something I'd prefer to not do while behind the wheel. I'm also lazy and spoiled.

  Repairing the air conditioner in St. Louis? $800. We didn't spend that much to overhaul the air conditioner in our house last summer. Luckily, I come from one of those towns where just about every man knows how to rebuild a car from scratch. We bought the necessary parts and made an appointment with Bob, the 65-year-old, four-toothed race car driver who fixes cars for cheap. In this case, many hundreds of dollars less than we were going to pay at home. We had to be here by noon on Friday, though, because Bob's a busy man.

  The original plan: Clara Jane would go to daycare on Thursday, as she always does. I'd spend the day spiffying the house for any weekend house-showings (in other words, cleaning fruitlessly) and packing. Around dinnertime, we'd drug Murphy with Dramamine, the drug recommended by her vet for the manic pants she gets when she travels, and then we'd hit the road. We'd arrive in my hometime in time for a decent bedtime, sleep in a bit on Friday morning before taking our truck to Bob and proceeding with our day.

  What actually happened: Clara Jane woke up crying and covered in snot on Thursday morning, too listless to walk from her room to the living room. This child, who would go to daycare even if she had a finger dangling by a tendon, told me she didn't feel well enough to go to school. So I kept her home, which made the cleaning and packing difficult, especially when the diarrhea bombs hit. We opted to stay home, leaving early Friday morning, assuming nothing explosive was happening with our child by then.

  Luckily, Clara Jane was much better Friday morning, thanks to a cough syrup-induced night of sleep. Yes, I resorted to drugging my child, since she hadn't had a decent night or nap in days because of her cough. I also resorted to drugging my dog, Murphy, as I mentioned before.

  You know, I've always fallen a bit on the hippy all-natural school of thought when it comes to health care. But you know what? People used to get a lot sicker and die a lot faster back in the old days. Sometimes, you've gotta pull out the big guns. We celebrated Good Friday by living better through chemistry. Cough syrup for Clara Jane, Dramamine for Murphy, and my usual cocktail of antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. It was a lovely drive. I think my entire family should stay lightly medicated at all times.

  Of course, there are drawbacks. Like, several hours after dropping the truck with Bob, I remembered the sausage biscuit that we'd left on the dashboard of the truck. We were sitting at the local Greek restaurant with my parents when I realized this. Since Bob had warned us that it would probably be several days before he could fix it, I thought we should go get the meat biscuit.

  "That's okay," my mom said. "Bob's probably eaten it by now. He's not picky."

  As my dad tossed us his truck keys so we could go to Bob's and remove the sausage biscuit before being pegged as responsible for a large, four-toothed, 65-year-old race car driver's death from food-borne bacteria, Dad said, "Just be careful that you don't let Chiggar out."

  No. Oh no.
  

  Sure enough, while walking to my dad's truck, I saw the silhouette in the passenger seat, with those unmistakable pointy jackel-style ears.

  I'm trapped in a truck with a dingo.

  Riding around town with Chiggar's not quite as bad as I'd expected. For one thing, he had a tennis ball to keep him occupied. While throwing a ball for a wild dingo in a moving truck probably isn't that safe, it's certainly safer than having an unoccupied dingo trying to gnaw the driver's ear off. Lesser of two driving evils.

  We probably shouldn't have taken him to the coffeehouse drive-thru for a double espresso, though. In hindsight, that was dumb. But we didn't feed him the sausage biscuit when we got it from our truck. Nor did B., the biscuit retriever, bother to throw it away. Hours later, I found it lying on my mom's kitchen counter.

  I've heard of meals repeating on you, but this is ridiculous. I threw the damn thing away a good twelve hours after it was purchased.

  My family's a bunch of blasphemers. Except for my granny, who was recently put in charge of her church's business affairs after the surprise departure of their preacher. They've been holding auditions for a new preacher, a sideshow I like to call Pentecostal Idol, which means my seat in Hell will have a busted seat warmer that will toast my skin for all eternity, much like my mom's heating pad that I unwillingly sat on for an hour last night before wondering why my back and ass were on fire.

  Anyway, blasphemers. Our Easter celebration's today because we like to sleep in on Sundays. Soon I'll be making glittery eggs with my kid. Tonight, lots of people are coming over to stand outside in the freezing cold around a totally Pagan bonfire, upon which we will cook the speared, cured, tubular spiced flesh of pigs and Peeps, which will no doubt shuffle our innards as badly as Bob's, had he eaten the dashboard sausage.

  1. Fairytale in the Supermarket - The Raincoats
  2. It's Five o'Clock Somewhere - Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett (Because my iPod knows it's in my mother's house.)
  3. Horn Intro - Modest Mouse
  4. The Wanderer - Johnny Cash and U2 (Because God loves me even if I am a blasphemous sinner.)
  5. Sabotage - Beastie Boys
  6. Keep Your Head Up - Eagles of Death Metal
  7. Pledging My Love - Aaron Neville
  8. The Junky Jews - Clem Snide (Because my iPod has a weird sense of humor.)
  9. Sangria Wine - Robert Earl Keen
  10. Situation - Yaz (which is perfect for the naked Pagan dance I'm going to do either around the bonfire or for the next installment of Pentecostal Idol).

  Posted by Robin at 10:20 AM | Comments (6)

  March 30, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The She's Crafty Edition

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

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

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

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

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

  I finished my Jaywalker socks a week ago:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  March 23, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The I Like People Edition

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

  I think I might have accidentally taken two Prozacs today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • That cute guy at Trader Joe's yesterday, who helped me pick out lots of wine. I think he might have been trying to look down my shirt, but he certainly knows his California Zinfandels.
  • My old pal Robert, who used to comment profusely on my blog. He's been MIA for awhile, and I got a delightful surprise phone call from him this afternoon. It's really cool when someone you like and respect tells you that you're missed and thought about daily.
  • Rolling Stone columnist Rob Sheffield makes me happy, even when he makes me so sad that my bones unhinge from my muscles, so strong is the pain. When I get my new issue of RS, the first thing I read is his column, which never fails to crack me up. But now, he's published a memoir, Love is a Mix Tape. I finished it last night and, oh boy. It's sad. Sad, but so hopeful, smart, loving, and honest. I just want to give Rob a big hug, despite the fact that I was a bit spooked by the similaries between myself and his deceased wife, Renee Crist. Don't worry - I didn't just spoil the book for you; he tells you in the first pages of Crist's unexpected death in 1997. But yes, Sheffield's book makes me want to make mixes for everyone I love, which I've sort of been doing lately, anyway.
  • I love that there are people who, when they saw the ugly fish vase we selected for our wedding gift registry, actually purchased it for us, thus making us the owners of The Ugliest Portugese Fish Vase, Ever: I washed the fish vase today in preparation to pack it for display at the new house. Someday. IfWhen our crapshack charming bungalow in the town with the ticket-writing manic diligent police force finally sells.
  • There will be a gathering of women at my house tomorrow night. Perhaps it will be like that book I mentioned awhile back, we'll be moved by our collective femininity to walk! Just get up and walk and change the world! Or maybe we'll just sit on our asses, drink wine, and eat fast food fries out of a 13-gallon garbage bag. Personally, I'm hoping for the latter option.
  • The existance of Tyler Florence makes me terribly blissful. The fact that he finally has a webpage, and the start-up music is "Steady As She Goes" by the Raconteurs? Makes me love every single human being in the world, just like his recipe for curried chickpeas and cauliflower makes me a better human being.
  • I'm going to go buy lots of cool crafy stuff at Chilicraft tomorrow. I might cause a shuffle at the craft show by hugging everyone. I might also show up in nothing but my underwear.

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

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

  March 18, 2007

  Friday(ish) Shuffle - The Gone Hobo Edition

  I love trains, I've decided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

  March 09, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Excuse me?

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

  March 02, 2007

  Friday Shuffle - The Dotty Edition

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

  • Why why why did I allow Clara Jane to watch The Wonder Pets? She's obsessed, and I'm going to ram stalks of celery into my ears until I hit gray matter if I get that goddamn, "What's gonna work? Teamwork!" song stuck in my head one more time.
  • I just love it when my real estate agent calls as I'm putting Clara Jane down for a nap to tell me someone wants to look at the house in an hour or two. Brief nap, frantic house-cleaning, fleeing the house, only to return in time to see the showing agent (not our agent) and the potential buyers drive up, stop, drive to the end of the street, confer, and leave, never to return. They probably couldn't find the house due to the massive brush pile that, we learned today, won't be picked up for another two or three weeks, even though we were told it would be picked up this past week. I'm going to hurt someone badly, and soon.
  • The people scheduled to view the house tomorrow better at least get out of their fucking car.
  • How am I liking the thrice-daily blood sugar testing? Not even a little, that's how much. The good news, though, is that in two days of testing, my levels have been damn near perfect. I even tested it last night by having a total crap dinner that included white rice in fried form, something I never eat. That was my highest blood sugar reading, and it was still within a perfectly normal, healthy range.
  • Yeah, cranky. That's me. But this will be a good weekend. It will. B. and the neighbors are going to do stupid yard tricks with a woodchipper. In order to prevent me from going all Fargo and shoving my neighbor - who I'm pretty sure has the hots for B. - into the chipper, Clara Jane and I will be joining Beqi in a fabric-shopping frenzy near my soon-to-be stomping grounds. I won't be getting anything fancy, thanks to my yarn binge yesterday; just some ribbon and plain lining fabric to turn some of my t-shirts into tote bags. I think the Johnny Cash t-shirt I wore when I was pregnant will make a lovely knitting bag, or perhaps an earth-friendly grocery bag.
  • Sunday, we get to pay a visit to our future house. I plan to take a bunch of pictures, so prepare yourselves.
  • Clara Jane has reached the time in her life where she questions everything. As in, she must ask a question every 20 seconds or she'll die!!! The nature of the questions? "What are you doing? What's that? Why? What are you doing? Where are we? Why are we here? What color are God's eyes?" Okay, those last few are a little untrue.
  • She's also discovered lying. When I tossed a package of baby portabella mushrooms into our cart today, she said, "I can't eat mushrooms. They make me sick." Child has never in her entire life gotten sick from a mushroom. Still, I can respect her intentions. I hated mushrooms with a fervor usually reserved for things like Fascism and Neil Diamond. Something happened when I was pregnant, and now I like them. Go figure. Before, though, I often thought that it would be much easier to tell people I'm allergic to mushrooms, instead of having to defend my distaste. At least my kid's got the guts to do what I considered doing for most of my life.
  • Yeah, I'm going to shuffle, but I'm too tired and lazy to come up with a snappy pun.

    1. Bring the Family - John Hiatt
    2. The Wurlitzer Prize - Waylon Jennings
    3. UFOs, Big Rigs, and BBQ - Mojo Nixon
    4. Free Fallin' - Tom Petty
    5. This Old Heart of Mine - The Isley Brothers
    6. Stupidly Happy - XTC
    7. Broken Ship - Immaculate Machine
    8. Radiation Vibe - Fountains of Wayne
    9. The Stairs - INXS
    10. Fall on Me - REM

    Posted by Robin at 08:12 PM | Comments (8)

    February 23, 2007

    Friday Shuffle - The Good Housewife Edition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I even made the bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    February 17, 2007

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

    • We're in my hometown for the annual February birthday shindig.
    • We had to drive through a blowing snowstorm last night to get here. I think from now on, this family should only celebrate birthdays in May, so we don't die on the way to the parties.
    • I called my mom during the miserable commute (I was in the passenger seat; no way would I have been yapping on the phone had I been driving through that shit) and told her, "I need to talk to your friend, the doctor," which is code for "break out the Dr. McGilicutty's booze because I need a drink." My 59-year-old mom hides her booze so that her tee-totalling 81-year-old mom won't bust her. Problem is, when you're 59 years old and you hide your booze, there's a good chance you'll forget where you hid it. After I made her go on a booze hunt, I was too tired to even do so much as a shot when we got here.
    • Three-year-olds should not be presented with brand-new tricycles at 11 PM if there's any hope for a reasonable bedtime.
    • As of 7 PM tonight, we'll know if our second offer on The House has been accepted. Call the doctor, because I need some nerve tonic, as my nerves are shuffled.

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

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

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

    February 09, 2007

    Friday Shuffle - The Girly Show Edition

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

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

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

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

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

    Ms. Woods had an impact on my life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    February 02, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    January 26, 2007

    Friday Shuffle - The Murphy Needs to Move Edition

    We are officially in full-blown real estate mode. I dropped Clara Jane with my parents today, where she'll remain until Wednesday while we blow through our house, getting it spiffied up for the hoards of interested buyers who'll start tramping through it on Wednesday. Tomorrow, we're headed to Prettytown (A thinly-veiled pseudonym? Perhaps. I mainly use it because it does provide a smidge of anonymity to the 90% of my readers who reside outside the St. Louis area, and to give it an illusion of sarcastic dreaminess.) to view more houses. While I haven't given up on that house I love, we're being realistic. Despite being approved for way more than enough mortgage to pay for that house, it's not quite enough to buy a house that's not actually for sale anymore.

    So, the agenda during Clara Jane's absence looks like this:
    1. Clean
    2. Pack
    3. Clean under the stuff that's been packed.
    4. Paint the bathroom to give the illusion of structural integrity.
    5. Sleep.
    6. Eat Chinese food out of the carry-out box while sitting on the couch with my spouse, possibly while watching "Beavis & Butthead" DVDs. I'm not sure how this is crucial to moving, but it is. Trust me.
    7. Finishing four major mostly-finished craft projects and getting them sent to their respective new owners before the items accidentally get packed in a pre-move, Cornholio-style frenzy.
    8. Bury St. Joe already.
    9. Tranquilize Murphy.

    You remember what happened to my stupid little dog Murphy a few weeks ago, when she suddenly became terrified of her best friend, and just as suddenly got over it? Yeah, well, she has an all new neighbor-dog-related traumatic experience to overcome, and I'm not sure she can do it as long as we're residing in this house.

    You might also recall the unholy union between one neighbor's miniature weiner dog and another neighbor's beagle-sheltie two months ago. Well, the products of that union - four long little miniature daucsheltles - were born a week ago today. One of them was born under my back steps, which I think officially makes us rednecks despite the many years of higher education B. and I have completed.

    Yesterday morning, I caught the new mother running down our street. I understand. There were plenty of times during my first weeks of motherhood when I wished to run away from home, too. Had I been cleared to drive and not eaten up with staph infection, I probably would have. I ran her back home before she lactated all over my for sale sign and lowered my property value even more than she already has.

    This morning, I threw my dogs outside while getting Clara Jane ready for her visit. The phone rang, and I was greeted with the always-lovely sound of my neighbor's phone greeting. Every time she calls, she always sounds surprised to find another person on the other end of the phone. "helLOOOOOOOOOO?" she bellows. It's delightful. Really. Especially first thing in the morning.

    "I just wanted to tell you that my dog got ahold of Murphy. I don't know if she's hurt or not. She sounded like she was hurt bad," my neighbor told me after her shock at being on the telephone abated.

    As for Murphy sounding like she's injured, she always sounds like she's suffering greatly. This is what she sounds like when she's content, relaxing in the red chair and stinking it up in a manner that reduces our property value by $10 every time she relaxes in it. I can only imagine what it sounded like this morning, when she walked over our felled fence (must add that to the list of things to fix this weekend), went to the neighbors' back porch, and was brutally attacked by a postpartem minature dachshund.

    That's right. My 40-pound ill-bred hound was taken down by 10 pounds of lactating weiner dog. From what my neighbor described, the weiner dog went for Murphy's ears and it all went downhill from there.

    Murphy's fine, physically. Mentally, not so much. Not that she woke up in good mental shape this morning, but having her ass kicked by a recently pregnant dog 1/4 of her size has left her shamed, which just makes the houndstink in my house that much worse. It's time to move. Murphy can't handle anymore shaming. Or shuffling.

    1. Spiders (Kidsmoke) - Wilco
    2. Guided by Wire - Neko Case & Her Boyfriends
    3. Broken Ship - Immaculate Machine
    4. Somebody to Love - Queen
    5. Slow Jamz - Kanye West
    6. Summer Teeth - Wilco
    7. Twist the Knife - Neko Case & Her Boyfriends
    8. (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction - Otis Redding
    9. Oh What a World - Rufus Wainwright
    10. One Note Song - Tenacious D

    Posted by Robin at 05:51 PM | Comments (4)

    January 20, 2007

    The Saturday Shuffle - Because Beatrice the iPod was a Filthy Whore on Friday

    Oh, was a duplicitous day and a half it's been.

    Friday morning, we playdated with my friend Jill. Her older daughter is 22 hours younger than Clara Jane, and her younger daughter will turn one in April. I got lucky in that Jill needed to use the restroom just as the baby was growing sleepy, which means I got to rock her to sleep while sitting on the couch at Hartford.

    At first I feared that I didn't remember what to do with a tired little baby. Despite being a parent, I've never considered myself a baby person. Not even when I had a baby. Babies are scary. They don't communicate effectively, and that makes me exceptionally nervous.

    Honestly, I don't even remember rocking Clara Jane to sleep when she was a baby. I don't remember much of anything. But I guess I knew how to do it, because in seconds flat, Jill's baby went from whining and grabbing to sucking her thumb and drooling on my shoulder.

    I am a mother. I rule.

    But seriously, oh my. The sweetness of it all. I've never, ever really understood why people get so excited about getting to cuddle babies. See why I question my maternal instincts? Well, apparently I get it now, because I could have sat there with that baby snoozing on my shoulder all afternoon.

    How to follow up such sweetness? With sex toys, of course. But first, dinner with Angela. With beer. Because good lord, we needed a drink for the place where we were going.

    At dinner I received the most appropriate fortune cookie ever:
    

    Yep, that pretty much sums me up. If I ever decide to get a tattoo with Chinese characters, even though I speak not one word of any Chinese dialect, these will be the characters, but only if the tattoo artist can make them as blurry as the photo.

    While I'm no prude and this wasn't my first party of this nature, let's just say I haven't been in a very spicy frame of mind of late. I made a point to dress all in black (not that this is unusual for me) with no makeup (again, not unusual), my hair in a ratty ponytail (again, de riguer). In other words, I pretty much went as myself, only I listened to The Smiths in the car on the way there, just to really put myself in an unsexxxy mood.

    The sex toy party was for a good cause. It was hosted by a friend who recently had a roommate "borrow" her vibrator. Which is just a polite way of saying that her roommate "stole" her vibrator because really, that's not an item you borrow because I'm pretty sure the unwitting lender is never, ever going to want it back again.

    I spent the evening with Tempe doing two things: 1) belching and blowing the fumes in my face (Sexxxy!), and 2) jabbing me with things that vibrate.

    You know you're having a good time when you find yourself saying, "Tempe, would you please stop poking me with your big orange vibrating butt plug?"

    How did I go from snuggling a warm, sleeping child to being poked in the hip with an item that resembles a trembling traffic cone? The only similarities between the two main activities of my day was the belching, as the baby did her share of that, too.

    Angela cried. I don't blame her one bit. It was fun crying, though.

    As for Beatrice the iPod, I allowed her to be violated at the party. I didn't think she'd mind, considering the amount of Peaches she's been playing lately. But last night, we hooked her up to the (not work-safe link!) iBuzz. My poor little iPod's innocence is gone. Not that we did anything but pass her (and Peaches) around. By the time I got home, she was too ashamed to shuffle. Besides, she probably just would have played "Diddle My Skittle" ten times in a row at that point.

    And to completely change gears again, this morning we got up and went to Sesame Street Live. Like last year, I sobbed like a baffoon. Fucking Big Bird, making me bawl.

    Clara Jane loved the first half of the show, but I think that was mainly because we allowed her to have a vat of popcorn the size of her bed, which we removed during intermission. We wound up leaving before the end of the show, with her pummelling my leg because I was not exiting fast enough for her liking.

    "We're getting away from Sesame Street!" she yelled when we crossed the street to the train station. She was much more interested in the freaky bunny statue outside the arena, which we can view for free, instead of the show we spent nearly $75 to not see.

    

    I could have bought an iBuzz for what we spent on those damn tickets.

    This afternoon I ran away from home for a few hours and learned to knit socks in honor of my pal Dixie's birthday:

    

    They're blurry. Just like my future tattoo and that orange vibrating butt plug. And Cookie Monster, when viewed through tears. Even though Beatrice is still a little blurry, what with being vibrated to death last night, she's ready for a late, long shuffle*:

    1. Hand in Glove - The Smiths
    2. This Charming Man - The Smiths
    3. What Difference Does it Make - The Smiths
    4. Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now - The Smiths
    5. William, It Was Really Nothing - The Smiths
    6. How Soon is Now? - The Smiths
    7. Shakespeare's Sister - The Smiths
    8. That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore - The Smiths
    9. The Boy With the Thorn in His Side - The Smiths
    10. Bigmouth Strikes Again - The Smiths
    11. Panic - The Smiths
    12. Ask - The Smiths
    13. Shoplifters of the World Unite - The Smiths
    14. Sheila Take a Bow - The Smiths
    15. Girlfriend in a Coma (Probably from a giant orange vibrating butt plug) - The Smiths
    16. I Started Something I Couldn't Finish - The Smiths
    17. Last Night I Dreamt that Sombody Loved Me - The Smiths
    18. There is a Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
    19. Fuck the Pain Away - Peaches

    *This is the only time I've ever fabricated a shuffle. I figured since it's Saturday, the Friday Shuffle rules - setting the iPod to shuffle and posting the first ten songs that play - don't apply.

    Posted by Robin at 04:49 PM | Comments (6)

    January 12, 2007

    Friday Shuffle - The Found Edition

    If any of you have seen the news tonight, I'm sure you know that I, like just about everyone in St. Louis, am overwhelmed. What happened today will surely be one of those news moments I will remember for the rest of my life.

    On Monday, a 13-year-old boy was snatched while running home from the bus stop after school. These stories are always sickening, I know. My pal PKB and I were IMing when the story broke. In fact, she alerted me to it, and we talked about how such stories fill us with dread.

    This afternoon, Clara Jane and I were playing in my bedroom. The TV had been left on in the living room. The volume was low enough that I couldn't make out what was being said, but I could tell that Oprah had been preempted for a news bulletin. "Fuck. They probably found that poor kid's body." I had no desire to rush to the TV to hear the gory details, preferring instead to stay on the bed, snuggled up with Clara Jane and listening to the rain outside while I considered the possible ramifications of not letting her out of my sight until she's in her mid-thirties.

    I returned to the living room about ten minutes later, just in time to see photos of the missing boy and a boy who'd been missing since 2002 on the screen. I figured they were simply comparing the cases, since they were similar. When I heard the truth - that both boys had been found alive and physically healthy in the apartment of a known sex offender - well, overwhelmed.

    I don't have anything more profound or insightful to offer. I just had to express the obvious that's being expressed all over town tonight.

    Thing is, though, I was planning to write about finding people today before this amazing thing happened. PKB and I had lunch today, and she told me about recently reconnecting with an old friend. Funny, because in the past week I'd reconnected with two people from high school who found me online. When I came home from our outing, I had an email waiting from a third.

    Now, I wasn't exactly popular in high school. I wasn't unpopular. I pretty much went to class, did my duties in a bunch of extra-curriculars, worked a part-time job, and stuck to a handful of friends who were as inocuous as me. I haven't attended any of the three class reunions, and I've kept in touch with very few people from that time in my life. I always assumed that, since being a teenager wasn't the most pleasant time in my life, I didn't care to spend any of my adult life reminiscing about my not-so-great old days.

    If I'm good at anything, it's cutting ties. Maybe a little too good sometimes. Which might explain why the three reconnects this week have made me so stupidly happy. I don't have the desire to relive the past with any of them, and I don't get the impression that any of them want to do that, either. What I'm loving is learning what they have become, what they have done, how they've lived. I have no doubt that, if I didn't know any of these people and I was introduced to them by a mutual friend, or we met in a coffeehouse, I'd like them.

    A few weeks ago I was reading a back issue of the Oprah magazine from my never-ending pile of hand-me-down magazines. There was a great piece written by a woman who reconnected with her childhood best girlfriend nearly fifty years after the author had moved away. I can't remember how they reconnected, but I know they corresponded for a bit before meeting face-to-face (only to learn they lived minutes from each other). Before that first in-person reunion, the author asked herself, "Will I like her as much now as I did when we were young?" Turns out, she did. The women, who were in their early sixties, hadn't even been teens when the author moved and they lost touch. And yet, they picked up their friendship.

    As I read, my mind went directly to my old pal Kara Joy. We had been friends in elementary school, drifted apart in middle school, sat by each other at our high school graduation (a situation brought to us by the letter W, which began both of our last names), and that was it. Until, about this time last year, she tracked my ass down on MySpace.

    We're so different now than we were in middle school and high school when we drifted apart. You know how those years are, when you're so busy trying to figure out who you are that you can't be bothered to realize you are exactly who you were all those years before. Do I like her as much as I did when we were kids? Hell, yes! More, even. She's just like tht girl I knew in fifth grade, only moreso. And yet, totally different. It's the difference between grape juice and wine. Grape juice is tasty and all, but wine's even moreso, and with a lot more depth, flavor, and character.

    I think we reach a point in adulthood where, whether we want to or not, we gain a degree of comfort and acceptance in who we are. And more often than not, who we are isn't much different than who we were when we were ten years old.

    Which makes me think about the kids who were found today. Because of what he experienced, the parents of the boy who went missing on Monday will have to get to know him again, but not nearly to the degree of the parents who were without their son for over four years. He was 11 when he was taken hostage. The four years between 11 and 15 are some of the longest years in a lifetime. I can't imagine what it's going to be like for that family to reunite. After four years, do they know each other at all? Does it matter? I don't think it does. The older I get the more I realize that no matter what happens to a person or how much time passes, they're essentially the same. There's a lot of comfort in that, just like there's a lot of comfort that comes from innocently checking your email and finding someone from long ago, who knew you when you were moody, zitty, and nerdy, who has taken the time and effort to say, "Is that you? What have you been doing all these years?"

    Isn't that what we all want? To be important enough that there is always someone out there, willing to find us when we get lost?

    Anyway... I guess this is sort of in the same vein. It's National Delurking Week, or somesuch business. Yeah, there's a graphic.

    
    

    If you normally read and don't comment, I'd love it if you'd come out and say hi. If you knew me when I was moody, zitty, and nerdy, I might even sing the ol' Smith-Cotton fight song for you. That is, if you can tell me the lyrics. I really wasn't paying that much attention back then. Or maybe I'll just warble something I found on my shuffle.

    1. Let's Go to Bed - The Cure
    2. Who Invited You - The Donnas
    3. Oh Well - Fiona Apple
    4. Magic Dance - David Bowie
    5. Unfair - Pavement
    6. Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow - The Chiffons (which, of course, is a variation on "will I still like you when we're grown-ups?")
    7. The Lakes of Pontchartrain - The Be Good Tanyas
    8. Have a Talk With God - Stevie Wonder
    9. Almost Gold - The Jesus and Mary Chain
    10. Airline to Heaven - Wilco & Billy Bragg

    Posted by Robin at 07:28 PM | Comments (7)

    January 05, 2007

    Friday Shuffle - The Falling Into Place Edition

    I love nothing more than when life falls into place, which means I am beyond giddy today. Let's recap, shall we?

    This time every year, I start getting a little nuts. All the togetherness of the holidays, as much as I love it, wears me down, and I find myself craving some alone time. Two years ago, on the orders of my therapist, I spent a night by myself at a hotel and it did wonders for my disposition. Last year, on my own orders, I did the same thing.

    I've really been craving my now-annual hotel night for the past month or so. On Thursday morning, when B. slept through his alarm, causing me to wake up at 5 AM to kick him out of bed, I realized I'd reached critical mass. I hauled my exhausted ass out of bed, went to Priceline, and named a low-ball price on a room for Friday night. Hooray! They took the bait! With my room purchased, I relaxed a bit.

    You know what happens when you are suddenly awoken at 5 AM and, in your sleep-deprived state, you buy a hotel room? You screw up. That's what happens. After I became slightly more alert and took the time to look at my non-refundable reservation, I realized that I had booked the room for Thursday night. Not Friday night.

    Because of my stupid mistake, B. had to take off work today so as to not completely waste the money I spent on booking a room for the wrong fucking night. Nothing like a big dose of guilt to take to the hotel with me.

    After my booking snafu, I took Clara Jane to daycare and headed for Prettytown. I had no reason to be there other than I was tired, cranky, frustrated, sad, and simply wanted to be there. I drove around, looking for houses. Lo and behold, the the house we love is back on the market. Someone had put a contract on it two days before we were scheduled to see it last month. Apparently, the deal fell through.

    This is the house whose price was recently reduced by $15,000, putting if comfortably in our price range.

    I celebrated this discovery by treating myself to lunch at my new favorite restaurant and paying my respects at their Uncle Tupelo/Son Volt/Jeff Tweedy shrine, as I always do.

    When I got home, I did one last email check before leaving for the hotel. What timing - an email from one of my Prettytown friends with info about the real estate buyers agent they used last year. On the way to the hotel, B. and I discussed how we need to get moving on finding a seller's agent so we can get moving, already.

    Of course, I had houses and moving on my mind while checking in. The desk clerk and I were talking, and somehow we got on the topic of housing, moving, etc. I mentioned that we were preparing to list our house.

    That's when the heavens opened up and dropped a business card onto the front desk before me. The desk clerk's father owns a well-established real estate agency and the desk clerk works there as an agent. Since the hotel was only two miles from my house and my address was on my hotel registration, the agent/clerk told me that he's familiar with my neighborhood and what it takes to sell a house in this area.

    Before the night was over, I had the county records of my house in my hands, along with a 15-page comparative report of all the houses that have sold in my neighborhood in the past year, and how my house stacks up.

    Agent/clerk isn't licensed for Illinois yet, but his father is. By the end of the night, his father had a list of the houses in Prettytown we want to see. We start looking with him tomorrow at 10:00.

    Late last night, I was sitting in my cushy hotel room, relishing the solitude and quiet while reading real estate reports when it occured to me: I'm not even supposed to be here tonight! I mentioned this to the agent/clerk. Had I not fucked up my reservation, our paths wouldn't have crossed. He doesn't work there on Fridays.

    I don't know if anything will come from this. Of course, always the skeptic, B. and I are doing some research to make sure the agents and agency are reputable before we make any big leaps. I'm trying not to get too wrapped up in this being IT. But Jesus. In the course of twelve hours I fudged my hotel reservation, learned the house we love is back on the market, got the info of a buyer's agent, got the info of a seller's agent, had someone do a ton of the research we needed on our house (for free), and had someone make appointments for us to look at houses.

    Oh, and another thing. You know how so many companies have had laptops with employee information stolen? One of those companies is a former employer of B.'s, and his info was on one of the stolen computers. Actually, this has happened twice. Anyway, because of this, we have all of our recent credit information, courtesy of his former employer. It arrived a few days ago.

    It there's any Uncle Tupelo, Wilco, or Son Volt on today's shuffle, I'm going to start packing post-haste.*

    *To the uninitiated, Prettytown is the hometown of members of these bands, who are among my favorites. Inevitably, when I drive into Prettytown, my iPod will shuffle up Uncle Tupelo, who lived in Prettytown during their brief but delightful career.

    1. Let's Go to Bed - The Cure
    2. Black Math - White Stripes
    3. Run, Angel, Run - Tammy Wynette
    4. Life During Wartime - Talking Heads
    5. Take Me Home, Country Roads - John Denver
    6. The Best - Tina Turner (I'm a little embarrassed that I have this.)
    7. Bluer Pastures - Dolly Parton
    8. Yes, Anastasia - Tori Amos
    9. Ghost Wiring - Neko Case
    10. Lady Stardust - David Bowie

    Alas, packing will wait. Probably just as well, as I haven't even unpacked my bag from last night.

    Posted by Robin at 01:07 PM | Comments (7)

    December 29, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Things Other Than Electronics Edition

    That's right. I'm going all Amish today.

    Well, not really. I just haven't been drawn to do much computer-related in the past few days. For one thing, we've been on a cleaning/deChristmasing bender that's included reorganizing my pantry.

    Our house is wee, and most of it is filled with child acoutrements and great big stinking piles of dogs. I have a desk slightly smaller than an aircraft carrier parked in my dining room. I do love my desk. It's a vintage Steelcase, gun-metal gray, and I scored it for a mere $5 at a rummage sale about a week before I got pregnant with Clara Jane. It was a good month for acquisitions.

    Despite my love for my large, large desk, it's not quite big enough to conduct my parenting, writing, blogging, jelly-making, jelly-selling, knitting, quilting, music-collecting, cooking and weekly meltdowns. I've tried, but I found it difficult to be productive with the huge piles of everything I own falling on my head every ten minutes. So earlier this year I staged a hostile takeover of the small pantry that houses non-toxic cleaning supplies, extra food, and whatever crap we can't find a real home for. I called it Nightmaretown.

    That worked for about two months before I realized that the storage system I'd devised didn't work, since everything was stored about six inches above my head. Once again I have found myself with piles of crap in Nightmaretown and piles of crap on my sleek piece of desk real estate. So here we go again, reorging Nightmaretown into a stampede of wheeled 5-drawer plastic carts.

    I don't understand how I've managed to completely fill one of those carts, one drawer of another, and I still can barely get into my pantry without crushing boxes of little cheese-flavored bunny crackers under my feet. It's progress, I suppose. Invisible progress.

    I did encounter the new sewing machine I purchased a month ago during the clean-out, and I finally gave it a whirl. Good thing, too, since my granny sent me home with two big boxes of fabric scraps. And by "scraps" I mean some of these pieces of fabric are just this side of threads. But then there are other - gorgeous, perfect pieces of vintage cuteness. There are also a few pieces that aren't really pieces at all anymore, for they have turned to dust. I've been coughing since I sorted the fabric boxes this morning. Is that a bad sign? They didn't make clothes out of asbestos back then, did they?

    Anyway, I spent most of my day sewing together quilt squares I cut well over a year ago. So many that I'm 1/4 of the way finished with a twin-size donation quilt.

    Playing with all this fabric has been a lovely change of pace. It's much softer than the keyboard. I've also been doing some writing the old fashioned way, with a notebook and paper. I got an idea of a piece of fiction last week and I can't shake it. I haven't written fiction in years, but I'm enjoying this. It's about music, and you know there's going to be some shuffling...

    1. I'll Take the Rain - REM
    2. Don't Worry About the Government - Talking Heads
    3. Helter Skelter - U2
    4. Shiny Happy People - REM
    5. It's Over - Roy Orbison
    6. Once - Pearl Jam
    7. Suzy Q - Uncle Tupelo (who have a lovely shrine at my new favorite restaurant. I refrained from stealing any part of it while we were dining last night.)
    8. Knockin' at Your Door - Jimmy Reed
    9. Hey Mama - Kanye West
    10. I'll Run Your Hurt Away - Ruby Johnson

    Posted by Robin at 03:50 PM | Comments (6)

    December 22, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The 2007: The Year of the Gift Card Edition

    Tomorrow, we're leaving for the holiday in the hometown, and I'm just about worn to a nub. I'm one of Martha Stewart-crazed gift-givers. If it's not perfect, it's not worth giving. I pride myself on my gifting skills. Why? Because I'm a complete idiot, that's why.

    I have been working on hand-crafted gifts for nearly everyone on my list for months. Not days. Not weeks. Months. I started in the summer, then went gung-ho a few days after Halloween. The fingerless gloves for my granny that have been giving me fits? I decided to make them at Thanksgiving. I mean, come on. How could I not? When Granny saw the fingerless gloves I was making for myself, she told me that she can't wear standard gloves because her fingers are so crooked from arthritis. But fingerless gloves would be perfect.

    You don't honestly think I'd let my granny go another winter with cold hands, do you?

    

    But here I am, after 11 PM the night before we leave, and I'm still not finished. I'm just taking a break while B. takes a crack at the last rather stubborn gift.

    Let me tell you, gifts made after December 21st are not made with love and warm thoughts.

    I'm not doing this again. Next year, everyone's getting gift cards to, oh, let's say Walgreens. Clonopin for everyone!

    Since I'm in a rather bah humbug frame of mind today, let's turn the holiday cheer over to the delightful Mr. David Sedaris. The highlight of my day - and it was a shitty day in a lot of ways beyond gift-giving angst - was waking up to NPR just in time to listen to the annual reading of a selection from Holidays on Ice. If that doesn't do it for you, perhaps you need to be visited by Saint Nicholas and beaten senseless by his henchmen.

    There is shuffling, but I can promise that nothing in the shuffle will be nearly as gut-splittingly perfect as Crumpet the Elf singing "Away in a Manger" in the style of Billie Holliday.

    1. My Generation - Patti Smith
    2. White Man - Queen
    3. Let Me Be Good to You - Carla Thomas
    4. C'mere - Interpol
    5. In the Jungle - The Vines
    6. Selah - Lauryn Hill
    7. You Don't Wanna Call - The Donnas
    8. Like a Rolling Pin - The Replacements
    9. Fever - Shirley Horn
    10. Johnny Get Angry* - Joanie Sommers

    *probably because Crumpet the Elf told him that he was going to have him killed.

    Posted by Robin at 10:45 PM | Comments (6)

    December 15, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Stupidest Question Ever Edition

    I was feeling pretty darn good about myself this morning, what with my new bra, new jeans, and such. So good, in fact, that I decide to forgo my usual uniform - jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt, mascara, lip balm, and Mary Janes or driving mocs. Instead, I opted for my cute black smocked babydoll shirt and threw on my favorite red lipstick.

    I love what having new bras and jeans does to me. It's not so much that my self-worth rides on how I look, but how much of my energy is freed when I'm not fussing with ill-fitting clothes that are falling apart. Don't get me started on this, but I do thing there's some truth to the notion that women have been held back for years because they're too distracted by all the silly stuff we do to make ourselves pretty. I believe this because I know how I feel when I'm not fighting with my clothes. I'm in a better mood. More content. Easier to deal with. I'm definitely more productive when I don't have to stop every five minutes to put a boob back in its cup. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a bit of validation when I find something comfortable and cute.

    So Clara Jane and I ventured to Target, and I'm sure I was walking a bit taller. Not so much because I was feeling sassy, but because my new bra prevents my tits from resting on the handlebar of the cart. As we always do, we went to the snackbar for popcorn. It's one of my few junk food concessions - when we go to Target, Clara Jane gets a small bag of popcorn. She gets a special treat, and I get to shop relatively tantrum-free.

    When the snack bar associate returned to the cash register with the popcorn, she looked me up and down and began to open her mouth. And for some reason, I knew something awful was going to come out. Like vomit, or a really stupid comment.

    "Are you pregnant?"

    Frankly, I would have preferred vomit.

    I always figured that, when someone asked me this question - and it was always "when", because I knew it would happen sooner or later - I'd reply with, "No, Bitch. Are you?" Unfortunately, I was so taken aback that all I could do was laugh and say no.

    At least she had the good sense to be embarrassed and apologize. She quickly changed the topic to Clara Jane. She apologized again as we left.

    I didn't get my nose too bent out of shape. After all, I was the one who left the house in an empire-waisted shirt, and I do have a gut. But still. How is it that any woman in the world did not receive the well-circulated message that, unless you can see an infant dangling out of a woman's vagina, DON'T ASK IF SHE'S PREGNANT! If you have to ask, you don't really need to know. And if you do ask, you need to be punched in the neck.

    The real kicker is, the whole time I was pregnant with Clara Jane, not one single stranger ever asked if I was pregnant. I never had to deal with strangers fondling my belly. Unfortunately, it seems I can look forward to my saggy, fetus-free gut getting felt up in my near future. Oh, I can't wait!

    I'm going to take off my shoes, dig out my old maternity pants, and shuffle around the house. Then maybe I'll scream at the dogs, beg B. to make a Taco Bell run, and cry because the ceilings are too low in the living room. If people think I look pregnant, I'm going to take full advantage of the situation and act like it.

    1. Black Math - White Stripes (a favorite when I was pregnant - even my iPod thinks I'm knocked up.)
    2. Wasted Reprise - Pearl Jam
    3. Further on Up the Road - Bruce Springsteen
    4. Parakeet - REM
    5. Live and Let Die - Guns n' Roses
    6. Hallelujah Here She Comes - U2
    7. Raven Dove - Dolly Parton (Of course Dolly's here, what with all the tit talk.)
    8. Train - Uncle Tupelo
    9. Extraordinary Girl - Green Day (thank you, Billie Joe)
    10. Inside Job - Pearl Jam

    Posted by Robin at 03:30 PM | Comments (9)

    December 08, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Math-Doing Edition

    I've never been good at math. As an adult I've done well with kitchen math, obviously. I made a small career out of taking recipes for four servings and making them feed 50. I'm also getting pretty good at sewing/knitting/crafty math. I understand how gauge works.

    Here's some more math I've figured out recently.

    A lovely gift from the lovely Summer + Ray LaMontagne in concert = luscious awesomeness.

    Ray LaMontagne + the Bee Gees/Michael Bolton song I referenced a few days ago = bliss. I knew there had to be someone out there who could do such a well-written song justice, and Ray's the man. Ray's the man in a lot of ways.

    Ray + me = true love forever.

    (Okay, so maybe I'm not as good at math as I thought.)

    (2)Thirtysomethings + (1) pretty, trendy bar filled with twentysomethings = instant age-ification. My boobs were three inches lower and I had developed liver spots by the time we left. But it was fun.

    One Absolut Mandarin tonic + one glass of Renwood Zinfandel + (5)sleepless nights = sweet, sweet blissful snoozing, unless the freezing factor is present. Thus:

    One Absolut Mandarin tonic + one glass of Renwood Zinfandel + (5) sleepless nights + hypothermia = yet another sleep-deprived night, coupled with being awake enough to feel the dreaded end of the buzz.

    One overtired, tantrumy toddler + one sleep-starved mother = one blissful afternoon in which A + B = 3.5 hours of napping.

    And that's how the past 24 hours add up. In case you're not as good at math as me, let me give you the English major's edition:

    Summer bought tickets for us to see Ray for my birthday. Excellent seats, in a most perfect location for panty-flinging. A delightful show featuring one of the most mesmerizing, unique voices I've ever heard. Even the crowd was delightful and seated, save for Interpretive Dance Girl, who was spotted a few rows below us to the right, partaking in moves I haven't seen since attending my granny's Pentecostal church as a child. A few drinks were consumed. Time was spent talking (and I'm having my usual next-day remorse because I'm pretty sure I talked Summer's ear off) and watching people who couldn't possibly be old enough to venture into an adult drinking establishment.

    I also learned a new way of dealing with the ongoing Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays controversy. While leaving the club, I overheard a woman wishing a man a merry christmas. He flung his arms high into the air, raised his voice and replied, "Shut! The fuck! Up!", pumping his arms to punctuate each word. I'm going to do the same thing when issued holiday greetings from now on.

    I came home, positive I'd sleep the sweet, lovely sleep of the mildly buzzed and exhausted, only to lay awake until the wee morning hours when it finally dawned on me that perhaps if I'd stop shivering, maybe I'd fall asleep.

    Sweatpants + 11 degree temperatures = finally passing out around 3 AM. And then Clara Jane and I slept all day until we shuffled awake for our new nocturnal lifestyle.

    1. Fillmore Jive - Pavement
    2. Blue Suede Shoes - Elvis
    3. Do You Feel Loved - U2
    4. Pride and Joy - Stevie Ray Vaughn
    5. Hit the Plane Down - Pavement
    6. Northern Lad - Tori Amos
    7. Move it on Over - Hank Williams
    8. High Plains Drifter - Beastie Boys
    9. Golden Heart - Kirsty MacColl
    10. Perfect Circle - REM

    1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9+10 = rocking out hardcore.

    And speaking of which, if you want a taste of Ray live, listen to NPR's live broadcast of his Washington DC show this Monday. I highly recommend it. If you miss it, they usually have concerts available in their fabulous archive page.

    Posted by Robin at 10:00 PM | Comments (6)

    December 01, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Screaming Trees Edition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    November 17, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The verdict?

    Eh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    October 27, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Scary, Spooky Ghost in the House Edition

    It's Halloween Weekend. When, exactly, did Halloween turn into a holiday meriting an entire weekend? I'm guessing since the day retailers realized they could make a shitload of money by making every holiday seem really, really important. And that scares me. Kristina and I were bitching the other day about how Halloween has become this weekend event. It was so much fun when we were kids, and Halloween was that one weeknight when we could blow off school and stay out late. I know I always dreaded the years Halloween fell on Friday or Saturday because it was somewhat of a let-down.

    Long before having Clara Jane, B. and I had looked forward to someday taking our kids to the Halloween shindig thrown by one of the local townships. They have a quaint little Main Street, and one night, all of the local shops open for trick-or-treaters. The nearby farmer's market holds costume contests and party games. We intended to finally go this year, until I realized it was five days before the actual holiday. Ridiculous!

    Instead, we stayed home and made these:
    

    Which illicited this response:

    

    I'm sure we had a lot more fun carving the pumpkins than we would have had in the cold, trick-or-treating five days early.

    I'm frightened by the number of miniature Reese's Peanut Butter Cups I've consumed in the past 24 hours. In fact, I'm frightened of all chocolate products, period, right now. And candy corn is scaring the fuck out of me.

    And I'm terrified of the prospect of getting caught in post-World Series victory chaos tonight, but considering tonight is the only chance B. and I will have to go out for our birthday dinners with access to a free babysitter, I need to just get over that fear. I'm sure there will be wine, and that will make me brave.

    But what's scaring me the most on these days leading up to Halloween? The book A Ghost in the House by Tracy Thompson has me damn near pissing the bed with fear every single night.

    No, this isn't the typical horror novel. I don't do genre fiction, for the most part. This book is about something really, truly scary: mothers living with depression.

    The scariest part is how much of myself I'm seeing in it.

    A few weeks ago I had a follow-up with my doctor regarding the anxiety and depression problems that plagued me all summer. I told my doc that I was fine, and she was amazed at how well I looked, how happy I seemed. I didn't feel like I was being dishonest; I was conveying what I thought was the truth.

    I've had depressions so bad that they've left me staring at the wall, silent, for hours, completely closed off from everyone and everything. I've had dpressions so bad that I seriously contemplated things I won't even say outloud. What's scary is, I've experienced that and come through it, but it's colored the way I look at depression. To me, now, that's what depression is - staring at the wall and wanting to die.

    In reading this book, I've seen my day-to-day life on nearly every page, and it's haunting me. Keeping me awake at night. Things like the exhaustion and irritability that are daily presences in my life. The lethargy and lack of motivation. The feelings of extreme guilt that accompany the exaustion, irritability, lethargy and lack of motivation.

    It's scary to read about how much motherhood has changed since our mothers were doing it, and how much more complex and hectic it is. Thompson writes about how our generation can't just shoo our kids outside to run the neighborhood with the other kids who've been shoo'd outside, and how that's hurting both moms and kids. These lives so many of us are leading where we have days without a moment to ourselves, our thoughts not offered the luxury of completion.

    Today it took me an hour to fold two regular-sized loads of laundry. Because it's not folding laundry. It's folding laundry, pulling Clara Jane out of it, pulling the cat out of it, refolding the pajamas when Clara Jane unfolds them, pulling the cat out of the miniblinds, pulling Clara Jane out of the miniblinds, putting the clothes away, taking away the drawer Clara Jane has removed from B.'s nightstand and is using as a drum in the living room, listening to the fit that ensues when the drawer is taken away from her, putting away yet another pile of clothes that have been lying exactly where B. dumped them two days ago ...

    No wonder I'm chronically exhausted, irritated, lethargic, and unmotivated. It would be one thing if events like the hour-long laundry-a-thon were isolated incidents, but they're not. It's a good example of what happens here all day, everyday.

    I'm afraid that I'm going to fall off a cliff I can't even see if I'm not careful.

    Anyway, I didn't intend for this to be a downer. I'm fine. Really. In fact, having read what I've read over the past few days I'm probably better than I was days ago when I was going through my days accepting my perpetual bad mood as being normal, thinking that as long as I wasn't completely shut off and wishing for death, I must be a-ok. I feel like this book might have enlightened me to something I would have missed otherwise. So what's next? I'm looking at what causes stress in my life and working to eliminate the stresses that are unneccesary. Some will be easy. Some won't. We shall see.

    The shuffle is never stressful and it never steals furniture to use in its musical endeavours.

    1. In My Time of Need - Ryan Adams
    2. Hot in Herre - DJ Tiga and Kicks
    3. The Good Part - Wilco
    4. Yahweh - U2
    5. Another Girl, Another Planet - The Replacements
    6. Don't Be Afraid of the Dark - Robert Cray
    7. They're Blind - The Replacements
    8. Hope - REM
    9. Angel - Kirsty MacColl
    10. The Air Near My Fingers - White Stripes

    I think Beatrice the iPod wants me to feel better.

    Posted by Robin at 03:20 PM | Comments (7)

    October 13, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Domesticity Doldrums Edition

    I am the very model of a modern major housefrau today.

    We've fallen into a regular routine somewhere along the way at my house, and I'm not sure how it happened. Every Friday morning Clara Jane and I wake up, eat breakfast, and putter around the house all day. We sit on the couch and read piles of books. Between readings, she watches more TV than I should allow while I clean. As I sit here at 2:30 PM, I have washed, folded, and put away three loads of laundry. I've emptied and loaded the dishwasher. I've stripped the bed and will put clean sheets on it shortly. I've made breakfast, lunch, and a mid-morning snack. I've even listed some more jam on Etsy, and I'm taking a break from making up a recipe for parmesan-walnut shortbread crackers to go with my basil jelly.

    For the past month or two, when anyone asks me what I'm up to or how I'm doing on a Friday, my knee-jerk reaction is to answer with the number of loads of laundry I've completed.

    This morning I thought I'd break the cycle. We would go to the bookstore for storytime and coffee, and then make a stop at Whole Foods.

    I took a shower and got dressed, then promptly got undressed and got back into my pajamas. I just couldn't come up with a good reason to go to all that work outside the house. Going out sounded exhausting, but for some reason, making six trips up and down the basement stairs to do laundry sounded leisurely. So we stayed home.

    I had a moment today where I thought about how much I'd accomplished this morning, and I felt pretty good about it. I think I even had the, "This housewife business ain't too bad, moment" and then I smacked myself across the face for even thinking the word "housewife". I don't like its replacement "SAHM", either.

    But now I'm tired. I've accomplished a lot, but nothing too terribly taxing or challenging. I'd love to park my butt on the couch, watch last night's "Ugly Betty" and maybe play with my much-neglected knitting, but I'm having a hard time allowing myself to do that.

    I had a doctor's appointment yesterday. Nothing big, just a follow-up from the Summer of Anxiety, which has blessedly ended. Basically, I showed up at the doctor's office and said, "I'm good. Thanks!" And let me preface this by saying that I adore my doctor. She's the best. It was truly a miracle that I walked in her door six years ago. One of the things I love about her is that she acts like I'm one of her kids. She's frank but caring. Anytime I have an appointment, after we deal with the medical stuff she always asks how my life's going. She asks how I'm liking motherhood, how my writing's progressing (my manuscript is currently lying on the passenger side floorboard of my truck; it makes an excellent foot rest), etc.

    Yesterday, she asked, "What are you doing for work these days?" I told her that, actually, I've started this new venture on Etsy. Much like when she first learned that I'd started catering four and a half years ago, she started giving me business leads: make foodie gift baskets and get the hospitals to sell them in the gift shops! Solicit to doctors, because they give little gifts to each other as thanks for referrals! Go to the drug companies and get the drug reps to buy jelly - they're always trying to bride doctors with goodies! I appreciate this, if for no other reason than it's cool to have someone who isn't legally obligated by the laws of marriage, family, or friendship get so excited and enthusiastic about the stuff I'm doing.

    Then I mentioned my writing, and that I'm taking a break from my manuscript. This is where I started getting a little annoyed: she started badgering - yes, it finally reached the point where her suggestions began to feel overbearing - to pitch stories to all the local magazines. I tried to tell her, "I know how to pitch articles. I know which magazines are written in-house and which ones buy freelance. Thanks. I'm not interested," but she flat-out wouldn't listen. So I smiled and nodded, letting her have her say. She listens when I complain about my ovaries and my brain, which is what I'm paying her to do. I'm not paying her to listen to my career issues, so I'm not going to complain if she doesn't listen to them. I just dealt with this like I would any unsolicited advice: smile and nod, and proceed as I intended to all along.

    I'm past the point of caring what others think about my life and how I should live it. If I'm currently happy hanging out in my pajamas and doing laundry all day, so be it. Tomorrow, I'll be up to my elbows in making homemade apple crip kits to sell. Next week, I'll be on a plane by myself, going to see Kristina, Wilco, and Revolution Rock: The Story of The Clash on its opening day at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I'll be running on no sleep while throwing myself at the feet of Mick Jones.

    I'm not just a housewife. I'm not just ... anything. I'm continually amazed at the diversity of my life. It's almost as eclectic as my shuffles:

    1. I Took Your Name - REM
    2. The World Exploded Into Love - Bob Schneider
    3. Chickamauga - Uncle Tupelo
    4. You've Got a Friend - Carole King
    5. New Slang - The Shins
    6. They Never Got You - Spoon
    7. Crash and Burn - Sheryl Crow
    8. Well Done - The Donnas
    9. Happy - Rolling Stones
    10. Redemption Song - Wyclef Jean

    Posted by Robin at 02:18 PM | Comments (5)

    October 06, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Sheer Raving Perfection Edition

    Funny how this happens: for the past week I've been thinking about writing about perfectionism, and I've had several opportunities to do so. But I haven't. Sometimes, though, a topic will want to be written about so badly that it'll keep smacking me around until I do it.

    Hello. My name is Robin. I'm a perfectionist. A raving, crazy perfectionist.

    I'm a perfectionist who accepts her limitations. I know I'll never fit the idea of what a perfect woman looks like, so I go with what makes me look perfect. That's why I have my strict "No Sweat/Yoga Pants in Public" rule. That's also why I want someone to put a bullet in my head if I ever thing it's a good idea to wear an oversized t-shirt featuring any Looney Toons or Disney characters.

    I have several other rules regarding my appearance. I know I'll never have a flat belly. That emergency c-section followed up by a staph infection ensured that my abdominal muscles are about as useful as my appendix. That doesn't give me an excuse to go flopping my big, saggy belly around for the world to see. How far am I willing to go to conceal my belly without resorting to caftans? I'm starting to learn how to design my own clothing patterns because there is nothing on the market that reaches the level of loose-around-the-gut, cinched-at-the-waist, plunging-at-the-cleavage perfection I need.

    I'm working on it, though. It took me years to get up the guts to learn how to knit and quilt because I couldn't do it perfectly right off the bat. The mistakes made me crazy. But I'm getting better. Do I need to remind you about last week's sweater incident? I'm dealing with it by knitting a fourth arm and finishing it.

    Last Saturday, I showed off my mistakes to Angie, Tempe, and Kat at a knitting thingie at a local yarn shop. The instructor told us something that made a bunch of sense, and I've wanted to write about it but the timing seemed all wrong. Screw it. Here it is: She told us that the Amish believe that no work can be perfect, because only God is perfect. So everything they make will proudly have some mistakes in it. We spent the afternoon pointing out our mistakes and saying, "See? Amish."

    Tempe and I even compared to see which of us was wearing the clunkiest black shoes, just to see which of us was more Amish. See? Seems a little tasteless in light of recent events that happened after that. But it was funny at the time.

    That same instructor took a look at my one-armed three-armed sweater and pointed out some newbie-looking seams. She told me that there's nothing wrong with tearing them out and trying again. I thought about it, and decided to leave them alone. If I tear them out, that's a week or two in which Clara Jane won't be able to wear the sweater. I'd rather that she have those two weeks in the sweater, even if it does look a little scraggly.

    I'm also leaving the two unintentional yarn-over holes in the baby blanket I'm knitting.

    See? I'm getting better. Now, if I can just apply this to the rest of my life.

    My parents and grandparents will be arriving any minute. The four of them come to St. Louis for a weekend every fall, and it's much fun. Well, it would be much fun, if I can keep myself from springing apart at the seams from stress. These weekends are short, and I don't want to spend them running in circles. I like for things to be planned and ready to go.

    Irony, of course, is that the planning and preparing wears me to a frazzle.

    There's no place where my perfectionism is more of a blessing and a curse than in the kitchen. I hold myself to an insane standard, which means that most of what I cook turns out wonderful. I have the culinary education. I have the cooking business experience. There's not a damn reason why everything that comes out of my kitchen shouldn't be perfect, and there's not a damn reason why I shouldn't be able to do it without breaking a sweat.

    Well, no reason aside from my stupid humanity.

    Here's what I've made today:

    

    On the left, a pineapple upside-down cake for Grandpa Chuck's 82nd birthday. Made from scratch. No yellow cake mix, and it contains more butter than you've probably eaten in the past two years combined.

    If you made me a pineapple upside-down cake from a mix with margarine, I'd still love it. I'd love it because you made it for me and thought of me, and because of the company you provide me.

    On the right, a pumpkin loaf - made from a Trader Joe's mix and you can gurandamntee that anytime I talk about this cake I'll include the words "made from a Trader Joe's mix" because I don't want to take credit I haven't earned - covered in homemade maple cream cheese icing, walnuts, and pecans.

    Now, tell me how that cake on the right compares to this:

    

    This is a bowl filled with the lump I cut out of the middle of the pumpkin loaf so it would look more perfect, covered with the leftover cream cheese frosting. It's a big bowl of cake and frosting, just tossed together willy-nil.

    I think it's telling that, within minutes of uploading both photos, Kristina commented, "Dude! I want some!" on the bowl of scraps without saying anything about the pretty, pretty picture.

    Believe me, when I had the pretty cakes next to the bowl of scraps, I wanted the bowl of scraps, too. That big, tossed-together mess, for some reason, is worlds more appetizing than the fussed-over cake.

    This is what I'm making for dinner:

    

    It's my homemade tuna casserole, which my mom and granny requested. There's not a can of cream of __________ soup in sight. There's noodles, albacore tuna, fresh celery and onions, mayo (hush, that's what makes it special and good), thyme, and fresh-grated lemon zest. But it's lacking one of the most crucial ingredients - sour cream. All because I told someone who lives in this house that I needed sour cream and pineapple from the grocery store, and someone screwed up.

    If I come to your house, and you serve me tuna casserole made with cream of mushroom soup from a can with nary a hint of sour cream or lemon zest, I'll love it, and I'll love you for thinking enough of me to invite me to dinner, to sit with me, to take the time from your life to open those cans and think of me.

    But if you make assumptions about my tuna casserole that impede with my ability to make a perfect tuna casserole, woe be unto you, my friend.

    The worst part, though, is that in my zeal to get everything done and perfect today, Clara Jane's the one who paid for it. My energy and nerves were so shot that it left nothing for her. My patience were short and I snapped at her when I shouldn't have. It ended with her standing in her bedroom, sobbing, and me having to leave her there with her big-girl underpants around her knees while I stomped off to the kitchen, goddamn it, to pull a fucking cake out of the oven while I try to get ahold of my mom to bring me some fucking sour cream and fuck it all, the food can just rot for all I care at this point.

    I pulled the cake from the oven without even testing to make sure it was done. Slammed it on the counter, stomped back to my screaming kid without even turning off the oven. I got her dressed, carried her back to the living room, and we sat on the couch under her fleecey monkey blanket, reading books for an hour while the uncovered cakes grew stale.

    I know it doesn't matter. Rather, I know people say it doesn't matter if the cake's from a box and maybe a little too gooey in the middle. I know that if you made a boxed cake for me and it was a little underdone, I'd still love it because you made it for me. But I've gotten a different messages in my life.

    I think of this every time I screw up in the kitchen:

    B. and I got married on a Sunday. His parents arrived in town the previous Friday. I'm not sure why. They showed up at our house right before we left for my hometown. They spent the night at our house and hung out with B.'s brother, who was still living in St. Louis, and the three of them came to my hometown the next day.

    When they arrived, my mother-in-law was talking to my mom, and the first thing she mentioned was that I had left a dirty plate on the counter when I left.

    This was the weekend of my wedding. Despite all the craziness that ensues, I had made sure our house was clean and ready for my in-laws. I was still in that phase where I wanted to impress them, a phase I am 100% over now. But shortly before we left, I toasted a bagel. A plain bagel with nothing on it. But since I didn't want to be a slob and get crumbs on my clean floor, I put my bagel on a saucer while I ate. And since we were running late, I left the saucer, which only had a crumb or two on it, beside the sink.

    And my mother-in-law saw fit to inform my mother of my slobbish ways.

    No, one incident with my mother-in-law isn't the reason why I can't hold my shit together when something goes wrong in the kitchen. It's just one example of the message I've heard all my life. I'm remarkably skilled in tuning out the good messages and only hearing about the dirty plates I've left on the counter.

    In writing this, I keep getting memory flashes of every failed dish I've made. The time I served the in-laws fried chicken that was raw in the middle (which might have been a subliminal passive-aggressive mistake). The time I served Kristina raw fish - not sushi, but undercooked fried catfish. The chef in culinary school screaming at me for adding cut beets to a salad without rinsing them, which made the dressing turn an unwanted pink. Every single pot of rice I've made in my entire life that's turned out burnt on the bottom and crunchy on top. The time when I was little and I turned on the hand mixer before emersing the beaters, sending a spray of frosting onto every cabinet in the kitchen. The cut-out cookies I made for a catering job, even though I told the client I suck at cut-out cookies, only to have her throw a hissy fit because, guess what? The cookies sucked, just like I told her they would.

    I once got a standing ovation, led by a restaurant critic from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch for a meal I prepared single-handedly for 20 people, and yet those things listed above are the things I remember.

    There's a Laurie Berkner song called I'm Not Perfect. Clara Jane adores this song. Asks to listen to it and sings along with it. Perfectly, of course. And when she does, it tears me apart to hear her say, "I'm not perfect. No I'm not. I'm not perfect but I've got what I've got. I do my very best. I do my very best. I do my very best each day. But I'm not perfect and I hope you like me that way." I think the thing that just shreds me about this is, when she sings that, it seems like she already understands something I've struggled with my entire life, and continue to struggle with.

    Wouldn't it be just perfect if that song shuffles up today? I'll be listening to it with a great big mouthful of cake guts and spare frosting.

    1. Dangerous Type - The Cars
    2. Stranger in a Strang Land - U2
    3. Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands - Bob Dylan
    4. Cuyahoga - REM
    5. Right-Hand Man - Joan Osbourne
    6. Kiss Me - Sixpence None the Richer
    7. Bells for Her - Tori Amos
    8. Monkey Gone to Heaven - The Pixies
    9. Outro with Bees - Neko Case
    10. I Want to be the Boy to Warm Your Mother's Heart - White Stripes
    
    What kind of cartwheels do I have to pull?
    What kind of joke should I lay on her now?
    I'm inclined to go finish high school
    Just to make her notice that I'm around

    That shuffle's perfect. Except for track #6. Sixpence None the Richer's totally Amish.

    Posted by Robin at 02:21 PM | Comments (13)

    September 29, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The We Are the Champions of Nerdiness Edition

    There's much to write about, but there hasn't been time to write it. So, early this Friday morning - before making my coffee, even - I've picked the shortest item of interest from the past few days to share with you.

    What it amounts to, in brief, is that I'm a gigantic nerd who probably shouldn't be allowed to make major adult decisions.

    While Clara Jane was in daycare yesterday, I returned to the town where we're planning to move - let' call it Pretty Town, shall we? - in an attempt to reenergize my gumption about this move. I had several other neighborhoods to explore. Also, I wanted to check out the coffeehouse we found on Sunday. That's right - a coffeehouse! One of the things on our teeny-tiny list of misgivings about moving to Pretty Town was the lack of professionally-prepared coffee beverages.

    Yes, we're that petty.

    My experience at the coffeehouse was thus: I purchased a perfectly-made latte made with fair trade, organic beans for about a dollar less than I usually pay. When the owner saw the real estate magazine clutched in my paw, she asked where I was from, was I planning to relocate, etc? When I told her the brief version - the version in which I don't use the phrase "goddamn dune buggies" more than four times - she squealed, "Oh, come over come over come over come over! You'll love it!"

    Cynic that I am, she was probably excited because she could see the fine oily espresso bean residue that coats my skin and was seeing some major dollar signs. Whatever. There's good coffee for cheap in a lovely setting.

    The house-hunting was much more encouraging than Sunday's venture. Basically, I drove up and down streets with a notebook, eyes peeled for "for sale" signs. Then I came home and looked up the houses for prices and details. There's a lot of nice stuff in our paltry price range.

    An aside: if there's one single industry that should benefit from the internet, it should be the real estate business. Having the ability to show houses via photos and video without having to set up appointments and haul clients all over creation? That's awesome! So why is it there isn't a real estate web site in existance that features decent photos? I went to one yesterday that had eight photos of the house, and every single one of them was a thumbnail. Apparently it's a dollhouse. Oh! And my favorite! In one listing, the photo of the living room has the couch as the focal point. As in, "Here's a picture of the couch. It's not for sale". Another had part of a room obscured by the photographer's thumb. Probably hiding the pile of broken crack pipes on the floor. I've spent so much time looking at bad real estate photography recently that I've tinkered with the idea of starting a web ode to the subject. But I barely have time to maintain this web presence. If you want to steal my bad real estate photography web page idea, run with it. I promise I'll visit it at least three times a week.

    But I digress.

    One thing happened yesterday that left me so happy, so giddy, so ready to rush home and start packing. And it's without a doubt the stupidest thing in the world and illustrates that I'm not mature enough to make adult decisions because I'm probably using the wrong criteria.

    While driving past a local restaurant, I almost crashed my truck when I read this on their marquee:

    Happy birthday Bob Tweedy!

    Who is Bob Tweedy, you ask? Why, he's the father of Pretty Town's favorite son, Jeff Tweedy, lead singer of my favorite band, Wilco, of course!

    Judging from the size of that sign, I think Bob might be more popular than his son in their hometown. All of my friends who already live in Pretty Town just look at me and say, "Who?" when I mentioned Wilco, proof that my friends aren't nerds and a nerd like me should be grateful for their company, which I am.

    But that sign made me so stupidly giddy, and I have no idea why. We are not moving to Pretty Town for a damn band! It's been well over a decade since anyone from the band has lived there. It's not like we're moving there so I can increase my chances of bumping into one of the members in the produce aisle at the grocery store. We're moving there for the lovely small-town atmosphere, beautiful houses, the good cost of living, the thriving locally-owned businesses, the abundant community spirit, the schools, the access to the commuter trains that will keep B.'s commute about the same as it is now.

    But maybe those things, or at least some of them, played a part in leading Tweedy (the younger one, not the birthday boy) to writing songs that speak to me in a way few other songs have. Maybe that's why it's already starting to feel like home. Some untangible thing, this sense of place that has nothing to do with property values and curb appeal, that makes me know that this is the place where I want to be.

    Which is exactly why teenage girls aren't allowed to buy houses. Any mortgage money stupidly loaned to them would get spent on hovels in close proximity to the teen idol du jour's boyhood home.

    It doesn't help that, if I have my iPod on shuffle when I go to Pretty Town, it inevitably shuffles up Uncle Tupelo. It's a sign! It's a sign that I'm a terminal nerd!

    1. Hanging on the Telephone - Blondie
    2. Graveyard Shift - Uncle Tupelo (Hear that? I'm screaming. Totally screaming right now, this very minute.)
    3. Blues for a Day - Dinah Washington
    4. Oh! You Pretty Things - David Bowie
    5. Chase the Devil - Eagles of Death Metal
    6. Canary - Liz Phair
    7. At My Most Beautiful - REM (Michael Stipe's dad was stationed at the Air Force base near Pretty Town. Michael went to high school in the next town over. This didn't factor into my relocate scheme at all.)
    8. 12:51 - The Strokes
    9. Shining Star - Dan Zanes
    10. Skyway - Paul Westerberg (Hey! Let's move to Minneapolis instead!)

    Posted by Robin at 08:28 AM | Comments (10)

    September 22, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Contents Under Pressure Edition

    I love it when I have a string of being funny. Few things make me happier. The part I hate? When suddenly, I find myself with absolutely no funny. Like today.

    When I said I was going to be dignified today, I didn't think that meant I'd be boring and borderline crabby.

    No reason for all of this. Just ... blargh.

    It's a shitty week to be a baby in St. Louis. Holy fuck, what is wrong with people taking babies around here?

    If you're in the US and you pay any attention to the media, I'm sure you heard about Baby Abby, abducted from her mother a week ago when she was a mere seven days old, and how she was returned safely on Wednesday.

    What you might not have heard yet is about the pregnant woman who was killed that same day, her 7-month-old fetus cut from her body and her three older children missing. The baby died.

    Or the latest, a one-year-old boy and his mother abducted early this morning, probably by the child's father, with warnings issued that both are in grave danger.

    All of this within 45 minutes of St. Louis. I can't wrap my head around it. Can't think of anything to say about it at all. I can't imagine what kind of anguish, anger, and crazy would lead a person to put children in danger.

    My ankle's still sore, but at least I know Clara Jane's safely snoozing in her room. Because of that, I'm not going to bitch about my ankle, the three phones calls in a row right as I sat down to knit and watch a movie, or the fact that I didn't get my morning coffee until after 1 PM. Minor, minor, minor things, considering I spent the day playing in the backyard with Clara Jane, eating noodles and peas with her, and curled up in the big bed reading a Dilbert book to her. Not my choice. She requested it. "That dog loves to play on the pomcuter," she says. And thank God she's here to say it.

    I had planned for us to make our bi-weekly Trader Joe's run, followed by lunch out, since I haven't taken her out to lunch at all this week. While trying to cajole her into letting me get her dressed, she told me, "I need you to carry me and lay my head on you." When I asked, "Do you want to stay home today?" she nodded against my neck. At first I was annoyed with her for throwing us off schedule, and then annoyed at myself for being annoyed. And then I saw the SARAA alert for that missing little boy, and I was more than glad to let the grocery shopping go another day in favor of staying home with my kiddo. Just because we can.

    Okay, so I guess I do have reason for my shitty mood. I don't think I realized how much recent events have affected me until just now. Six missing kids in a week. One returned, one dead, one dead mother, one injured mother. All right here.

    Storms are moving in. I'm shuffling around the house with the doors locked, sad and scared, but thankful for what I've got, hoping that I can keep it all safe and sound.

    1. All for Swinging You Around - New Pornographers
    2. Shelter Me - Buddy Miller
    3. Midnight Jam - Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros
    4. Lilli Schull - Uncle Tupelo
    5. Me and a Gun - Tori Amos
    6. When Doves Cry - Patti Smith
    7. Rock n' Roll High School - The Ramones
    8. Throw Back Your Head - Q and not U
    9. You've Got a Friend - Dusty Springfield
    10. Seconds - U2

    Well, at least the shuffle's fairly appropriate. If that's not a list of life-saving artists, I don't know what is.

    Posted by Robin at 02:06 PM | Comments (4)

    September 15, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Wilderness Edition

    I think it should be mentioned that I do consider myself an environmentalist. I go to some length to make sure that my family's footprint on this earth is a relatively small one. I'm not going to make a list of the earth-friendly things we do, but suffice it to say, I care about Mother Earth and all that hippie jazz.

    That said, I'm not a big fan of the great outdoors. I admire the beauty of nature and recognize the restorative power of time spent communing with it. I'd just rather not be the one doing the communing. Particularly, don't take me camping. Don't ask me to join you on a camping trip. Just ... don't. Believe me, if I go camping with you, no one is going to have a good time.

    When I was a kid, most of our family vacations were of the camping variety. Not in a tent, at least. God no. That's where my mom drew the line. There was no sleeping on the ground with the snakes. Instead, we were "sheltered" in a pop-up camper.

    Those things sticking out like wings? Those are beds. If you think it's exciting when you have the falling dream at home, just wait until you have it in a suspended bed like that, hanging over a ravine in Colorado!

    And I wonder why I have panic attacks.

    I had a good, long talk with my friend Kim earlier this week. She's the one responsible for that awesome Vegas/U2 weekend last November. Anyway, we were talking about how it's harder to travel with kids now than it was when we were kids. It's hard for a kiddo to sit still in a car/booster seat for a 13-hour road trip. Hell, when we were kids, we made the same drive, bouncing around in the veryback back seat of a VW Beetle station wagon, and it was fun!

    Kim and I both went on vacations while riding in the bed of pickup trucks with camper shells. I went all the way from Missouri to Florida like that when I was in second grade. It was great! Technically, I think that truck bed counts as my first apartment. I slept there, took my meals there, read there, listened to my music. Granted, it would have been nice to have had a bathroom and perhaps basic cable, but the price was right.

    I've got to interject right here, because I want to tell you my all-time favorite camping story, but it doesn't fit anywhere else in my story so I'm going to drop it here. We were on a big family camping trip. My granny had this bouffant hairdo - how she got hair that big in the great outdoors, I have no idea. The Cuz was a wee one who was probably too young to be given a marshmallow on a sharp stick and instructions to stick the whole rig into the campfire, but what the hell did we know? When she pulled that black, flaming marshmallow from the fire, she went looking for someone to remove it for her and plop! The whole mass of flaming goo landed in Granny's 'do. I think Jesus' love was the only thing that protected my granny from the potentially lethal combination of fire and half a jar of Dippity Do.

    At the time, sleeping in that camper or in the bed of the truck didn't seem like roughing it. It was fun. Don't expect me to do it again, though.

    Well, there's one possible exception. A few weeks ago I caught a little bit of a show about people who restore teardrop trailers. These little campers are 5' x 10' and I want one.

    For camping.

    I am sick in the head.

    "I think you'll have problems sleeping in that," B. said. And it's true. I'm a tad bit claustrophobic. And by "tad bit" I mean, dear God, don't get anywhere near my face when we're sleeping in our queen-size bed or I'll be forced to move to the couch.

    So, fine. We have a truck. We'll just have to throw the couch into the bed of the truck when we go camping, just in case B., Clara Jane, or Chloe the Basset get within a foot of my face in our 5' x 10' living quarters.

    Of course I'm taking Chloe the Basset. How could I deny her the joy of camping? She would love it! Murphy's not invited.

    I have no idea why I find these little campers so appealing. I have a feeling simply because I'm drawn to their lovely retro stying and if that's the case I need to get over it and just buy another damn pink percolator.

    But then it occured to me that I can set my sights higher than the teardrop. There are other snazzy old campers! And I wouldn't have to go camping in them! I could park one in my driveway, plug it in, and have my own little place away from my family, because frankly, having spent this entire day clawing my way through the mountains of abandoned laundry, toys, paints, floor tiles, garbage, dead batteries and general crap left around the house by my family, I could use a little time in the wilderness of my damn driveway!

    Oh, who am I kidding? Bugs can get into any of those claptraps. Shuffle me up a suite for one at the Marriott, okay?

    1. Heartbreak Hotel - Willie Nelson (That's funny. Didn't Willie live in an RV outside his estate when the IRS forclosed on it? Maybe he'd like to lend it to me.)
    2. Hotel - Tori Amos
    3. Sleeping with Ghosts - Placebo (I swear, I'm not making this shit up. My iPod needs a good night in a hotel, too.)
    4. Don't Let Go - Weezer
    5. Desire - U2
    6. Keep Your Head Up - Eagles of Death Metal
    7. Love is Alive - Joan Osbourne
    8. Psycho Killer - Talking Heads
    9. Landlocked Blues - Bright Eyes
    10. No Cars Go - Arcade Fire (Which is probably what would happen if I hitch my wagon to it.)

    Posted by Robin at 03:20 PM | Comments (8)

    September 08, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The We've Gotta Get Outta This Place Edition

    First, I know you've probably seen this, but I think it's snazzy. Plug in the states you've visited, and it gives you a map. Normally I wouldn't post something like this, but you've got to see my map:

    
    
    create your own visited states map

    It looks I started in Missouri and I'm gradually oozing out in all directions. Except for that little gap between Ohio and New York, which I'll be rectifying next month when I ooze my way to see Wilco in Latrobe with Exena. Maybe I'll start dripping my way through the mid-atlantic states next.

    I have the unholy desire to sit here and make a list of when I visited each state, what part, and the reason for the visit, but I won't subject you to my list-making mental illness. Unless, you know, you want me to.

    Instead, I'm going to talk about the real place I'm wanting to ooze out of. I've just about finally had it with the horrible neighborhood of mine. B. and I have been talking about moving for years, with the idea that we'll wait until we can afford to buy our dream home, the one we're going to stay in forever. We'd love to be able to move out of this house and ditch most of our furniture, starting a new life in a new house with new stuff.

    Yeah, we're delusional.

    What's suddenly brought this on? What, after years of dealing with the dune buggy-building Elton John fan, '80s Lady, Boy, the crazy crack-smoking moron in the house behind us who hears imaginary dogs in the night, and The 360-Degree Cameltoe, what has finally caused me to throw up my hands in disgust and say, "That's it! Sell it. Burn it. I don't care how you get rid of this house, just get rid of it and find me a new one!"?

    A 7-11 that I never visit closed yesterday.

    It's a few blocks up the road from us, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've been there, usually just to buy gas. Once, I stayed in the car while B. ran inside to get nachos. While he was inside, I went into a furious rage because next to me was a car, running, doors unlocked, with a teeny-tiny baby screaming in the backseat and no adult to be found. I decided to wait until B. returned, and if no one came to the car, I was calling the cops. But the supposed mother returned, nachos and smokes in hand, and was none too happy about me going ballistic on her ass.

    So, it's the not the closing of the 7-11 in and of itself that has me upset, although B.'s a little worked up about it. Where is he going to score the three staples of his diet - nachos, coffee, and 87-ounce vats of fountain Diet Coke - from now on? He'll actually have to get in the car to get his food on. I think he wept a little when I broke the news to him.

    My problem with the demise of the 7-11 has to do with our neighborhood on the whole. The big grocery store two blocks from my house closed almost a year ago. Empty storefronts are everywhere. If a neighborhood can't support businesses, pretty soon everything else slides downhill. And frankly, this neighborhood can't afford to slide much more.

    When I drove past the papered windows and boarded-over sign yesterday, my heart did a two-point sink: 1)There goes the neighborhood. Again. 2)And we still can't afford to move. We're never going to be able to afford to move. We're going to be stuck in this house while the neighborhood goes straight to hell, and Clara Jane's going to be ruined by one of the worst school districts in the metro area, and there's not a damn thing we can do.

    But wait! There is something we can do! We don't have to buy our dream house just yet. We can look into making a more lateral move. Go with two bedrooms and a little less square footage. We can do this! We can move! We can get out of our 7-11less existance and be free!

    So now I'm thinking of all the reasons why I don't wanna move. Sure, I have more friends living in Illinois near the town we want to move to than I have on the Missouri side of the river. But I'll miss the friends who are nearby now. And Clara Jane's daycare! I don't even want to think about leaving them.

    Maybe I can drive an hour one way once a week to take her to daycare. That's feasable, right?

    Trader Joe's. There's no Trader Joe's in the St. Louis metro east. Do I want to go back to a Trader Joe'sless existance?

    Am I really thinking about not moving because Trader Joe's would be more than five miles from my house? Honestly? It's not like I'd be forced to get there by stagecoach if we move. Excuse me. When we move.

    But but but ... what if we unwittingly move into a neighborhood that's worse than ours? And then there's this issue of living in Illinois. I've lived in Missouri my entire life. Yeah, I know, it doesn't seem like a big deal. But let me tell you, my friend PKB, born and bred in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, has lived in Illinois a few miles from Missouri for nearly a decade, and she still talks about how she cried when she had to get her Illinois driver's license. It's not that there's anything wrong with Illinois. Certainly not. It's just that us Missouri girls are a proud lot, especially for people whose state is represented by a jackass.

    Who knows? Maybe this move will happen. Maybe it won't. I'm not thrilled with either option. I'd just like to live in a nice neighborhood where the people behave themselves and my husband can destroy his arteries and colon with 7-11 nachos, coffee and tubs o' cola while he shuffles his way home.

    1. Wander I Go - Patti Smith (See? Patti wants us to go. And we should all do exactly what Patti says.)
    2. Down There By the Train - Johnny Cash (There are trains in the town where we want to move.)
    3. I Met Him on a Sunday - The Shirelles
    4. Neighborhood 3-Power Out - Arcade Fire (There's gotta be something prophetic to that one.)
    5. That'll Be the Day - Linda Ronstadt
    6. Dead City - Patti Smith (Dammit, Patti!)
    7. In the Ghetto - Elvis (Dammit, Elvis! And her mama cries, indeed.)
    8. Beachball - REM (whose lead singer attended high school in the town next to the one where we wish to move)
    9. You Never Can Tell - Chuck Berry
    10. New Year's Day - U2

    If Wilco or Uncle Tupelo - bands borne of the town where we're looking to relocate - had shown up on the shuffle, I promise you, I'd be packing my bags to move right now. Patti may be a prophet, but I make all my important decisions based on Jeff Tweedy compositons.

    Posted by Robin at 03:24 PM | Comments (9)

    September 01, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The I Feel Oh-So-Pretty Edition

    Remember last week when I pontificated on looks and shit? Well, I motivated myself to do a few things:

    1. I colored my hair last night for the first time since last December. And I went with a color I don't think I've ever had before. It's dark. Like my soul.

    2. I bought one of those snazzy new foundation/powder combos and pitched the terrible crap I purchased last November.

    3. I bought new lipstick. Zoe was right - that Maybelline 16-hour lipstick is good stuff.

    Wanna see the final product?

    

    Prettied up, and surly as ever. I think I like it. But just for you, loyal readers, a smile:

    

    I'm liking how the new haircolor and lip color bring out my eye color. I also like how my shaggy bangs hide my shaggy eyebrows. That makes life easier in so many ways.

    In keeping with stereotypes, as soon as I got myself all pretty, my brain went out the door. I think the haircolor has seeped through my scalp, chemical burned the plates of my skull, and has been nibbling on my brain all day. I'm just tired, draggy, and having issues stringing more than thoughts together blah blah blah what was I saying?

    Oh, right. I have pretty brown hair.

    There's a road. It needs to be hit. I need to pack. With the current state of my tired little mind, there's a danger that I'll head to the hometown with nothing but my pigtails, my cute red lipstick and the clothes on my back. Must shuffle off to pack with the teensy bit of my mind that remains.

    1. Porchlight - Neko Case & Her Boyfriends
    2. Spiders (Kidsmoke) - Wilco
    3. Give Him a Great Big Kiss - The Shangi-Las
    4. Come Pick Me Up - Ryan Adams
    5. Girls - Beastie Boys
    6. Don't Buy the Realistic - Spoon
    7. Rejoice - U2
    8. Version City - The Clash
    9. Blue Veins - The Raconteurs (Who prompted me to watch a great deal of the MTV Video Music Awards last night. It was almost worth enduring an acceptance speech by the Pussycat Dolls just to see Jack Black ask Jack White if he'd like to join a band with him.)
    10. Losing My Religion - REM

    Posted by Robin at 04:12 PM | Comments (16)

    August 25, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Shuffling Across My New Floor all the Way to Latrobe, PA Edition

    Oh, I had hoped to write this much earlier today, but things are nuts at Chezy Poppy. I was going to write this thought-provoking piece about beauty standards and self-esteem, complete with photos of my formerly death-defying '80s hair. But life, and by life I mean an absent-minded husband and a child gripped with the mental illness colloquially known as "being two years old" have intervened. So this might be briefer than I had anticipated, which is probably for the best.

    The short version: I've been feeling hideiously ugly all summer.

    Now, for the most part, I'm pretty proud of myself for not being a slave to the previously-mentioned beauty standards. I am who I am, so be it. I do occasionally wear make-up, but I've never been one of those gals who'd rather remove a finger than walk out the door without a full painted face, or even one key cosmetic item. I view make-up as a toy, something fun to play with when the mood strikes me. I've always been rather fond of nail polish and lipstick, preferably in red and in the presence of a wiggly bootlegged Elvis-like toy while driving through Memphis, Tennesse:

    

    
    Same goes with hair color. I started going grey about a week after I hit puberty. This has never bothered me much; I expected it to happen, since my mom also went grey fairly early. So you would think she would know better than to shriek, "My God, Robin! You're as grey as an old mule!" upon seeing my neglected roots a week after my 27th birthday. Nonetheless, I've colored my hair since I was 18. And like with makeup, the hair-coloring was always more about creativity and fun than some misguided thought that I must look a certain way or I'm somehow less of a person.

    To quote india.arie, which I'd rather not do but I will: "Sometimes I shave my legs and sometimes I don't." You get the picture. I also have a condition that lends itself to pear-shaped obese bodies, facial hair, skin tags, zits, oily skin, dandruff, male-pattern baldness, and/or black and/or brown spots not dissimilar than the ones sported by my hound dogs. Pretty!

    I generally look like crap by our current beauty standards, but for the most part it doesn't bother me. This summer has been particularly bad but in light of everything else that's gone wrong this summer, my looks haven't registered on my radar. The last time I wore makeup? The night of Summer's birthday party nearly two months ago. Last time I colored my hair? December. Last time I shaved my legs? Day before yesterday. It's cooler that way. Last time I cut my hair? The night of the "American Idol" finale. The last time I trimmed my bangs with a pair of scrapbooking scissors? About a week ago, and they're almost as straight as my friend Big Daddy B, who offered to wear a pink prom dress when he served as "maid" of honor at my wedding. Last time I painted my nails? The night before I flew to Vegas for U2 in November. Last time I plucked my chin? Yesterday. If I don't stay on that job daily, I'll trip on my Rip Van Winklesque beard.

    It's been an ugly, ugly summer. I just gave up sometime around Independence Day, and I've been cool with that. I've been up against a lot. The blistering heat this summer makes everyone unattractive, so why waste energy fighting it? But I've had two things making this even more difficult: 1) The night of that last professional haircut, I thought it wise to get bangs. I was thinking only of cuteness, and not the fact that I would be stuck in 100+ degree heat with bangs I wouldn't be able to pull away from my face, which brings us to 2) With the onset of the crazies I experienced in June, my doctor put me on Wellbutrin XR, with side effects that Crazy Meds describes as such:

    Strange body odor, sweating, nervousness and tremor. Basically Wellbutrin could make you look like the guilty party, so you better have a damn good alibi at all times in case some big, unsolved crime goes down.

    Awesome! That means I got to spend my summer with a haircut that prevents sweat from escaping while taking a drug that produces even more sweat. With the humidity sending my thick, curly hair into afroesque proportions and my sweaty, oily, down-right slippery, scrapbooking-scissor-trimmed uneven bangs, I'm quite a sight.

    And you know you wanna get wit' me. You do. H. O. T. That's me. I've got the sweat to prove it.

    I've learned something this summer: it's easy to not fall into the trappings of "the standard of beauty" when you feel pretty good about yourself. When you feel like everything about your appearance is going haywire all at once, and you're chasing a two-year-old and barely have time to shower, much less partake in any extraneous beauty care, it suddenly becomes really, really easy to slip into the trappings of those standards. All that sweat makes for a slippery slope.

    How bad did it get? About two weeks ago I was meeting a friend for dinner, sans kids and spouses. I had a rare few hours to myself before meeting her, and what did I do? I freaked out about the fact that I had absolutely no clothes that suit me. Nothing in my closet could magically undo my sweatiness, my fatness, my skin tagginess, my stubbliness, my sallowness, my eye-baggedness, and my all-around ugliness. I spent those few hours browsing clothes stores in hopes of finding something that magically made me look lovely, something I could wear out of the dressing room.

    Now, I don't put much stock into daily horoscopes. While I think there might be some truth in real astrology, I know that those daily horoscopes are most often written by bored interns, pulling predictions out of their asses. But this was my horoscope a few days ago:

    There isn't a need to try to make yourself look any better than you are, for others will perceive you correctly. Although this may surprise you, you are quite extraordinary.

    And with that, I suddenly snapped back into my right mind. Why am I freaking out over my not-so-smooth skin, grey roots, flab rolls, sweat-shiny face, askewed bangs, and the weird things suddenly growing on my neck? Well, okay, maybe I should freak out about those weird things growing on my neck. I may be pretty well-adjusted, and I think that avoiding a trip to Goiterville might help me stay that way. But otherwise, I know I could show up to dinner in my raggedy pajamas with a goiter the size of my dog, and my friend - any of my friends, for that matter - wouldn't be bothered one bit at all. My friends aren't friends with me for my looks. But that's how far I let it go, wasting my time and energy getting all worked up because my God, if I have to wear a t-shirt and jeans one more time I'm going to be thrown into Ugly People Jail!

    It didn't occur to me until the next day that the horoscope might have intended for the word "look" to be more figurative and less literal than I was taking it. No matter. It's made up anyway, so I can take it however it best suits me. The point is, I can't remember the last time anyone said anything negative to me about the way I look. And so what if they did? I rarely feel like I'm treated poorly based on my looks. And so what if I am? Why am I wasting my time and energy worrying about it? No more.
    

    The angst hasn't been limited to my appearance and wardrobe. I've been feeling this way about my house, too. Things have been in bad shape around here. A few months ago, we removed two layers of ugly vinyl flooring from our kitchen with intensions of laying new, less ugly vinyl. Nothing fancy, since we're not planning to stay here much longer, God willing. Just spiffying it up to make it a bit more pleasant for us, and more appealing to any potential buyers.

    Of course, we hit some obstacles along the way, mainly in terms of a leaky dishwasher. Then we had the blackout. Instead of laying the new flooring when we planned to do it, we were busy being evacuees.

    And let's talk about the room in the back of our house. You know, the room that made me want to buy this house in the first place. It used to be a back porch, but the previous owners enclosed it. I envisioned it as being a lovely sitting room when we moved in, and it was for awhile. Eventually I moved my computer back there, and it was my office for several years. During that time, B. was patching a leaky spot in the roof one day when he took a little trip through the ceiling. Fell right through it. So, no more ceiling for my office. For a little over five years, the "ceiling" has consisted of exposed fiberglass insulation. At one point, there was even a bird's nest in it.

    Two years ago, for Clara Jane's sake, we moved my office set-up out of the back room and into the main part of the house. Since then, the ceilingless back room has been a dumping ground for anything in the house that didn't have a proper place.

    So, here we are with ugly exposed subflooring and a ceilingless room filled with heaps of junk. Add that to my lack of time and energy, and I've felt like frantically running around town in search of the housing equivilent of new clothes before anyone lays eyes on my house's hideousness.

    Well, things are turning around. My parents are visiting this weekend. For our anniversary, they've gone above and beyond by purchasing proper subflooring for our kitchen and dining room so we can finally get the flooring we purchased in April in place. They also bought carpet and the materials to replace the ceiling in the backroom. They're here this weekend to help us get it all installed. My house will be cute again! And when it is, I might even share photos of its cuteness with you. Oh, what the hell - c'mon over! All of ya! We'll have ourselves a party.

    And I'm going to be cute again, too. For starters, my doctor took my Wellbutrin away. The only thing it was doing to me was making me even more anxious and sweatier. Within a day of my last pill, the sweating had gone away. The end to the heat's also in sight. Clara Jane's supposed to visit my parents next week, which will leave me time for some beauty fun n' games, like coloring my hair a brand new color it's never been before, and maybe buying some new lipstick to replace all the crappy stuff I bought last year that makes my lips feel like they belong on a corpse. I don't do beauty crap that makes me feel bad in any way, shape or form. I'm looking forward to new slates all around.

    Hell, I even have painted toenails right now. Today, while Clara Jane sat on the toilet and sobbed because her grandpa is here, and how dare he love her with all his heart! The audacity of that man! She sobbed, leaning against me while I sat on the edge of the bathtub. My mom grabbed a bottle of rather whorish red nail polish to paint Clara Jane's toenails. It's a little thing they do. After getting one footful of toes painted, Clara Jane had had enough, so my mom instructed me to give her my foot. And she painted my toenails, without me even asking.

    I feel a little more like myself now.

    And I'm also looking forward to maybe getting back on the fun horse once again and doing something a little nuts. You know I adore Wilco, right? They're playing in Latrobe, PA, two days before my birthday. Why does this excite me? Because Exena lives not-too-far from Latrobe. She loves Wilco. Hey! Let's go see Wilco for my birthday! Another bonus: a new exhibit about The Clash at the nearby Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I priced airfare today. It's cheap. I think I need to take my chocolate-brown hair, red lips, and painted toes, bid adieu to my cute house, and have a few days of fun.

    If Wilco's in the shuffle, I swear to God, I'll put on my socks, strip down to my underwear, and slide Tom Cruise-style across my new floor with glee. Pretty!

    1. I'll Be Faithful - Dusty Springfield
    2. Ordinary Pain - Stevie Wonder
    3. Nothing Lasts - Matthew Sweet
    4. Little Babies - Sleater-Kinney
    5. A Change Would Do You Good - Sheryl Crow (Hallelujah, yes!)
    6. In the Dark - Nina Simone
    7. Crazy - Willie Nelson
    8. Workout Plan - Kanye West
    9. Your Most Valuable Possesion - Ben Folds Five
    10. Emit Remmus - Red Hot Chili Peppers

    Aw, what the hell? Regardless of the lack of Wilco, you know I'll strip and slide anyway. I'm still slippery enough to really go flying across the room

    Posted by Robin at 07:52 PM | Comments (15)

    August 18, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Don't You Have Something Better to Read Edition

    I'll be completely honest - I'm going through a bit of disillusion. If I were to dig through my archives, which I won't, I'd probably find that similar disillusions have happened at the end of August every year. That's when I always develop The Late-Summer World-Hating Malaise, a condition that leaves me making such ridiculous remarks as, "Good grief, can't you people comment? *snort* Voyeurs."

    By then end of summer, I'm always a tad bit edgy, and really not fit for human interaction or consumption. I'll be fine by mid-September, but for now, be warned: I might greet you with a friendly wave. I might burst into tears. Or I might throw a rock at you. None of these actions are rooted in how I feel about you as a human being. It's simply an artifact of me being perpetually tired, irritated, and fed the hell up.

    That's the case during a normal summer. This has not been a normal summer. This has been the Heat Wave Summer. The Anxiety Attack Summer. The Blackout Summer. The Terrible Twos Summer. Considering that, you'd probably be best to assume that the friendly wave isn't my greeting of choice these days.

    I'm also prone to incoherant rambling best suited for manifestos written in wooded shacks, but I think you've probably realized that by now.

    Every time I've sat down with intentions of blogging this week, all that's come to mind is a long-winded list titled Crap I Currently Hate. Trust me, you don't want to read about how much I hate stupid raging ego t-shirts, triple-digit heat indeses, and Moveable Type eating a blog entry written completely in the style of Alyssa Capucilli's Biscuit books.

    So, I'm going the opposite direction. I'm going to blog about something I love. I'm going to blog about reading.

    My parents are neighbors with a retired couple who are two of the most voracious readers I've ever met. And that's saying something, because I know a lot of voracious readers. While they're very budget-minded, they do have one extravagance: magazines. The wife confessed to my mom that they spend over $1000 a year in magazine subscriptions. Can you imagine?

    Lucky for us, they share the wealth, always passing on the magazines when they're finished. They regularly show up with big boxes of current magazines for my mom. She reads what she wants, then passes the boxes along to me.

    Anyone need some magazines? No, seriously. I've got about 948 magazines on my dining room table.

    I used to be a magazine junkie, back in high school when I intended to pursue a career in magazine journalism. I've gotten over that over the years, seeing magazines as little more than wastes of paper covered with advertisements. Like, the proliferation of magazines about shopping? What the hell? Isn't that like spending $5 for nothing but advertisements? I don't get that at all.

    Thanks to the neighbor, I'm becoming a junkie again. At least I'm recycling, though. Southern Living! Midwest Living! Cottage Living! Country Living! This is living! I'm reading them all, along with whatever else I dig out of the box. I even read an issue of that new Rachael Ray magazine, and I hate Rachael Ray.

    My favorite, I almost hate to admit, is the Oprah magazine. It's surprisingly good with a lot of well-written essays. This week I read an interview with Paul Rusesabagina that had me sobbing. I'm currently reading the July issue, which was all about reading. That's the issue with the ballyhoo'd Harper Lee letter.

    I'm getting a lot of magazine-reading time these days, because Clara Jane's potty training. And by "potty training" I mean "sitting on the toilet for three one-hour sessions every day". She doesn't have much use for me, as this is what she's doing during these sessions:

    

    Obviously, I can't leave her alone, because she needs someone to hand the books to her every five minutes when they slide off her lap. But she's so engrossed in her reading that she doesn't care to converse with me. So, I sit on the step-stool she uses to reach the sink, and I plow through the boxes of magazines.

    I started the reading issue of the Oprah magazine on Wednesday, when Clara Jane was balancing that entire library on her lap. The timing couldn't be better. I was reading a piece titled "Shelf Awareness", which asked several well-known writers how they manage their book collections.

    I'm not a book collector. As much as I love to read, I can't concentrate if I feel like I'm drowning in clutter. More books equals more clutter equals less reading, for me. I rarely even buy books anymore. I stopped because we have access to two excellent library systems. If I'm not dishing out money for books, I can be more free with what I read, more apt to venture into books that go beyond the stuff I know I'll like. But in my book-buying days, I rarely held on to books. I'm a book-lender, and I never expect to see my books again. I don't want to see them again. I like the feeling of setting them free.

    The article mentioned that Steve Almond was the only author interviewed who still uses the library. "The important thing is to keep the book in your mind, not on your property." I like that. And even though it cuts into his bottom-line, I hope he doesn't mind that I borrowed Candyfreak and My Life in Heavy Metal from the library when I read them last year.

    As a writer, it's probably really bad financial karma for me to either buy all of my books used, or borrow them from the library. Answer me this: in these days of the music and movie industries losing their shit over file-sharing, why is it still not only okay, but accepted for written arts to be borrowed? And not just borrowed, but borrowed from institutions that are taxpayer-funded? Not that I have a problem with this, obviously. It just strikes me as odd.

    Anyway, I was reading this article, thinking about my book-keeping habits. And then I looked at my daughter with nine books piled on her tiny lap, and another in her hands. For well over half an hour, she kept her little legs stretched with her feet up to keep them balanced, whining when any of them slid to the floor.

    It seems that while my daughter is following in my book lust footsteps, our storage styles are going to be vastly different. She has a new bookcase in her room. A few weeks ago I gathered the piles and piles of her books from around the house and arranged them in the case. I threw some big, comfy pillows on the floor, thinking that she'd love to have her own little reading nook. And she does love it - she loves to sit there and admire the spines of her books, but she won't remove them from the case.

    Not only have I created a book-reader, I think I've created a book-hoarder.

    Clara Jane begs to go to the library. Not that she has to beg too hard; I take her twice a week at the bare minimum. B. often takes her in the evenings, too. We have two branches we go to so often that most of the librarians know us by name. They also turn a blind eye to our fines and overdue books, and we love them for that. We go to storytime at least once a week. The other trips are just for browsing. She has her routine: she browses the shelves on her eye level and brings books to me one at a time. I'll read the book to her, then she places it on the cart to be reshelved. Repeat. She could do this all day, every day. I can't recall a single instance where Clara Jane asked to leave the library. More often than not, we have to drag her out. Crying is often involved.

    She's getting selective about what books she checks out. On Monday, we made a quick stop at the library, only long enough to read four books. When it was time to leave, she pulled one book from the pile we'd read to take home. I didn't have to suggest, ask, or insist. She knew which one she wanted.

    For the record, it was "Otto Goes to School" by Todd Parr. Not that this surprised me. When we arrived at the library she told me, "I want to read an Otto book". And who could blame her? The Otto books are great stuff. This one made me cry when we read it at the library a few weeks ago.

    Clara Jane's love of books and reading makes me so proud and happy. I may lack a lot of things as a mother. I may let her watch a little too much TV and eat a few too many tortilla chips. I may be a bit too impatient with her, especially as we enter the second hour of Pottyrama. But if I've done anything right, it's that I seem to be doing a good job of raising a reader.

    The entire Harper Lee letter should be read by every reader, but there was one part that really struck me:

    Now, 75 years later in an abundant society where people have laptops, cellphones, iPods, and minds like empty rooms, I still plod along with books. Instant information is not for me. I prefer to search library stacks because when I work to learn something, I remember it.

    Maybe that's the real reason why I've been unmotivated to blog, or even read anyone else's blog this week. It's too easy and therefore not as fulfilling as, say, plodding through 528 pages of The Whole World Over. Right now, I'm craving that fulfillment.

    But that doesn't mean that I'm throwing the iPod away. I'll shuffle between chapters and potty breaks.

    1. Hello Mr. Heartache - Dixie Chicks
    2. Loose Translation - The New Pornographers
    3. Linstead Market - Dan Zanes
    4. I Got Love if You Want It - Slim Harpo
    5. This Love Affair - Rufus Wainwright
    6. The Swimmer - Sleater-Kinney (which has shuffled up roughly 26 times this week; must be time for a reset)
    7. I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl - Nina Simone
    8. Supposed to Be - Jack Johnson
    9. It Ain't Supposed to Be - Exene Cervenka & the Original Sinners (For the record, I'd pay good money to see Exene and Jack in a cage match, fighting over whether it's supposed to be or not supposed to be. My money's on Exene smashing a surfboard over his head.)
    10. Disco Blackout - ControllerController

    Posted by Robin at 04:01 PM | Comments (7)

    August 04, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Disco Duck Edition

    Hello, Readers. Welcome to my shower!

    

    There's nothing too extraordinary here. A couple of razors, some shaving cream, face cleanser, a vat of mango-pomegranate shower gel, a purple bath poof and, oh yeah, that, the bane of my existance.

    To you, I know it probably looks like a cute little inocuous ducky. It's all plush and squishy, but still safe for hours of water fun and frolicking. When you squeeze his tummy, he quacks. "Quaaaack quaaaack quaaaack". I think the duck might be from one of the New England states, judging from the length of his A-sound.

    The duck was a gift from The Cuz on the occasion of Clara Jane's first birthday. He's served us well for the past year and a half. But now, the duck is pushing his duck-luck.

    Something's amiss with the duck, prompting him to wildly quack for no reason, without being pushed, all the fucking time. Since our house is pretty small, there's no escaping it.

    "The duck's talking to you!" Clara Jane tells me, sounding far too much like that little girl in Poltergeist.
    I keep expecting to hear that Boston-accented quack, followed by an innocent "The duck's heeeeee-re," at which point I will run screaming from the house, which I'm starting to think was built on a sacred duck burial ground.

    Sitting in the living room, knitting. "Quaaaack quaaaack quaaaack."

    Trying to sleep. "Quaaaack quaaaack quaaaack."

    Making dinner. "Quaaaack quaaaack quaaack."

    Curled into the fetal position, whacking my head on the hardwood floor while weeping. "Quaaaack quaaaack quaaaack."

    The duck's got a raspy voice, like he's been holed up in the shower, chain-smoking Pall Malls while taking nips of Old Crow bourbon.

    A few nights ago, B. and I were in bed, reading. The duck had been quiet all day, so much so that I had nearly forgotten about it. But as soon as the thought of going to sleep crossed my mind, "Quaaaack quaaaack quaaaack."

    B. threw the covers off and started to get up.

    "Where are you going?" I asked.

    "I'm getting rid of the damn duck!"

    And you know what? I wouldn't let him. I wouldn't let him! Have I gone completely stupid? No. I'm just curious to see how long the phantom quacking continues. Maybe his little ducky energy will be gone by the end of the weekend. Maybe it'll go on for years. Who knows? I'd like to.

    Yet more evidence that perhaps the latest round of brain pills aren't quiet doing the trick. Besides, they make me feel all shuffly.

    1. If You're Ready (Come Go with Me) - the Staple Singers
    2. We Believe - Red Hot Chili Peppers
    3. Shadrach - Beastie Boys
    4. Pieholden Suite - Wilco
    5. If I Could Build My Whole World Around You - Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell
    6. A Better Future - David Bowie
    7. My First Plea - Jimmy Reed
    8. Don't Come the Cowboy with Me, Sonny Jim - Kirsty MacColl
    9. Vertigo - U2
    10. Turn Me On - Nina Simone

    Ah, a touch of soul to counteract being haunted by the soulless.

    Posted by Robin at 02:07 PM | Comments (5)

    July 30, 2006

    The Friday Shuffle - The Not Even Remotely Close to Friday Edition

    Yeah, I know. It's Sunday.

    I've been completely off-kilter since last week's storm/power outage/fleeing business. Remember - I can only last 23 minutes in an emergency before my brain explodes. Piecing my brain back together takes three times as long as the catastrophe that led to said brain-explosion, I hear. By that token, I should be back to normal sometime before Labor Day. Maybe.

    I haven't slept well in a week and a half. I'm exhausted, which leads to anxiety, which leads to depression, which leads to doing the Friday shuffle on Sunday.

    That's the news from here. I'm crazy and sad for no reason. I'm tired. I'm roasting in yet another round of temperatures that are hovering near the century mark. I'm plotting the demise of the next weather reporter who uses the term "century mark" because really, that's about the stupidest way to say, "It's going to be 100 degrees." I'm hot, exhausted, and sad for no reason. I don't need half-assed literary devices from a local talking head on top of everything else.

    I've got a stack of kid's books on my kitchen table, sent to me by a PR firm to give away on my blog. I don't know why I offer to do stuff like this. I get hit up a lot by PR firms to get products for free if I'll write about them on my blog. Generally, I turn them down, unless 1) it's a product or cause I believe in, or 2) I think I can get some good blog-fodder out of it. In this case, it's for a cause I believe in. But it's tied to a corporation, and I have some serious issues with corporations publishing kid's books that tie in to other products. In other words, I don't like advertising to kids, but I really don't like it when it's disguised in books. Hey! They're books! They're good for kids! Oh, and kids, tell your mom to buy _______________, just like the main character of this book!

    But on the flipside, it's a corporation who's had this book published to benefit a cause I really, truly believe in. The book promotes some attitudes that I think need to be promoted at an early age. It's an example of a corporation *gasp* acting in a responsible manner.

    Anyway, I'm not in the mood to grapple with this ethical delimma. Remember - exhausted, tired, hot, brain in many fragments. Tomorrow, I promise, the moral wrestling will be over and I'll fulfill my PR promise. And hey! Free books for you people! And you don't even have to shuffle for it. That's my job:

    1. Pop Country Really Sucks - Hank Williams iii
    2. Surrender - U2
    (These tracks remind me: Brenda, the U2 song you've got stuck in your head is "The Sweetest Thing". It was written and recorded for Bono's wife while they were working on "The Joshua Tree" and was the B-side of the 7-inch of "Where the Streets Have No Name". They released it years later, with a darling video of Bono and band professing apologies to Mrs. Bono.)
    3. Starting to Hurt - Ryan Adams
    4. Calistan - Frank Black
    (Dammit. Does everything on the shuffle have to remind me of stuff I need to do/should want to do? Both of these artists are going to be in concert in the near future. I should want to go, but I just can't get excited about it. Proof that 1) I'm getting old, or 2) the brain-altering mood drugs aren't working properly.)
    5. Ngiculela - Es Una Historia - I am Singing - Stevie Wonder
    6. In Your Honor - Foo Fighters
    7. 100% - Sonic Youth
    8. One Tree Hill - U2
    9. Tell it Like it Is - Aaron Neville
    10. Spiders (Kidsmoke) - Wilco

    All this U2 reminds me of the one happy-inducing thing in recent days: my pal Anne, who was my bunkmate and primary latte-bringer during last November's U2 in Vegas romp, gave birth to Ella Kate just a few short hours after posting about her insomnia on her blog. I'd like to think that the weekend of great music, friendship, late-night left-wing ranting and shots of Starbucks liquer might have had something to do with Ella's creation. Regardless, I'll always see that weekend as Anne's last pre-Ella time, and I love that I got to be a part of it. Congrats Anne, S., and N.! I love you and I'm thrilled about your new arrival.

    Posted by Robin at 02:05 PM | Comments (4)

    July 21, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Blown to Hell Edition

    Did you hear that St. Louis got blown to Hell Wednesday night? Nearly literally - huge storm and mass power outages before what was the hottest day of the year. For God's sake, please let it have been the hottest day of the year because if we have another day where the heat index rises above 114 degrees, I want someone to bludgeon me to take my mind off it.

    We lost power Wednesday night. Then we got our power back around midnightish. We luxuriated in air conditioned comfort on Thursday, got far too hautey for our own good, and lost power again Thursday night. It's still not back. Clara Jane, the dogs, and I are at my parents' house. I was in the midst of blogging about it when the second power outage hit.

    While I get my head back on straight, let's shuffle.

    1. Ain't Ever Goin' Back - John Haitt (Yeah, that's kind of how I feel right now.)
    2. You Look Like Rain - Morphine (With 80 mph straightline winds)
    3. Louisiana Lowdown - Cowboy Mouth
    4. Too Darn Hot - Ella Fitzgerald (No fuck! Really?)
    5. This Mountain - Kasey Chambers
    6. The Bewlay Boys - David Bowie
    7. Time to Get Ill - Beastie Boys (Darn tootin'! Somebody break out the Brass Monkey.)
    8. Bowtie - OutKast
    9. Help! - the Beatles (Oh yeah.)
    10. Phaser - Superdrag

    That's a pretty fucking accurate shuffle. Only thing that would have made it even more appropriate would have been the appearance of Tom Petty's "Refugee".

    Posted by Robin at 11:15 AM | Comments (6)

    July 14, 2006

    The Friday Shuffle - The Emotionally Grounded Edition

    Not that kind of emotionally grounded, where one is stable and content. I've been grounded because emotionally, I can't handle shit these days.

    Three weeks ago I saw my doc and said, "Gimme the brain pills. Now." It's been up and down since then. For the past few days, it's been way, way down, which gives me even more reason to believe this is hormonal in nature. I was doing fine until the day I started my plecebo birth control pills. Gee, wonder what's causing the problem? Hormones? Surely not! Not in this woman who has a hormone imbalance and went crazy while pregnant, then crazier after the baby was born, and then really crazy when she stopped breastfeeding. Hormones? Nah.

    As for the grounding, B. grounded me from reading the news yesterday because I just can't take it for the same reasons Marrit Ingman mentioned on her blog yesterday. Isreal and Lebanon! Iran! North Korea! The Sudan! Iraq! Iraq! Iraq! Mumbai! And California's on fire fire fire! Just typing that's enough to make my heart flat-out stop for a few seconds. Even my involuntary bodily functions are overwhelmed.

    So, I'm not allowed to read CNN.com. Or the Post-Dispatch. Or NPR. Husband's orders. Of course, he didn't put any blocking software on my computer, so it's not like he's been able to stop my 27 visits to each of those sites today. Hezbollah!

    Yesterday I had a panic attack because Chloe was panting at a time when I thought it wasn't appropriate for her to pant.

    Six days until my follow-up appointment ... six days until my follow-up appointment ... six days until ... Baghdad!

    In seemingly unrelated but pertinant other news, my mom was sans computer for quite awhile. She's now trying to catch up on all my blogging that she missed, because the 1-2 hours we spend on the phone every day just isn't enough. Today she brought up the subject of my musical weeping. Apparently, it's a family thing. She does it, and so does my grandma. "Yeah, I know," I told her. "We're the biggest bunch of crying sissies ever. We can't even laugh without crying."

    I'd completely blocked this from my memory, but apparently the reason why I didn't have much of a church-going upbringing was because when they took me to church, I'd sob and sob during the hymns. At that young stage of my life, I had a tendancy to puke when I cried too hard, which isn't the best way to praise Jesus.

    After my mom reminded me of this, she recommended listening to my copy of Alan Jackson's Precious Memories.

    I've had a copy of this CD sitting on my desk for months, but I haven't listened to it or loaded it into my hard drive. Why? Do we have to talk about what Alan Jackson does to me? If you don't know, I'll send you the link. However, I think most of you know. He makes me sob like my best friend just ran off with B. and ran over my dogs while they were pulling out of the driveway. Which, now that I think about it, would be an excellent premise for an Alan Jackson song. But Alan Jackson singing stripped-down country gospel with his wife and daughters? Jesus, save me from drowning in my tears. I can't even look at the CD without getting teary, nor could I keep from crying while my mom told me about it.

    Once I pulled my shit together, Clara Jane and I went to Trader Joe's, then made a side trip to the park. When I opened my door to get out of the truck, I was accosted by the strains of that heart-shredding motherfucker in a big cowboy hat's voice singing Remember When. A mean, mean man was playing wiffle ball with his two small sons, his boom box propped on the table, blasting Alan Jackson's Greatest Hits Vol. II in its entirity. Big Dig!

    So, now I'm "That Fat Lady at the Park Who Pushed Her Kid on the Swing While Sobbing and Laughing Like a Rabid Hyena".

    But oh! That's not it! No, there's more! After our playground sob-a-thon, I asked Clara Jane what she wanted for lunch. Mac & cheese. We could have gone home for that, but it's been weeks since Clara Jane and I have gone out for lunch. I kind of had my broken little heart set on it. Being the food snob that I am, I hate the fact that the mac & cheese on the kids menus at most restaurants is nothing but Easy Mac. I can buy an entire box of the good, all-natural Annie's Organic version of the chemical-laden crap for the same price as a single order of the chemical-laden crap in a restaurant. The kid wants mac & cheese. I want to eat out. The solution: Cracker Barrel. She can have some decent mac & cheese with a real-live veggie on the side, and I can drown my misery in a mountain of catfish, fried okra and sweet tea.

    We were nearly there when I made a sickening realization: even at my emotional strongest, I can't get out of Cracker Barrel without getting at least a little misty-eyed. If the classic country music that I love doesn't get me, then I'll see something in the store that reminds me of my family, my childhood, where I come from and Jesus Christ, just typing that has made me cry! I'm not getting out of this lunch unscathed. Oh, no. There's no way.

    And because the universe doesn't like to disappoint, when I opened the door to the restaurant, I was assaulted with Alan Jackson singing How Great Thou Art, a hymn that never fails to wrench my heathen, too-big-of-a-crybaby-to-go-to-church heart from my chest, wring it out like a sweat rag, and then throw it under the wheels of a truck. Which would be another great premise for an Alan Jackson song.

    Next personea: "The Fat Lady at Cracker Barrel Who's Lying Under the John Deere Memorabilla Display, Shoving Cornbread Into Every Hole in Her Head".

    I think God's trying to tell me something, and I've narrowed it down to two options: 1) I need to get right with God, or 2) I need to get my ass to Nashville and personally make Alan Jackson cut this shit out already.

    In cast it's option #1, I'm going to say a little prayer, right here and now. Dear God: If you send me more and better brain pills, I won't hurt the asshole in the cowboy hat. Thanks. Oh, and please don't let him show up on the shuffle.

    1. Ballad of a Teenage Queen - Johnny Cash
    2. The Sound of Settling - Death Cab for Cutie
    3. Late in the Evening - Paul Simon
    4. Happy Birthday - Concrete Blonde
    5. Less Than You Think - Wilco (A 15-minute musical panic attack. Thanks, Jeff Tweedy and God!)
    6. Box Full of Letters - Wilco (Two Wilco songs in a row? God is real, people. This is proof.)
    7. Stuck in a Rut - the Bottle Rockets (Two Wilco songs followed by the Brox? Jesus is sitting with me, and he's running the click wheel on my iPod.)
    8. Single Girl, Married Girl - Shawn Colvin
    9. I'll Be You - The Replacements (God bless Paul Westerberg!)
    10. Reflections - Diana Ross & the Supremes

    While I've never been able to listen to #5 all the way through, I appreciate the sentiment. Truly, a heaven-sent shuffle. The cowboy gets to live. Barbaro!
    

    Posted by Robin at 03:08 PM | Comments (9)

    July 07, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Clara Jane's Got Stripper Shoes Editioin

    Before I start, can someone please help my friend, Mary? Particularly, she needs assistance regarding Mongolian Buddhist funeral traditions and controlling angry Russians. Her request is in the comments of the previous post. I'm not much help, as the only Mongolian stuff I know regards barbeque and the bowl dance Grover occasionally performs on "Sesame Street".

    Now, on with the show...

    If you've been reading for any amount of time, you realize that I'm pretty laid-back as parents go. Everything in moderation, I say. I think outright forbidding stuff just makes them big and shiny and appealing. So Clara Jane watches a bit of TV. Yesterday, she had a few french fries with her lunch. She's free to track dirt into the house at will. That's just how we are around here.

    There are only two things on my "absolutely, positively no" list: soda and Barbie/princessy crap. Well, beer, cigarettes, prostitutes (male, female, and all-of-the-above) and driving my truck without permission are on the list, too, but I would hope that you had assumed as much.

    Now, if you choose to let your toddler have soda, that's your perogative. You know what's best for your kid. Since Clara Jane comes from two rotund parents, I don't think it's wise to introduce her to empty sugar calories or fake sweetners.

    If you and/or your daughter (or son) dig Barbie/princessy crap, that's fine, too. Really, I try to keep all cross-marketed toys - the stuff with TV and movie tie-ins - to a bare minimum in general, because I'm inherantly lazy and don't feel like fighting the "I saw this on TV and will die without it!" battles.

    My hang-up with Barbie/princessy crap is rooted in feminism, of course. I don't like the image created by these characters, who all look alike and have nearly identical "personalities". A few months ago I saw ads for some princessy crap DVD, marketed at girls not much older than Clara Jane. Every single storyline mentioned in the ad involved the princesses trying to land a man. There will be plenty of time for that once my daughter's age is in the double-digits. For the time being, I'd like to not introduce her to the concept of boy-craziness. Or the importance of being beautiful and demure. Or accessorizing. I want her to be a kid who doesn't have any thoughts about how girls are "supposed" to act. I want her to just, simply, be a kid. Not a girly-girl. Not a tomboy. Just, simply, herself, without lables. There will be plenty of time for that later.

    I have a friend whose daughter is into the princessy crap. This friend had similar feelings to mine about it, and has warned me, "Oh, just try keeping it away. It's impossible. One day you're sticking to your principles, and the next, your house looks like Cinderella's castle because of crap other people give your kid. That's how you lose the battle."

    In the past month, I've learned that my friend was dead-on correct.

    Last weekend, Clara Jane attended a birthday party for my mom's best friend's three-year-old granddaughter. I've known this child's mom since we weren't much older than our kids. She's always been the stereotypical girly-girl - cheerleader, clothes horse, and the epitome of boy-crazy from about fourth grade. So it shouldn't have surprised me one bit when, after the party, my mom confessed that it was a Barbie-themed soiree.

    The good news: Clara Jane showed no interest in the Barbie crap, opting instead to spend the party playing on the swings with two little boys while the other girls did girly things.

    So, Barbie has crept into our world, despite the death grip I generally have on the door that leads into said world. About a month ago, a princess also managed to wrangle her way in.

    Last time my parents visited, they brought a gift from my aunt. You know, my conservative Baptist aunt who believes drinking, smoking, listening to rock & roll, not supporting the president, or being French-Canadian are all grounds for eternal damnation. And yet, she has no qualms about little girls whoring it up. This woman's daughter used to put makeup on her little girls when they were Clara Jane's age because they were "too pale" otherwise. Those girls are now 12 and 15. Guess how they're doing. Go on. Guess. They've got some problems, those girls. The younger one has shown signs of having an eating disorder since she was 8. The older craves attention in a manner I've never seen the likes of before.

    Anyway, my aunt purchased a little gift for Clara Jane. Oh boy ... it came from the Disney store! You can just bet I got busy on the thank-you note when I heard that.

    Actually, I do try to be gracious with any gifts that are given to Clara Jane, even if it's stuff I don't want her to have. Smile, say thank you, ditch the gift into the Goodwill donation box at first opportunity. But this gift ... this gift tested my graciousness like no other.

    My aunt got Clara Jane a pair of clear plastic, glitter-filled high-heeled play shoes emblazened with Cinderella's image.

    Ladies and gentlemen, behold! It's Baby's First Stripper Shoes!

    

    When the shoes arrived last month, I put them on top of a bookcase, out of Clara Jane's line of vision. I should have immediately taken them the the donation box in the basement, but remember, I'm lazy. She continued playing dress-up with her daddy's Birkenstocks, happy as ever without her high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes.

    While she was visiting my parents this weekend, B. and I did a little furniture rearranging. The bookcase where the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes had been tossed got cleared and moved. B. threw all the stuff from the bookcase into a pair of boxes that are sitting in the hallway until we finish the rearranging. When I was walking out the door to get Clara Jane on Wednesday, I noticed that the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes were on top of one of the boxes. I made a mental note to move them before Clara Jane got home and, because I'm lazy, forgot.

    You know where this is going, right? With her finely-tuned forbidden item radar, Clara Jane zeroed in on the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes about three seconds after she walked in the door, promptly removed her sensible shoes that are good for running, hopping, skipping, and dancing, and put the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes on her feet. I then watched, mildly sick to my stomach, as she teetered around the house on those heels that were made for petite little toddler feet like hers. She wobbled and slid on the hardwood floors, worked to steady herself, and aborted her first attempt at running when she fell off the edge of the shoe and landed in a heap on the floor.

    She loves these shoes. Love them. And while she's teetering in all her bone-breaking glory around the house, I'm barricading the doors and buying a shotgun. Anyone named Ariel, Barbie, or Jasmine will be shot on sight.

    Please, oh please, let there be some Bikini Kill in the shuffle. Kathleen Hanna, we need you now more than ever!

    1. Superstar - Sheryl Crow
    2. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead - Warren Zevon
    3. Tell Me More and Then Some - Nina Simone (who does a lovely job of obliterating the princess crap)
    4. Been It - The Cardigans
    5. Way Down - Tori Amos (That might work, too.)
    6. I Fought the Law - The Clash
    7. Here Today - Beach Boys
    8. Afraid Not Scared - Ryan Adams
    9. Say You Miss Me - Wilco
    10. Jeremy - Pearl Jam

    Ah, the shuffle didn't fail me. That combination of music should be enough to make any remaining princesses flee for the hills, where they will promptly twist their ankles in their plastic stripper shoes and get eaten by wolverines.

    And they all lived happily ever after.

    Well, except for the princesses.

    Posted by Robin at 09:29 AM | Comments (9)

    June 30, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Independence From Parenthood Edition

    Life with Clara Jane has been good of late. She's been in good spirits and decent behavior all week. Aside from having to be removed, baby tantrum-style from the library on Tuesday, things are good. And, dare I say, I think she learned from that experience. Since then, every time the word "library" is mentioned, she informs me, "You don't run around in the library!" Darn tootin', Toots. Remember that. We've got enough library professionals in our circle of friends that we could both get lynched if you use the library as your personal jungle gym.

    The best part about carrying her, baby tantrum-style, out of the library? The dirty looks I got from every single borderline hoodlum kid who was there. Hey kids! Maybe if your mamas had carried you out of the library, baby tantrum-style, a few times, you wouldn't be 15 years old, sitting at the library, plotting your next round of crimes and misdemeanors!

    Okay, that was mean.

    She's headed to my hometown later today, coming home sometime next Wednesday. As is often the case when she goes on these visits to Mimi and Grandpa's, she's been so fabulous and delightful all week that I've dreaded handing her over, even though I'm so looking forward to a little parenting break. And in true form, Clara Jane has spent this morning helping me eradicate those feelings. She knows just when to pull out Devil Baby and make the hand-off easier.

    As much as we miss her when she's gone, B. and I act somewhat like borderline hoodlum kids when Clara Jane leaves town. We have enough non-child-friendly activities planned to get us through a full month. There will be a grown-up dinner in a restaurant that doesn't stock booster seats! And wings and trivia! No beer, though, damn brain pills. And movies! Maybe even a movie at the drive-in! And sleeping! Past 8 A.M.!

    We are so hardcore. Here's hoping for some Pantera on the shuffle to celebrate our kid-free hardcore weekend.

    1. Since I Lost My Baby - The Temptations

    Yeah, that's exactly the song I want to hear right now. This is how iPods get flung across the room in disgust.

    2. Polly - Nirvana
    3. 1.36 - Coldplay

    I'd like it noted that the only reason I have Coldplay on my iPod is because Kristina insists on putting them on her mix CDs. That's the only reason why I have The Smiths and MO on my iPod, too.

    4. Please Go Home - Rolling Stones
    5. Miracle Drug - U2

    Freedom has a scent/Like the top of a newborn baby's head Stop it, Bono. Just ... fucking stop it. Not today.

    6. Oh, Lonesome Me - Neil Young, who is cordially invited to go fuck off with Bono today.

    7. Running to Stand Still - U2

    Could be worse. Could be "Mothers of the Disappeared". Still, Bono? Go away if you're gonna act like this.

    8. Gravity Fails - Bottle Rockets
    9.Why Can't I Fall in Love - Ivan Neville
    10. My Favorite Memory - Merle Haggard

    Could be worse. Could be "Mama Tried".

    Posted by Robin at 09:49 AM | Comments (6)

    June 23, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - In Which Nobody Dies Edition

    I swear, no death-talk. No dead birds, no dead misunderstood aunts-in-law. No teenage car accidents.

    Hm. I really don't have much to say. I guess we can try my other favorite topic: things contributing to the crazy-making:

    I didn't sleep last night. Again. I'm so sick of this. Seems like every other night I can expect to be awake until at least 4:30 AM. No wonder I keep losing my shit every other day. Somehow, 2-3 hours of shuteye every other night doesn't quite cut it. Thankfully, B.'s off work early today, and I have intentions of passing out approximately three minutes after he walks in the door.

    I just got screamed at because Clara Jane wished to cleanse her hands, but the cloth I gave her was, in her mind, insufficient. Bad mommy! Listen to some toddler drumming while you think about the travisty you have committed.

    I'm sick sick sick sick of this. Last night I started re-reading one of my old therapy books, and shortly I'm going to call my MD and beg for drugs.

    Can I be even a little bit positive? Oh, let's try:

    Yesterday I found the U2 Show book for a mere $10 at Barnes & Noble. Last night, Clara Jane learned all about concerts, Bono, The Edge, and giant mirror-ball lemons:

    

    In a flagrant display of my genetic code, Clara Jane devoured that book with a fervor most kids reserve for, say, Curious George.

    I learned yesterday that a little $30 battery-operated sweeper that looks like a toy does a better job than my $400 vacuum cleaner. I'm not sure if this is irritating or good. All I know is I'm happy to have semi-clean floors for once.

    I'm a lunching lady these days. Angie and her girls are coming over today. Monday, I'm getting together with an old friend and her daughters. Tuesday, lunch with yet another old friend, sans her daughter. Who knew that so many people enjoy befriending the crazy and morose?

    Speaking of lunch, let's shuffle on to it, because serving my guests a bowl of soggy Cheerios while wearing my pajama shirt inside-out isn't exactly acceptable.

    1. Nancy Wilson - Wave
    2. Andrew Bird - Fake Palindromes
    3. Grey De Lisle - Wrapped in My Sweet Savior's Arms
    4. Fiona Apple - Get Him Back
    5. Bruce Springsteen - My Hometown
    6. Phoenix - If I Ever Feel Better
    7. Weezer - Death and Destruction (The iPod didn't get the no-death memo.)
    8. U2 - Always
    9. Pearl Jam - Do the Evolution
    10. Johnny Cash - Cisco Clifton's Filling Station

    Posted by Robin at 08:56 AM | Comments (4)

    June 16, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Get This Shitty Week Over Already Edition

    I don't know why I make lists of people who've done good things for me, or people I adore. As I make such lists, it's with the knowledge that I'm going to leave someone out. On Wednesday, I did just that. My good pal Stace is equipped with radar similar to Mary's. We can go weeks without talking, but if I send up even the slightest distress signal, she's the first to arrive. I think she even has a fireman's pole in her house, she's so fast. On Monday, despite working a full day then hauling across town for a night class, she tried to take me out for a drink and a break. Since I lacked the energy to tackle such big tasks as brushing my teeth, I wasn't able to join her.

    For my oversight in mentioning Stace, I want to publically proclaim that I will be taking her for a drink or two at the recently-opened Bar Louie at her earliest convenience. It'll be much more fun than watching me sob into my margarita.

    Things have been better. Clara Jane returned to daycare yesterday after a two-week hiatus. I'm not sure which one of us was happiest about this. She greeted her arrival at daycare in a manner that made me wonder if she'd heard rumors that they'd lined the walls with M&Ms in her absence. I've never seen her so gung-ho to be there, nor have I ever skipped out of the building, untethered, with such wild and happy abandon.

    With all the stress of the past two weeks, I decided that no work would be done yesterday. Normally Clara Jane's in daycare so I can work on my growing pile of book-related projects. Not yesterday. I headed to the mall. Who knew I would miss the mall so much? I'm not much of a shopper, but I do miss the ability to do something as wasteful as wandering around the mall. It's not so much the act of shopping as the ability to do so that I miss. I had two destinations: Torrid, where I decimated several clearance racks, and Teavana, where I decimated a lovely pear white tea on the rocks.

    Because I'm undisciplined, I then went to the library headquarters to do some research for one of the book projects. The only way to get me to work is for me to forbid it. But I also leisurely browsed the stacks for awhile. So leisurely, in fact, that I caught myself nodding off while standing up at one point.

    But today ... things are worse again. I was awake before 7 AM, and Clara Jane followed shortly. We're both exhausted, whiny, and have had just about enough of each other even though it's not even 9 AM. It's going to be a long day.

    This morning's email brought sad news. One of B.'s aunts died this week. Despite my issues with B.'s parents and brothers, I adore most of his aunts and uncles. Aunt A. was one of my favorites. She had a pretty wicked drinking problem that she resolved before I entered the family. By then the damage was done; she'd lost a portion of her liver and had severe bone damage from years of alcohol leeching her body's calcium. Her digestive system was so wrecked that for a time, she could only digest sweets. That Christmas I made homemade candy for everyone. When she opened her tin of homemade caramels, she tore into it right then and there, proclaiming them to be the best thing she'd eaten in ages.

    Everyone elses perception of A. was colored by the years when she was drunk. There was a lot of resentment and just-under-the-surface anger, which I had a hard time grasping. I didn't know her drunk. Sober, she was great. Smart, kind, generous, funny, and one of the first people in the family to make me feel welcome. I'm sure the A. I knew was much different than the one B.'s family knew, and I felt closer to her than any of B.'s other relatives. She was a retired English professor, which gave us much to discuss. Often, I would catch my mother-in-law glaring at us when we'd be engrossed in a literary discussion. I don't know if it was because she didn't like A., or because she was jealous that A. and I enjoyed talking to each other.

    We haven't visited B.'s family in Michigan since Thanksgiving, 2002. I can't even remember if we saw A. then. She lived three hours away from B.'s parents. The last time I clearly recall spending time with her was during a visit in August, 2001. We went to lunch with B.'s parents, A., Aunt B., and her husband. For the record, I adore Aunt B., too. B. has wonderful aunts.

    Anyway, we were sitting in a diner and A. and I had jumped right into the book talk. I was enrolled to take some English classes, including a black lit. class. She was so excited for me, and we got into a discussion about Langston Hughes. She asked me to send her my papers and keep her updated on what we were reading and writing in my classes. It was obvious that she missed being in the classroom.

    I intended to send her my papers, but, of course, didn't. At the end of the semester I thought I'd send her a big box with all my papers, so she wouldn't feel like I was looking for writing assistance. But I never got around to it.

    When I read the news today, my first thought was that I wish I'd sent her those papers and been better about keeping in touch. But then I thought, I'm glad I didn't. Had I fostered more of a relationship with her, I'd be hurting so much today. And that's just about the most selfish thought that's ever crossed my mind.

    The email from my mother-in-law set my teeth on edge. For one thing, she got the news yesterday afternoon. I think A. at least merited a phone call instead of an email sent the next day, almost an afterthought.

    She sent the email to both B. and me, but used an email address that B. doesn't check very often. She's been told repeatedly that he tends to not check that address. So, my second order of the day, after reading the sad email, was to call B. and break the news to him. Doing his mom's dirty work.

    But the worst of it, the real kicker, was the last paragraph: I wouldn't be too concerned about coming to the funeral if I were you. It would cost too much to travel that far and there really isn't anything you could do to help.

    Well. It's good to know we're just that useful and needed.

    "You know what she means," B. said when I complained. This is the way she operates - it could be that she's looking out for our best interests. Or it could be a not-so-thinly veiled insult. I think it's a little of both.

    B.'s family operates differently from mine. Someone in my family dies, and every single person who ever met the deceased converges from all corners to mourn and eat fried chicken. With B.'s family, we didn't even attend his grandparents' funerals, assured by his mom that there was nothing we could do to help.

    I'm not sure why this pisses me off as much as it does. I know it's probably just an artifact of her complete inability to communicate effectively.

    Aunt B. was the one who found A. Apparently, she had been dead several days. There's something unspeakably tragic about living an entire life and nobody noticing when it ends.

    It's almost as tragic as working to make positive changes in life, only to have those closest to you not recognize them because they're mired in who you used to be, instead of getting to know who you are now.

    We're not distraught and grief-stricken. Sad, yes. I'm going to miss my ally during the future Michigan visits. I'm going to miss talking about books while everyone else talks about fishing. I'm going to miss getting the gossip about Jim Harrison. I'm going to miss A.

    But I'm still going to shuffle.

    1. Like Spinning Plates - Radiohead
    2. My Favorite Mistake - Sheryl Crow
    3. Gracie - Ben Folds (I've been thinking about this song all week. With all the stress, Clara Jane's been requesting my presence on the couch. We've done a lot of potatoeing together with her resting on my arm. Ben wrote the song for his daughter, and there's a verse in the song about his little girl sleeping on his arm while watching TV. That images destroys me.)
    4. So Like a Rose - Garbage
    5. Getting Better - The Beatles
    6. Run for Your Life - Robert Randolph & the Family Band
    7. Corner Soul - The Clash
    8. Time - Tori Amos
    9. After the Goldrush - Neil Young
    10. Battle of Who Could Care Less - Ben Folds Five

    Wow. Good shuffle for a shitty week.

    Posted by Robin at 08:39 AM | Comments (6)

    June 09, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Summer Hater (on My Second Blogiversary )Edition

    (Edited to note: I knew this was coming up, but didn't know the exact date. I just clicked on my archives and lo and behold, I made my first post two years ago today.)

    Holy God, I hate summer.

    It's gotten hot, fast, in St. Louis. I'm already sick of it. A few days ago I caught myself thinking with great love and wistfullness for that first crisp day in September. When I realized it's a good three months away, I cried.

    I also hate talking about the weather. So let's talk about my sinuses. They hurt.

    Know what else I hate? Talking about sinuses and allergies. If you live in the Midwest and it's summer, it's a given that your sinuses hurt. You're no different than anyone else. Quit whining about it. That's what I'm going to do.

    Let's look at some good stuff, shall we?

    Daycare begins again next week. I thought it was the week after. There has been much rejoicing in this house. Yeah, it sounds horrible to say I can't wait for my kid to be away from me one day a week. Trust me, the feeling's mutual. Clara Jane's been talking about school all week, asking when she gets to go back.

    Not only am I glad to get a little break in 24/7 Toddlerama!, but I'm looking forward to getting busy with several pending writing projects that hold a great deal of promise. Cross those fingers for me, won't you?

    I'm a little disappointed, though. During her daycare break, we were able to attend storytime at the library closest to our house. It's scheduled during her regular daycare time, which is unfortuante. We go to storytime at two other library branches, which have a pretty homogenous clientele. White, middle-class, reserved. Nobody says much to anyone. Not my neighborhood library. There were Hispanics. Bosnians. Blacks. Whites. I overheard at least three different languages in the hour we were there. And friendly! I've never had a storytime where I had conversations with that many moms. The Bosnian mom and I hit it off immediately. She was a writing teacher at a university before she immigrated. Now she does freelance Bosnian and Serbian-to-English translation. Who knew there were so many well-read, diverse, interesting people in my own backyard? Hallalujah, it's not all drunken hillbillies around here!

    You know what else rocks? Lunch with a pal at a place where our kids are content to play while we talk. Even better? Add a dessert of chocolate-covered fresh raspberries. That only happens in June, People. Only in June.

    I got a really cool invitation yesterday. Really, really cool. I can't give details, but suffice it to say that it's cool.

    We're going swimming tomorrow. Clara Jane had her first foray into a public pool while we were in Frankenmuth. I didn't think she was that impressed with it, but she's been talking about it at length. Upon doing a little research, I learned that there's a new water park near us. I'm not a huge fan of swimming, but I have so many good pool-going memories from my childhood. I'm excited about starting some for my kid.

    Skirts. I've decided that I only wear skirts. It's too hot for jeans. I don't do shorts. Crop pants usually reach my ankles, as my legs are short. Capris make me look like I suffer from a possible bone growth defect. As the temperatures started rising, I noticed that I kept dressing Clara Jane in skirts and dresses because they're cooler. So why not do the same for myself? Today I bought my fourth skirt in a month. I'm officially hooked. They hide the C-section damage, too.

    Rummage sales. There are lots of rummage sales in the summer. Rummage sales I'll be attending tomorrow with one, maybe two friends. That's some good stuff right there.

    Speaking of rummaging...

    1. Wayfaring Stranger - Johnny Cash
    2. For No One - The Beatles (Hey Dixie!)
    3. You Don't Know Like I Know - Sam & Dave
    4. Fairytale in the Supermarket - Raincoats
    5. Turn a Square - The Shins
    6. Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve (Hello Zoe!)
    7. Pasties & a G-String (At the 2 o'Clock Club)- Tom Waits
    8. Redemption - Johnny Cash
    9. Moral Kiosk - REM
    10. Farewell Ride - Beck

    I love it when the shuffle 1) gives me two Johnny Cash songs, and 2) throws out songs that make me think of people I like.

    Posted by Robin at 03:01 PM | Comments (8)

    June 03, 2006

    Anarchy in the Motor City

    So, why did I go to Detroit? I've had to explain this many times of late, which is understandable. Even though B.'s from Michigan, his hometown is eight hours away from Detroit. It's just a smidge closer to Detroit than it is to St. Louis. We don't have relatives in Detroit, save for a cousin in Ann Arbor.

    If there's a book somewhere, where the almighty power of the universe has scrawled the outline of my life, there's a chapter titled "Make Her Go to Detroit As Many Times as Possible, but Not to Visit Relatives". This is proof positive that the universe has a grand sense of humor.

    (That's only a mild jab, Detroit readers. I actually like your city. It's got a lot of the same problems as my city, so I can empathize.)

    The first time I ever flew on a plane, I flew to Detroit when I was 17 years old. My mom wanted my first flight to be as a family. Since I was about to start my last year of high school, she realized that she'd better get on the stick if she was going to follow through with that plan. She scoured the air fare section of the newspaper and bought three tickets to the cheapest location - Detroit.

    Since the words "Fly By the Seat of Thy Pants" are inscribed on our family crest, we made it work. In Detroit, we rented a car, picked a direction - east - and started driving. Each day we picked another direction and drove, just to see what we could see. And what we saw that week included Ontario, the Thousand Islands, Finger Lakes, Lake Champlain, and Niagara Falls. You know it's a vacation run by serendipity when you walk out of a Vermont antiques shop on July 4th and look up to see the Ben & Jerry's world headquarters about 15 feet in front of you, although you swear it wasn't there when you walked into the shop.

    In that trip I saw very little of Detroit. Basically, I saw the airport, the car rental place, and whatever lies between the airport and the tunnel into Windsor, Ontario. I figured that would be the extent of my Detroit exposure.

    How wrong was I. You see, I made friends with a British gal named Sally through an online community I used to be a part of. Sally's sister Kirsti moved to Detroit in 2003. Thus, when Sally visits her sis, she's techinically in the neighborhood, and I go to Detroit to see her.

    I flew to Detroit when I was five months pregnant to see Sally when she was there for her sister's wedding. Seven months later, B., baby Clara Jane and I drove to D'town for Sally's baby shower.

    How apropriate that Clara Jane's first trip on a plane be to Detroit. It was also the destination of her first big roadtrip when she was three months old. Whoever wrote my book seems to have provided some of the groundwork for Clara Jane's, too.

    Sal and Oscar, her lovely little boy who's six months younger than Clara Jane, met us at the airport with a surprise-that-shouldn't-have-been-a-surprise: our mutual friend M. and her daughter R. flew in the night before from Dallas. M.'s well-known for her spur-of-the-moment traveling. Obviously, she's a graduate of the same School of Creative Vacation Planning that my mother attended.

    R.'s a delight. She's in her early teens and is already an accomplished violinist. She's got shaggy blonde hair and a penchant for wearing vintage neckties with t-shirts. She adores the darker side of Harry Potter. For good reason, M. is one of the most adoring mothers I've ever met.

    After I hugged M. and R. I blurted, "You brought your violin, right?" I didn't get to hear her play last October during their last impromptu visit, and I knew my fiddle-happy child would adore seeing the real thing. R. didn't disappoint. We returned to Kirsti's house and were treated to a concert that included everything from Vivaldi to Cotton-Eye Joe and everything in between.

    Clara Jane was too mesmerized to lose her mind.

    
    
    Ladies and gentlemen! It's the Incredible Unblinking Child!

    In Detroit, there's not a huge desire to get out and see all the local sites. Someday I'd like to add the Motown Historical Museum to the long list of music pilgrimages I've made, but I'm sure there will be other opportunities, seeing as the universe demands my presence in Detroit every few years. Regardless, there's something about Detroit that makes it easy to just hang out with Sal without feeling like we're missing out. Which is exactly what we did on Tuesday - hung out at Kirsti's and caught up while the kids played.

    This is what I love about my friendship with Sal. Having a friend who lives half a continent and and ocean away whittles friendship down to its essence. I have a person I love dearly, but I only get to see her every few years for a day or two at a time. I never know when - or if - I'll see her again. What's the best use of that precious time? The answer never involves big, elaborate plans with enough fun to make our skin melt off. It never involves doing backflips to please each other. It always involves simple time of just sitting and being together. Every visit with Sal reminds me that friendship and love aren't about what I can do to show people how much they mean to me. Being together is plenty. It's everything. And any friendship where either partner doesn't feel that way ain't a friendship, my friends.

    While I couldn't wait for this trip to see Sal, I also couldn't wait to travel with Clara Jane again. We had our weekend in Illinois last fall, but that wasn't exactly a solo trip. This was, what with the two of us flying and all. We also had our first mom-daughter night in a nice hotel. And dear readers, when we talk about our trip to Detroit, and what was fun, do you know what's near the top of my daughter's list?

    
    
    The room service picnic dinner in bed, in our jammies. She may have her father's blonde hair, blue eyes and face, but that room service picnic in bed love? That's all me, shining through.

    After our long, exciting day that didn't include a nap, I snuggled with Clara Jane in the armchair, trying to find a way to lull her to sleep without her usual routine. It didn't take much, just a few minutes of snuggling and she was out. I let her sleep on my chest long enough to ensure she was sleeping deep enough to not be disturbed by the transition to bed. I talked to her about our day, and how good she had been. Despite the upheaval of the day and her tiredness, she'd barely made a negative noise of any sort. I told her how proud I am of her, and how this is just the beginning. As she gets older, there will be more trips, with B. and with just the two of us.

    "We're going to do this when you're a big girl in school, and when you're a teenager and think you don't want to be around me. We'll do this when you're in college. We'll definitely do this when you're the one who's 33 years old and footing the bill." I smiled through tears as she snored.

    When she awoke the next morning, sleeping sideways in our king-size bed with her head rammed into my ribcage, she opened her eyes and asked, "We're gonna have a picnic in bed breakfast, right?" Of course! We're going to eat $2 cartons of Yoplait with a 15% service charge, and we're going to eat them in our pillow fort, because that's what hotels are for, my child.

    Wednesday, we were Frankenmuth-bound with two goals: feasting on an awesome family-style chicken dinner, and getting some water park time, all with two cranky, overtired toddlers in tow.

    
    
    Within minutes of checking into our suite, the kids devised a game Clara Jane later told me was called "Elevator". It entailed The Crankmeisters shoving each other into the closet and slamming the door. There were more than a few occasions during this game when Sal and I discussed the merits of just leaving them in there.

    By dinnertime, Clara Jane was over the edge and intent on taking the rest of us with her. Only the strolling accordian player could soothe her. The love of polka music? That's 100% from her father's side of the family.

    Despite the lovely fried chicken, buttered noodles, corn, homemade bread with cherry-rhubarb jam, cranberry relish, bean salad, chicken soup, and stuffing placed before her, do you know what she ate for dinner?

    The lemon from my iced tea.

    To further complicate matters, just as she started showing interest in her dinner, a leiderhosen-clad waiter placed a mamouth tray filled with ice cream, cookies and cakes within Clara Jane's reach, thus ending any possible forays into nutritious dining.

    There's a waiter in Frankenmuth who's still trying to untangle his leiderhosen from their noose-like grip around his neck.

    But then we returned to the room and this transpired:

    
    
    And the cuteness was so unbearable that I no longer wanted to lock my child in a closet and deny her delicious lemons.

    
    
    Hundreds of miles away at this exact same moment, B. is overwhelmed by the urge to purchase a shotgun, although he has no idea why.

    Both kids passed out by 7:30 PM. Kirsti shooed Sally and me from the room with orders to forget the kids and enjoy some time together. I invited my friend Mr. Raspberry Lemonade with Vodka along. We sat in the hotel's lobby for hours, doing that friend thing I mentioned earlier. It made up all the toddler-rendered chaos of the day.

    Thursday, we headed home with a stop at a petting farm. Clara Jane and I had an evening flight to catch, and Kirsti had some local family obligations, but it all worked out.

    Our flight was delayed, Clara Jane was agitated, and I was exhausted. But during the flight home, the beautiful little redhaired girl in front of us made friends with my kid. For the entire flight, they talked, shared their snacks, shared their toys, and compared pedicures. I thought about how quickly kids pick up together, how fast Clara Jane and Oscar latched onto each other. There's no pretense with kids, and they don't hide their emotions. From the little girl on the plane massaging Clara Jane's toes, to Clara Jane cornering Oscar in the closet and covering him with kisses, if they feel it, they express it.

    When do we lose that? When do we become so scared of showing our true selves that we hide or smother instead of just going, "Hey you. I think you rock. Let's pretend this closet into an elevator and make a day of it," while planting a big ol' kiss.

    About ten years ago I was getting to know my friend Sandy. We worked in different departments at the same university, and often wound up working on the same projects. One day we decided that we needed to hang out away from work. We went out for dinner and drinks, acting in the reserved way new friends do. In the middle of dinner she told me that she loved my lipstick and it looked great on me. "Was that weird to say? That's weird. I shouldn't have said that." We both laughed, because my God. Two decades earlier, both of us probably would have smooched a new friend whose lipstick we loved, had five-year-olds worn lipstick. But as innocence goes, so does the comfort in knowing that our affections will be returned, even with friends. We wind up shuttered, and then we wind up very, very lonely.

    Since that night, Sandy and I have been great friends. We live in different towns and don't talk very often, but when we do it's always filled with that openness and love, which erases any expectations and obligations. It's just pure.

    Spending time with Sal feels the same way.

    The trip wasn't perfect. There were rental car snafus, money mistakes, cranky kids, a lack of sleep, an overabundance of heat and humidity, that damn dessert tray, and one perfect little bathroom sans door. But it was perfect. It was showing up in Detroit, picking a direction, and going. It was Sally, Oscar, Kirsti, M. and R. It's a girl playing Vivaldi, a pair of toddlers swapping slobbery binkies and sippies, dribbling sushi rice on the floor of the van, a box of mac & cheese and leftover chicken for lunch, an unplanned $100 ride in a Town Car, waking every two hours three nights in a row, two slippery kids splashing each other in the bathtub,little girls comparing toenails and eating pretzels on a plane. And it was perfect.

    (In case you missed it yesterday, there are pictures aplenty.

    Posted by Robin at 08:49 PM | Comments (3)

    June 02, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Rocked Detroit City Edition

    Did I mention I was going to Detroit?

    I went to Detroit.

    Great fun ensued, and I've been working all day on getting it all blogged. Well, working between spells of narcolepsy, as I'm t-i-r-e-d. Turns out, traveling with a two-year-old is hard. It's also fun, rewarding, and ultimately a good way of renewing one's faith in one's ability to parent.

    Go say hi to Sally and Kirsti. You might have to wake them first, as they're probably as exhausted as I am from my visit.

    While I get my bearings, you can take a gander at the photos. In the meantime I'm shuffling back to the couch...

    1. Cracking Up - Jesus & Mary Chain
    2. Little Honey - Kelly Willis
    3. Ball & Biscuit - White Stripes
    4. The Stars are Projectors - Modest Mouse
    5. Milk - Kings of Leon
    6. Friday I'm in Love - The Cure
    7. I'm Not the One - The Cars
    8. This Land is Your Land - Woody Guthrie
    9. All Shook Up - Elvis
    10. Witchy Woman - Eagles

    Posted by Robin at 05:42 PM | Comments (0)

    May 26, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Panic! In the Shuffle Edition

    Long-time readers of this blog might recall that I've had quite a history with panic attack and anxiety disorders. If you'd like to familiarize yourself with that period of my life, feel free to read any of the archives from June, 2004 - April, 2005. Although I'm not sure why anyone would want to do that. Unless you like reading about people losing their minds over things like, oh, I don't know, cats and shit.

    It's been well over a year since I had a panic attack. I still get anxious, but I've accepted that I'm just anxious by nature. As long as my anxiety isn't dictating my life, I can deal with it. Add to my long list of quirks and idiosyncracies.

    Of course, from the start I've been concerned that Clara Jane might follow in my panicky path. There's been research that kids born to anxious, panicky mothers pick up the stress hormones in utero, giving them a predisposition to their own panic and anxiety problems. Thanks, Media! That news makes it so much easier for a panicked pregnant lady to relax! So far, Clara Jane's been pretty easy-going and down-right fearless.

    Until today.

    Allow me to digress momentarily. I'm no longer fond of my new haircut. Seems that once it de-Mary-Tyler-Moore'd itself, it decided to go-completely-psycho. The back and sides are large enough to be used as a nest for a renegade family of homeless possums. And the bangs ... don't even talk to me about the bangs. Too short and the razor-cut ends - I'm not exaggerating - flip straight up. I look like I have little arrows on my forehead, pointing the way to the entrance to Chez Possumhovel.

    I'm not a fan of using tools and potions to make my hair do things it's not going to do naturally. It's too much work and, well, you know what they say about trying to fool Mother Nature. Besides, I have weird hair that doesn't respond to most tools and potions. It's really, really thick and naturally wavy, but baby-fine. On the rare occasion that I can find barrettes that are strong enough to handle the sheer quantity of my hair, chances are they're going to slide right out due to the complete lack of texture.

    The whole reason why I picked this haircut is because it should have worked with my natural hair. It worked with the waves and my lack of texture. But then my "stylist" had to get all happy with the razor. Not happy. Not happy at all.

    Since I'm a proponent of finding hairstyles that agree with my hair's natural state, I don't own a curling or flat iron. If my hair was meant to be curly or striaght, it would be curly or straight without being forced into that state by me. Besides, I graduated from high school in 1991, which means I spent most mornings of my adolescence with a curling iron in hand, fashioning my hair into an elaborate Aqua-Net-induced pineapple that reached far, far into the clouds. It might have housed possums; I don't know, for my hair was so far from my scalp they could have lived three stories up from my head and I would have been completely unaware. Point is, I have a rarely-used blow dryer in my hair styling arsenal, and nothing else. Well, a brush. I do have a brush.

    Did I ever tell you about the summer when I stopped brushing my hair and managed to grow one single dreadlock? That's a story for another time.

    So anyway ... This morning Clara Jane was coloring at the dining room table while I stood before the bathroom mirror, blow dryer and brush in hand, working to flatten my arrow-y bangs. (Why do they call them "bangs" anyway? Because that's the sound it makes when the stylist hits the floor after you hit her for what she's done to your hair?)I dampened my bangs, brushed them flat, and blew them dry.

    As soon as I turned off the dryer, I heard the screaming. Panicked, horrible, screaming. Clara Jane bellowing, "Mama! Come back! Come back! Come back!"

    Fuck my hair. Just ... fuck it. Flat bangs aren't worth traumatizing my kid, who doesn't like noisy motors. The vacuum cleaner, lawn mowers, weed eaters - she's afraid of them all. We thought she had gotten over the blow dryer fear, but apparently not.

    For the next hour, Clara Jane wouldn't let go of me. As in, if I put her on the floor, she clung to my shirt and cried that horrible, "Come back, Mama! Come back!"

    This is what I used to do when I panicked. I couldn't stand being left alone. When I was four, when I was 32, it was the same. Please don't leave me to be afraid by myself. Please don't go away because, if I take my eyes off of you, there's a chance something awful witll happen and I'll never see you again.

    We dealt with it. Plowed through it, even though it was horrible. I know I could have cancelled our entire day just to comfort her, letting her grip my shirt and cry while I rubbed her back. But what would that do? That would teach her that she doesn't have to deal with her fear because I'll do it for her. She'll never learn to deal with her fear and next thing you know she'll be 32 years old, begging someone to not leave her alone because she's scared. She'll be me at the worst point in my life.

    On the other hand, she's two.

    Ultimately, I think it worked. While she cried and screamed, I didn't go out of her sight and kept telling her that it was okay to be afraid. We would deal with it. The worst part had to be when I attempted to walk into the bathroom, home of the blow dryer. She grabbed the tail of my shirt, screaming, and tried to pull me out.

    Let me just say that my kid? She may still be shorter than a yardstick, but she's one strong little beastie.

    Eventually she calmed down and we seem to be relatively back to normal. Well, a slightly shaken version of normal. To see the part of myself that I hate the most in my child makes me wonder what kind of chance she stands if she's learned this trait from me, or if I imprinted it on her DNA, or passed it to her like poison through the umbilical cord. I learned to deal with it at age 32. How do I adapt those lessons to a 2-year-old?

    This is parenting: learning from the worst parts of your life and passing on that knowledge so that your kids don't get to repeat your trials.

    If this shuffle scares you, I promise I'll hold your hand and we'll listen to it together. And really, don't worry about the possums. They're not worth the panic.

    1. Section 12 (Hold Me Now) - Polyphonic Spree
    2. Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk - Rufus Wainwright
    3. All the Way to Reno - REM
    4. I Didn't Like You Anyway - The Donnas
    5. Knock Me Down - Red Hot Chili Peppers
    6. Less Than You Think - Wilco (a 15-minute panic attack set to feedback - how appropriate)
    7. At Least That's What You Said - Wilco (live in St. Louis, 3-19-06)
    8. His Eyes are a Blue Million Miles - Joan Osbourne
    9. The Idea of Growing Old - The Features
    10. Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen (which just happens to be my #1 all-time favorite song)

    Posted by Robin at 03:33 PM | Comments (6)

    May 19, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Content for Once in My Life Edition

    Ever have one of those days, when, after months of malaise, melancholy and upheaval, you wake up and suddenly, everything's right?

    Yeah, me too.

    I don't know what's up. Maybe it's a shift in the planets. Maybe it was the three-day baby break I had earlier this week. Maybe I'm finally adjusted to the changes I've made in my life over the past few months. Whatever it is, I like it.

    My pal Zoe tagged me for a meme yesterday. Do you read Zoe? You should. She doesn't post often, but it's always interesting when she does. She's from Manchester. That's in England. Well, there's also one in New Hampshire, and one down the road from me in the western St. Louis 'burbs. But Zoe's from the one in England. Because she's from Manchester, I always imagine that she sounds like Daphne from "Fraiser". It's either that or Morrissey, and I know there's no way Zoe's that whiny.

    So, a meme with a shuffle at the end.

    I AM: so content right now. Like I said, everything seems to be right in my universe today. It all started yesterday when Clara Jane, who's far too busy to snuggle, curled up on my chest and took a nap. Everything in my universe got knocked right with that little snooze.

    I WANT: to remain this mellow and content for as long as possible.

    I WISH: I had my book proposal finished. I'm ready to get my life as a published author on the road.

    I HATE: nothing. It takes too much energy.

    I MISS: Big Daddy B. I blame last night's "Will and Grace" finale.

    I FEAR: snakes. Keep that in mind for a story I'm going to tell in a minute.

    I HEAR: a rerun of "Gilmore Girls".

    I WONDER: if I'll sell my book.

    I REGRET: absolutely nothing.

    I AM NOT: crazy about rust like I was when I was little. It's true. I loved anything rusted-out, especially Wendy's dad's truck. I thought it was beautiful. While I no longer have my rust affinity, it seems I've passed it along to my child. During her recent stay in my hometown, Clara Jane fell head over heels for this:
    
    
    It's a big rusty cactus located in front of a Mexican restaurant. She first spotted it during dinner on Sunday. Monday, she woke up sobbing from her nap and the only thing that brought it under control? The promise of visiting the cactus. My parents drove this child across town just so she could fondle her old rusty cactus. These are the same people who used to make me walk or ride my bike the mile to the library once I hit the ripe old age of 11.

    Since she's returned home, I've been repeatedly told, "I had fun at the cactus. Mimi and Grandpa took me to the cactus. The cactus is beautiful. I like the cactus." I'm trying to not think that this cactus obsession is an indication that her teenage rebellion might involve roaming the desert southwest in a peyote-fueled daze. Don't drink the cactus water, Clara Jane!

    I DANCE: with Clara Jane when her cactus isn't available.

    I SING: a lot, and badly. Today it was repeated renditions of Bruce Springsteen's version of "Johny Henry". Polly drove that steel like a man, Lawd, Lawd.

    I CRY: all the time. I'm a big baby. This week I cried:
    

    • when Elliott got the boot on "American Idol", even though I voted for Taylor.
      
    • when Jack and Karen sang "Unforgettable" on the "Will & Grace" finale.
      
    • because I've been far too emotionally invested in TV lately.
      
    • while looking at Father's Day books at the bookstore.
      
    • when Clara Jane fell asleep on me. It was that profound, I'm telling ya.

    I AM NOT ALWAYS: as anti-capitalist as I wish I could be. I do pretty well. I don't buy crap I don't need, and I never, ever feel like a product is going to make my life better. But I just can't shake my Target addiction. Case in point: remember a few minutes ago when I mentioned my issues with snakes? Well, here's how strong the lure of the red bullseye is. While walking across the parking lot at Target today I spotted a van that had to be something from a Simpsons episodes. No way did I really see this. A white van advertising a business called - I'm not making this up - "Snakes Alive!". Apparently they do snake-related educational programs. Their logo? "Have snakes, will travel!" And I'm thinking, "In order to get into Target, I have to walk past what could very well be a large delivery van full of snakes, which is worse than the worst snake-related nightmare I've ever had. How badly do I want to go to Target?"

    Pretty badly, it turns out.

    I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: boobies. Lots and lots of knitted boobies. I also make food, hopping bunnies, obscene gestures and Play-Doh sculptures.

    I WRITE: much and well.

    I CONFUSE: left and right, just like Zoe.

    I NEED: nada. I'm good right now. But if someone offered to bring me a glass of sweet tea, I wouldn't send them away.

    I SHOULD: do some cleaning. My desk is trashed.

    I START: trouble.

    I FINISH: what I started, mostly.

    I TAG: no one, but you're all welcome to steal.

    I shuffle: weekly...

    1. Skyway - The Replacements
    2. Smells Like Teen Spirit - Tori Amos
    3. Pretty Good Looking for a Girl - White Stripes
    4. Factory - The Vines
    5. Stratford-on-Guy - Liz Phair
    6. Jesus, Etc. - Wilco
    7. Straight, No Chaser - Thelonious Monk
    8. Skin - Madonna
    9. 72 (This Highway's Mean) - Drive-By Truckers
    10. I Can't Wait - White Stripes

    You know what? Swap the Madonna song for something by U2, and this would be, without question, the most perfect-for-me shuffle in the history of shuffles. Did I mention that my life is charmed today? Because it is.

    Posted by Robin at 03:46 PM | Comments (5)

    May 13, 2006

    The Damn-Near Sunday Shuffle: The Small-Town Apocolypse Edition

    Lemme tell ya, my hometown is just completely ate up with that small-town spirit. It's almost enough to make the baby John Cougar Mellencamp cry.

    We're in my hometown for the Mother's Day holiday and because I'm apparently not very bright, I ventured to the local Wal-Mart Supercenter this morning. Why Wal-Mart? Because as best as I can tell, it's the only business left in town. You would think, since I always - always start my period during these hometown visits that I would remember to pack provisions, which brings us back to that bit about me not being very bright.

    Going to Wal-Mart in a town where Wal-Mart is the center of the universe? Sucks. Going there on a Saturday? Really sucks. Going there on the Saturday prior to Mother's Day? Oh, can you hear the sucking black hole that's about to devour us all?

    I never actually made it into Wal-Mart. That's right - this city girl was done in by the parking lot antics. Here are just a few of the factors that led to me saying, "Screw it. I'm going to ship myself to the woods and freely bleed in solitary peace.":

    • I nearly ran over an entire family of Old Order Mennonites. While they eschew most modern conveniences, the ones in central Missouri certainly love the Wally-World. However, this particular family didn't seem too familiar with motor vehicles, seeing as they walked within a foot of the front of mine, while it was moving.
    • A woman slammed on her brakes in front of me, jumped out of her van, ran to the cart corral and grabbed a walking cane from a cart. I'm thinking it probably wasn't hers.
    • I saw my dumb non-handicapped cousin and her non-handicapped children parking their car in a handicapped spot, which makes me want to render them handicapped.
    • And lastly ... the moment I nearly plowed over an octagenarian USMC veteran, walking down the middle of the parking lot, too busy yapping on his Bluetooth to notice the presence of the large truck with the still-warm bonnets of the Mennonite ladies still stuck in the grill, I knew it was time for me to head for the woods.

    But that's not the really upsetting hometown news. Today, my heart was broken when I learned that Wheel Inn is going to be done in by a highway expansion. Sweet Jesus, that can't be right. There is no order in the universe if Wheel Inn doesn't exist. Granted, I haven't eaten there in years, but it's not like they're hurting for customers. This is all in the name of "progress". Frankly, doing away with the one spot in the world where a person can order a a hamburger slathered in peanut butter without being accused of mental incompentance ... well, that ain't progress. At least, it's not progress in a world I wish to live in.

    Getting rid of Wheel-Inn and Guberburgers? Shit. Next thing you know, Wally won't be cutting hair, kids won't be cruising the Strip on Friday nights, and someone will pass a law making child labor illegal at the Missouri State Fair. My hometown is changing, and I can't say I'm too happy. Not that the mayor is taking my calls on any of this, since I moved away a few months after I reached legal voting age.

    So another foodie/archetectual/Americana icon bites the dust. What next? Who's manning the grills at the places that will be tomorrow's icons? Anyone? Or are we looking at a future with wide, wide highway lanes and an Applebee's every 3/4 of a mile on every major road?

    The Guberburger is dead. Long live the Guberburger.

    But the shuffle lives...

    1. Disco Blackout - Controller Controller
    2. Thank You - Tori Amos
    3. Changes - David Bowie
    4. You're Something Else - Jimmy Reed
    5. Half as Much - Hank Williams
    6. Fast Cars - U2
    7. Buffalo Soldier - Bob Marley
    8. Can't Hardly Wait - The Replacements
    9. Love & Affection - Bob Marley
    10. Jonas & Ezekial - Indigo Girls

    I'm pretty sure Bob Marley's here twice because I spent the evening with my cousin, a white Rastafarian (or maybe he just likes weed) who has Marley's image covering his back in tattoo form. When his mother first saw it, after she recovered from her coronary, she asked, "Why in the hell do you have Jerry Garcia on your back?"

    Maybe Bob just wants a Guberburger. Jerry probably does too, for that matter.

    
    

    Posted by Robin at 11:14 PM | Comments (7)

    May 05, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Cinco de Disease Edition

    As I mentioned on St. Pat's, I'm not a big fan of celebrating holidays that belong to specific ethnic or religious groups, because in many of these cases, "celebrating" means "flimsy excuse to get drunk". I don't need an excuse. It also means "flimsy excuse for corporate America to profit on days both politically important and/or sacred". Honestly, how many of us were aware of Cinco de Mayo (translation: the fifth day of May), say, 10 years ago? When did Corona and Taco Bell (Official Food to be Vomitted in a Parking Lot After Flimsily-Excused Drunk) start advertising Cinco de Mayo tie-ins?

    If you, deep in your heart, feel the need to commemorate the 144th anniversary of 4000 Mexican soldiers defeating French and Mexican traitor armies in Puebla after 11 years of fighting, go for it. If you want to celebrate the existance of Corona and tequila, why not call it what it really is: Cinco de Cuervo (translation: five shots of tequila in an hour). Or, if you're a poor college student, Cinco de Guero (translation: boy, you're gonna puke your guts out for the next five days if you drink that shit.).

    That said, Clara Jane and I had plans of enjoying a burrito and chicken taco for lunch with our pal Mary today, but it wasn't meant to be, as we are rocking Cinco de Enfermedad (translation: fifth disease). It has turned Clara Jane into el cubo del mocho con manchas rojas de cara (translation: snot bucket with red face splotches). I, too, have fallen victim to the snot and red face splotches, which make me want exfoliate with la lijadora del cinturón con el número cinco papel de lija (translation: belt sander with number five sandpaper). This shit itches profusely (Translation: I can't say it itches like a motherfucker anymore because Clara Jane repeats it.).

    Luckily, Beatrice the iPod's immune:

    1. It's a Free World Baby - REM
    2. Mansion on the Hill - Bruce Springsteen
    3. Buffalo Soldier - Bob Marley
    4. Seven Nation Army - White Stripes
    5. (Still) Terminally Ambivilant Over You - The Real Tuesday Weld
    6. 9 to Cinco - Dolly Parton
    7. Pompeii - Sleater-Kinney
    8. Hotel - Tori Amos
    9. Ways to be Wicked - Lone Justice
    10. Get Free - The Vines

    Posted by Robin at 12:43 PM | Comments (5)

    April 28, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Too Stupid to Find Porn on the Internet Edition

    A couple of housekeeping things before we shuffle:

    1. I'm pulling my Flickr badge from my blog. It seems like most people who click on it are coming to my site in search of things sleazy and naked. Now, I do get a little jolt of happy when I think of how sorely disappointed they must be, as I am neither sleazy nor naked. That little jolt isn't quite as big as the annoyance factor, though. I know it's not doing any harm; it just annoys the hell out of me that some people are so stupid that they can't find porn on the internet and insist on looking for it on my blog and, particularly, the Flickr badge where I post pictures of my kid.

    I mean, that's a special kind of stupid. We're talking my dog Murphy-level stupid. With all the free mammary and babymaking photos on the 'net, I get an insane number of people looking for them on my blog. Some of these folks aren't completely impaired, and they quickly move on once they realize they've made a wrong turn. But a surprising number of them peruse my blog for such delights as "matriarch in search of pleasant carnal relations" (paraphrased) and "motherly chestial protrusions" (also paraphrased). When they don't find it, they click on the link to my photos, thus making a creeped-out, irritated stew within me, and I'm all about eliminating all things irritaing from my life these days.

    I'm not deleting my Flickr account, and if you want to see my photos for legitimate, non-sleazy reasons, more power to you. I'll delete the badge from my page in a few days. In the meantime, feel free to bookmark it, add me as a contact, email me, whichever method suits your fancy. I'll also continue to post pictures on my blog.

    Yeah, I know I can't stop people from looking for the nasty. I just don't like being reminded that such a high degree of stupid exists.

    2. For similar reasons, I'm pulling my email address link. Until recently, I just left a non-linked email address, and that was fine and lovely. But then I got stupid and linked, and the spam, it's fryin' and I'm tired of it. Not that I don't welcome email from all readers, and I'll return to keeping a non-linked address on the sidebar.
    

    I'm betting you won't find any kinfolk partaking in vulvular-testicular collision in this shuffle, but you never know...

    1. You Don't Have to Go - Jimmy Reed
    2. Hold Fast to the Right - June Carter Cash
    3. Whip It - Devo
    4. Beneath the Southern Cross - Patti Smith
    5. Jet Pilot - Son Volt
    6. Untouchable - Garbage
    7. See a Little Light - Bob Mould
    8. You Got It - Roy Orbison
    9. Quand Vous Mourez des nos Amours - Rufus Wainwright (translation: I Must Overtake Your Primary Caregiver with Many Hours of Nocturnal Fun)
    10. Satin in a Coffin - Modest Mouse

    Posted by Robin at 04:45 PM | Comments (9)

    April 21, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Doing Something Different Edition

    I was going to do my plain ol' shuffle and find a lame-ass way to tie it into my lunch at Steak n' Shake with about a dozen priests. However, there's no possible way to make even the lamest of tie-in for that situation, as the story tells itself, like Snakes on a Plane: we had lunch at Steak n' Shake and there were about a dozen priests there, too. I've never been in a room with that much celebacy since the Missouri State High School Speech & Debate Finals in 1991. I threw in that reference just for my non-blogging, debate-coaching pal Allison.

    Anyway, in lieu of lame tie-ins, I'm nabbing a shuffle-related meme from Mike.

    Put your music player on shuffle.
    Press forward for each question.
    Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn't make sense.

    1. How am I feeling today? "Polly" Nirvana (Accurate enough, seeing as my back does hurt. I'm probably not as bored as him, though.)

    2. Will I get far in life? "Mama Look a Boo Boo" Harry Belafonte (Apparently, I'm digressing.)

    3. How do my friends see me? "Love's in Need of Love Today" Stevie Wonder (Oh, that's a good one.)

    4. Where will I get married? "Take the Skinheads Bowling" Camper van Beethoven (Yep, sounds like my wedding reception.)

    5. What is my best friend? "Miranda That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore..." Mars Volta (Miranda and I have been having sleepovers, painting each others toenails, and making prank calls to boys since we were 12. And our periods are synched.)

    6. What is the story of my life? "Via Chicago" Wilco (Well, now I'm spooked. That's one dark, dark story. Funny thing is, I was just writing about how this song affects me a few hours ago.)

    7. What was high school like? "Don't Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder) - Beach Boys (See previous comment re: speech and debate to see how absurd of an answer this is.)

    8. How can I get ahead in life? "Charlie Don't Surf" - The Clash (Good advice, as I'm sure it would be hard to get ahead with massive head injuries I would surely sustain upon a surf board.)

    9. What is the best thing about me? "Dirty Harry" Gorillaz (My filth, it is the best thing about me.)

    10. What is today going to be like? "16, Maybe Less" _ Iron & Wine with Calexico

    11. What is in store for this weekend? "Hands Off She's Mine" English Beat (Yep, I'm gonna go have me a fight over some woman.)

    12. What song describes my parents? (Excuse me. I need to go catch my breath.) "A Boy Named Sue" by Johnny Cash (Commentary unneccesary, as the humor here is far too obvious.)

    13. To describe my grandparents? "It's on the Rocks" The Donnas (Yep, perfect assessment of a pair of teetotaling octagenarian Pentecostals.)

    14. How is my life going? "A Few Old Memories" Dolly Parton

    15. What song will they play at my funeral? "Forget the Flowers" Wilco (If someone makes sure this is played at my funeral, I promise to not haunt them.)

    16. How does the world see me? "Knives Out" Radiohead (That's probably fairly appropriate in many cases.)

    17. Will I have a happy life? "Stand" REM (Hm. Not crazy about the song, but not a bad answer to the question, I suppose.)

    18. What do my friends really think of me? "We Both Know" Richie Havens (Eh. I'm sure I could twist that into something, but I won't.)

    19. Do people secretly lust after me? "I Predict a Riot" Kaiser Chiefs (Well!)

    20. How can I make myself happy? "Little Ghost" White Stripes (Talking to apparitions really does give me a lot of joy.)

    21. What should I do with my life? "At Least That's What You Said" Wilco (Again with the appropriate Wilco answers. Geez. This song pretty much sums up what I've always done with my life: being indecisive, hard to read, and completely falling apart in the end. Great. Now I'm upset.)

    22. Will I ever have children? "Original Sin" INXS (I take that as a firm yes.)

    23. What is some good advice for me? "Party Action" The Donnas (That's the finest advice I've heard in years, especially after #21.)

    24. How will I be remembered? "Have Mercy" Loretta Lynn (Yep, that's right.)

    25. What is my signature dancing song? "Is She Weird" Pixies (I think that should be the answer to the next question.)

    26. What is my current theme song? "He Never Mentioned Love" Kirsty MacColl (Eh. Not so much. Maybe a decade ago.)

    27. What does everyone else think my current theme song is? "Vox" Sarah McLachlan (I'm pretty sure not.)

    Yeah. I should have stuck with the steakin' shakin' priests.

    Posted by Robin at 08:06 PM | Comments (2)

    April 14, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Making Me Think at 80 MPH Edition

    Today's shuffle was performed while doing 80 MPH down I-70. It's also pretty damn creepy, considering it's the Good Friday shuffle. I'm thinking that pondering the history behind Good Friday while navigating holiday traffic and keeping track of shuffled tunes probably isn't advised by the highway patrol in my state. Nonetheless...

    1. Blood of the Lamb - Wilco and Billy Bragg (Which is just creepy, being the first song my iPod played today, of all days. I thought about throwing her out the window.)

    2. Shooting Dirty Pool - The Replacements (which comes close to describing a typical Easter for me.)

    3. Until the End of the World - U2 (I've always thoughbt this sounded like a Last Supper allusion: We ate the food, we drank the wine/Everybody having a good time/Except you/You were talking about the end of the world.. Also interesting, seeing as the Episcopalians are using U2 in sermons.)

    4. Slo Tom's - The Bottle Rockets (Alright! More Easter drinkin' music!)

    5. Make War - Bright Eyes (Conor busts out his Bible: But I am not gonna bless you with such compliments,/some degrading psalm of praise,/like the kind that converted you to me so long ago./Because the truth is that gossip's/as good as gospel in this town./You can save face but you won't ever save your soul./And that's a fact.)

    6. Leaving New York - REM
    7. Miss You - Rolling Stones
    8. Freedom - George Michael
    9. Love in War - Outkast
    10. Doo-Wop (That Thing)-Lauryn Hill (With another reference from that book that's so important to so many people this weekend: Talking out your neck sayin' you're a Christian/A Muslim sleeping with the gin/Now that was the sin that did Jezebel in/Who you gon' tell when the reprocussions spin/Showing off your ass 'cause you're thinking it's a trend.)

    I was a little concerned during the first half of the shuffle, what with the alternating theme of Christian messages and party songs, but then it all mellowed out and I was able to return my focus to the road, and the intense whining coming from the person strapped in the backseat. But then the eleventh song came on - Concrete Blonde's version of "Tomorrow Wendy", with this verse:

    I told the priest - don’t count on Any second coming. God got his ass kicked the first time he Came down here slumming He had the balls to come, the gall to die And then forgive us - No, I don’t wonder why I wonder what he thought It would get us - hey hey, good try

    At which point I set fire to my iPod, found the nearest Pentecostal church (for it is the church of my people), barricaded myself in the basement, hoped real hard that said basement was lightening-proof, then started scouring the Yellow Pages for a church that's a little less loose n' free than the Pentecostals, preferrably one that employs the use of serpents. Because dude, that shuffle freaked my shit out a smidge.

    Seriously, as I've said before, I don't subscribe to any one set of religious beliefs. I believe there's probably a lot of truth in all of them. I believe in renewal and redemption. I believe God comes to people in the way that's going to be easiest for them to grasp. Dogma and rules don't have much appeal to me. If that's what works for you, I'm cool with that. Either way, the shuffle made me think about what today was, and what it means to so many people. It gave me a shiver, much like the sight of cloak-draped crosses in all the churchyards.

    It also made me realize that the handful of Christians who claim that our society shuts out their beliefs, might not be paying close enough attention. This shuffle - filled with devil's music, no less - is brimming with Biblical references. Using such references as starting points for theological discussions, and how we're more alike than different, might be more productive than bemoaning slights that aren't really there.

    Anyway ...

    We're in my hometown. Stopped in my old town of Columbia for lunch at my all-time favorite pizza joint in the world, Shakespeares, located across the street from the beautiful campus of the University of Missouri. It was Clara Jane's first visit to Shakes, minus the one time she was there in utero, and she was impressed. She devoured a pile of greasy pepperoni, downed a pitcher of Miller High Life, then slept through her geology final.

    I've made the acquaintence of the new baby horse, Cash. It was, bar none, one of the most horrific experiences of my life. Any warm-fuzzy feelings I was having towards God vanished upon seeing this three-week-old beast gnawing with his teeth on his father's penis. Cash was chewing it like it was a piece of Doublemint and he was trying to mask the stench of cheap bourbon before the cop got to the car. How can a good and just god allow such a thing to happen? This is why I live in the city, People. You don't see that shit in urban areas. Not unless you pay for it, anyway. Seeing mammalia noshing genitalia puts too much strain on my faith, and frankly, I just don't need that.

    I would like to note that, although to any passersby, it probably looked like I was standing there while this trasnpired, doubled-over laughing, screaming, "Oh my God! You have the video camera! Turn it on! Turn it on!!!" at my mother. That wasn't me. And if it was me, that's most certainly not what I was doing. You misheard.

    Posted by Robin at 11:03 PM | Comments (7)

    April 07, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Friend to Old Ladies edition

    First, congratulations and huge thanks to Roni, who won the boobie scarf auction with her ever-so-generous $55 bid! With the three scarves that have been auctioned, $165 have been raised. I'd love to see a grand total of $300 by the time the scarves are finished.

    Most of my week has been spent seething over the effects wrought by one really horrible old woman. When I wrote that post, I melodramatically said that I thought she destroyed something in Clara Jane. Three days after the fact, I'm still saying that, but without a hint of hysterionics. My kid has changed since that day. My independent little daredevil has been dampered.

    She won't let me out of her sight, for starters. Like Wednesday night, B. was giving her a bath and I briefly poked my head in to ask him a question. When I left, she screamed like I'd fallen into the abyss.

    Thursday, dropping her off at daycare. Nightfuckingmare. She clung to my leg while she screamed. Dangled from her jacket as it hung on the coat rack and begged to go home. Flung herself on the floor and wailed as if she had fallen directly into a bear trap when I stepped away from her to get a handful of tissues to wipe both of our tears. She threw a fit of such magnitude that the daycare director had to intervene.

    I never talk much about Clara Jane's sleep habits, because I'm sure it would make 93% of the parents to read my blog homicidal with jealous rage. Getting Clara Jane to sleep is usually just a matter of throwing her in bed, giving her a bink, turning on her lullaby CD and saying, "'Night Toots! See ya in the morning!" Last night, not so. For one thing, she insisted that I put her to bed, which B. usually does. I did our usual routine, but when I started toward the door, she commenced the banshee wail that has become a part of her repetoire since Tuesday morning. She was fine, unless I tried to leave. But what could I do? I left, and felt like I was abandoning her for the second time of the day. B. took my place and rocked her for half an hour, while I sat in the dining room and hyperventilated.

    Naptime today? Almost a repeat.

    I'm hoping that we can get her back on track this weekend, and it makes me sick to think that one unhinged old woman really might have undone a piece of Clara Jane. All I can say is, that woman better hope she never, ever runs into me again. There will be a confrontation, mark my word.

    Some good, though: Deep down, I believe that when you lose something or someone, God or the universe or whatever's running the show will soon send something to counterbalance the loss. In this case, the universe is flooding me with sweet old ladies.

    My mom told me a story during our regular morning phone call. It seems my dad has made two new friends. This isn't unusual. My gregarious nature comes directly from him. Earlier this week, he was at his local hardware store when he found a little old woman who was looking to buy a shovel. They started talking - I'd like to say that I don't know how or why, but I do know, because I do the same thing. He probably said, "Hey there. You gonna dig a hole?" She told him that she intended to do some gardening, but had discovered her old shovel was too dull to dig. No problem, my dad said. Here's my address. Bring it out sometime and I'll sharpen the blade.

    The next day, my mom looked out the window to find two old ladies in their driveway, looking rather lost. She went outside and sure enough, it was dad's new hardware store pal, looking to get her shovel sharpened. Her friend drove her. At least, that's what she told my mom. I think she really brought the friend to make it more difficult for my dad to hit her with the shovel, sharpen it, and bury her in the back pasture.

    Long story short, Dad sharpened a shovel. Old ladies will soon be bringing their grandkids so Dad can take them on a carriage ride. No one will be buried.

    Not two hours later, Clara Jane and I were at Target. I was gazing at an endcap display of Pepperidge Farms cookies when I heard, "Excuse me? Miss? Excuse me?" I looked down the nearest aisle and saw an old woman in a wheelchair, holding a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread in her lap. "I need a second loaf of this bread, but I can't reach. Would you mind getting it for me?"

    Of course I wouldn't mind, but I made her promise that she wouldn't yell at my kid while I was standing on my tiptoes, digging for bread. "Did you notice the cinnamon raisin bread on the top shelf is cheaper? In my experience, it's better than the one you have. Would you rather I get two loaves of that for you," I asked. Of course! She scooted over and I jumped - have I mentioned that I'm barely 5'3" tall and I was wearing a very flat pair of driving mocs? - and launched myself toward the bread, certain that I'd need to borrow her chair once I came crashing down into the bread display, breaking at least three limbs in the process.

    But I didn't crash. I grabbed the bread, steadied myself, and started toward my cart and Clara Jane when I heard, "Excuse me, Miss? Can you help me, too? I need these cookies and I can't reach." At the opposite end of the aisle, blocked by the wheelchair, there was yet another eldery lady, stooped and tiny, pointing to a box of Nilla Wafers on the top shelf.

    "Sure. Hold on. I'll come around from the next aisle," I said, since I didn't want my new wheelchair-confined friend to have to wrangle out of our way, especially considering that I am a giant among the elderly. Literally, I tower. I grabbed my cart and ran - that's running and leaping, all in the same day! - down the next aisle, careened around the corner, and found a security guard, easily a foot taller than me, retrieving the cookies for the second old lady.

    Afterwards, I invited them to my house for corndogs and tequila shooters. We're making plans to form a posse that puts cranky-ass old bitches in their place. I think I'll see if Dad will let me borrow his new old friends, and I hope they know how to wield a shovel.

    In the meantime, we're shuffling with Beatrice the iPod. And we're also shuffling around the house in our slippers, eating Nilla Wafers and raisin toast before turning in promptly at 8:20 PM:

    1. Love and War (11/11/46) - Rilo Kiley
    2. Misty - INXS
    3. Take Control - Weezer
    4. Lay Lady Lay - Bob Dylan
    5. Ingrid Bergman - Billy Bragg & Wilco
    6. Wish You Were Here - Ryan Adams
    7. Particle Man - They Might Be Giants
    8. Hang on to Yourself - David Bowie
    9. Liquor, Beer & Wine - Rev. Horton Heat
    10. Rip This Joint - Rolling Stones

    Posted by Robin at 07:34 PM | Comments (7)

    March 31, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Neighbor War Edition

    It's the end of March, which means it's election time in my neck of the woods. As many of you know, St. Louis is made up of a lot of tiny municipalities, each with their own governments. This way, we can experience the delights of urban living, what with the pollution, traffic, overcrowding, noise, and crime, without giving up the cronyism and backbiting of small-town politics.

    My municipality has a population just under 5000. It's less than a square mile. And yet, every other spring it turns into a hotbed of political insanity as the councilpeople come up for election. That's nothing compared to the years when the mayor's up for election.

    While campaign signs have been popping up for a few weeks, today marked the beginning of the real campaigning. Now, I've lived in several towns in my time, and this is the only one where the primary means of campaigning involves sending letters - often anonymously - to all the constituants.

    Personally, I love this method of campaigning. In most towns, you have to actually get to know people in order to be privy to the gossip and dirty laundry. In my town, I can find that dirty laundry camped out in my very own mailbox. Praise Jesus for the first amendment!

    There were two letters today. The first, from a candidate for the council seat. He's lived here since 1969 and raised his children here. He probably shouldn't have mentioned that all of his kids bailed out of this township, but I'm not his campaign manager so what do I care? His entire family belongs to the Assemblies of God church. He mentions several times that he's "a leader (not a follower)". He's his "own man and make[s] decisions the way I see them (not to please someone else.)" He realizes he's "obligated to the people who elect me (my constituents)." He likes parenthesis as much as I like quotation marks.

    The second letter's from a concerned resident who's not actually running for office. He just wants to share some "truths" with us:

    1. Candidate #1 of the previous letter lies. A lot. And he's been voted out of office twice, because we all know that he lies.

    2. Another candidate - he neglects to tell us what office this one's running for - has also been repeatedly voted out of office, apparently because he harbors an unhealthy obsession with the state of local trash cans. Specifically, he likes to fine people for not having a lid on their trash cans, even if that lid was stolen by local thugs and someone's so busy writing letters that he doesn't have time to buy a new lid. *hrmph*

    I do have to give the letter-writer some credit; he included his name and phone number. That's rather gutsy. Or stupid. You be the judge, based on this little neighborhood nugget:

    When I blogged about '80s Lady a few days ago, I didn't think it was necessary to mention that her husband is our councilman. He's our councilman, and he's got a bone to pick with Dunebuggy McDrinksalot. I don't know what caused this riff, as I haven't gotten the anonymous letter explaining the situation. All I know is, the councilman somehow pulled some strings, and now Duney Mac's house, which sits on a corner, is surrounded by "No Parking" signs. Four of 'em. Not around any of the neighboring houses, which routinely cause more parking problems. Nope. You can park on any street in our town, but you can't park on the street in front of Duney Mac's house, not even if you're Duney Mac himself.

    I'm really not sure who to root for in this feud. On the one hand, I hate blatant abuses of political power. On the other, I love anything that fucks with Duney. I guess the best I can hope for is a big ol' duel in the middle of the street. When it happens, I'll be blasting this shuffle from the windows while I watch:

    1. Don't Lose Your Head - INXS
    2. Whatcha Gonna Do? - Cowboy Mouth
    3. I'm Gone - Dolly Parton
    4. Mirror in the Bathroom - English Beat
    5. One Chance - Modest Mouse
    6. The Lengths - Black Keys
    7. Ruby Tuesday - Rolling Stones
    8. Tennessee Waltz - Patty Page
    9. Hound Dog - Elvis
    10. In the Garage - Weezer (in honor of Duney Mac, of course)

    Posted by Robin at 07:42 PM | Comments (4)

    March 17, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Erin Go Blah Edition

    Yeah, it's St. Pat's. I'm not Irish, so I'm not doing anything special. It irks the hell out of me when people hijack holidays that are important to cultures and use them as an excuse to drink and be assholes. Me, I need no excuse for either activity.

    The in-law countdown has begun. Not familiar with my in-laws? You can get some background here. Their last visit is documented here. Considering that I'm still enjoying my misanthropic phase, there's a good chance I just might go off this weekend. Probably not. I might slip and tell B. "Boy, your mama sure did a number on you!" in front of them, but they'll probably pretend they didn't hear it, chosing to exact their revenge in a more passive-aggressive manner. Maybe they'll take more braless, birdsnest-hair, first-thing-in-the-morning photos of me to share with all the family back in Michigan.

    I've spent the day cooking in preparation for their visit. I stuffed some pork, which makes me feel better. How can you not feel good when you've been stuffing pork all afternoon? The stuffing's green, since it's loaded with spinach, so let's just call that my homage to the holiday and leave it at that.

    Have I mentioned that we're awaiting a blessed arrival? My parents' horses, Lexi and Bubba, are due to become parents any day now. My parents were hoping Lexi would foal today so they could name the baby Pattycake. I was hoping for an Ides of March colt named Julian, but that didn't happen, obviously.

    My stupid cousin insists that if the horse is born on Wednesday, they must name it after her daughter, since that's her birthday. But I don't think Ditzy Little Obnoxious Eighth Grader has the right ring to it. By that token, if it's born tomorrow, we must name it Two Dolla in honor of Wendy's birthday. And if it's born on Sunday, we'll name it Sunday! Or March 20th if it's born on Monday!

    All this naming fuss over a horse whose daddy's name is Bubba. We've obviously been drinking too much green beer.

    Beatrice is ready for her first shuffle. I promise I'll do a shot* for every Irish artist:

    1. When I Look at the World - U2
    2. Sent for You Yesterday and Here YOu Come Today - Count Basie & His Orchestra
    3.Death Letter - Cassandra Wilson
    4. Teenage Dope Fiend - Flickerstick
    5. Corner Soul - the Clash
    6. Tightly - Neko Case
    7. Mint Car - The Cure
    8. You Could Have it So Much Better - Franz Ferdinand
    9. Take the Fifth - Spoon
    10. You Trip Me Up - The Jesus and Mary Chain

    *That'll be one lone shot consumed during the Wilco show Sunday night with Allison. I'm thinking I should also drink in honor of all the Scottish bands - all two of 'em - in the shuffle. And in honor of baby horses, and in-laws, and misanthropes everywhere!

    Posted by Robin at 03:41 PM | Comments (3)

    March 10, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Welcome Home Beatrice Edition

    
    
    This is Beatrice. She and her fat-ass 60GB hard drive have come to live with me, and I can't stop licking her.

    Turns out, my early mid-life crisis can be cured with material goods. All it took was a black 60-gig iPod and a shirt that's far too sexy for the likes of me that I purchased anyway.
    Beatrice would like to shuffle for you, but she's busy getting hammered, what with the synching and all. She'll be all ready to shuffle next week, unless I've worn her out by then. Or accidentally flung her across my truck, like I did about ten seconds after I took that photo.

    In the meantime, my computer, Ye Olde Pantyblaster 3000, will shuffle off into the sunset.

    1. God - Tori Amos
    2. Satellite - The Replacements
    3. Silence - Delirium & Sarah McLachlan
    4. I'm Only Sleeping - The Beatles
    5. America - West Side Story Original Cast Recording
    6. Longview - Green Day
    7. The Nurse - White Stripes
    8. Radio Friendly Unit Shifter - Nirvana
    9. Kern River - Merle Haggard
    10. The End of Medicine - The New Pornographers

    I don't really understand the need to name electronics, and I generally don't participate in such, but then again I just wrote an entire blog entry referring to my iPod as a human being. At the Apple store, I referred to it as my second-born. Obviously, I have gone stupid, and I'm okay with that, as I now won't be able to hear it when people call me stupid.

    We've already fallen into a new pattern in our household, thanks to Beatrice. Now, all requests that I'm not fond of are answered as such:

    B: Will you watch (insert name of movie I'm not interested in here) with me?
    Me: Sure. You don't mind if I wear my earbuds while we watch, do you?

    B: Will you (insert name of household task I don't wish to perform here)?
    Me: Sure. You don't mind if I wear my earbuds while I scrub, do you?

    B: Will you (insert name of sexual act I don't really want to do)?
    Me: Sure. You don't mind if I wear my earbuds while I ....

    You get the picture.

    Posted by Robin at 09:16 PM | Comments (8)

    February 24, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Exceptional Edition

    Before I begin, be forewarned: I didn't fall asleep untiil 5:30 a.m. today. It's been over a week and a half since I've had anything resembling a normal night's sleep. If you happen to encounter me on the street, I'm the fat woman with the empty eyes, shuffling her feet and muttering obscenities under her breath.

    I pretty much wrote this entry in my head while I was trying to sleep. If I had known then that I wouldn't fall asleep until daylight, I would have just posted then. Instead, I stayed in bed, one-half of my brain writing, the other half banging on their shared wall, screaming for its neighbor to cut out that damn racket, already. No wonder my head hurts.

    Anyway...

    I don't know kids at all. I know my kid. Of course, I think everything she does is exceptional, but I'm wearing those special parental glasses that filter out all objectivity. But we've been seeing some things lately that make us say, "Jesus! That can't be normal for a 2-year-old, can it?" I've been meaning to talk to Clara Jane's teacher, Miss K., for awhile now. Miss K. is a music person, and she's taught toddlers for over 20 years.

    You know I don't spend a lot of time bragging about my child. I really don't want to be that mom who prattles on and on about how perfect her kid is. I don't want to have pissing contests with other parents that go, "Oh yeah? Well my kid can ___________________." It's just bad for everyone involved, especially the kids. That being said, I wanted to talk to Miss K. about Clara Jane's obsession with music, just to get an idea of if the following behaviors are normal for a 2-year-old:

    • Fixating on a five and a half-minute-long U2 song with a rather complex musical arrangement. Being able to sing the chorus of the song without prompting. Sitting at rapt attention during the song, moving only to sing and drum along. Listening to the song over and over and over for nearly 40 minutes, shrieking, "Sing "oh you look so beautiful tonight'!" until we hit the repeat button.
    • Telling me, during the intro to Ben Folds' version of "Video Killed the Radio Star": "I like this piano, Mama," followed by "I like this guitar" and "I like these drums" as the other instruments join in.
    • Telling me that anything with a strong, simple beat is the White Stripes.
    • Turning everything into an instrument. Everything. A pair of chopsticks isn't just a good substitute for drumsticks, but also makes a fine horn and cello. When she saws one stick across the other she tells us she's making music.
    • On the rare occasion that I don't have music playing, she points to my computer and says, "I want to hear music." She got a bit miffed one day last week when I had the audacity to listen to NPR in the truck, and demanded I cut that shit out, pronto.
    • Chattering about the "beautiful singing" when American Idol is on and watching the performers with slack-jawed enrapturement.
    • With kids music, she can hear a song once or twice and she'll have the lyrics and melody memorized.
    • She'll sit at the table and pound the palms of her hands on the surface, annoucing that she's drumming. Then she'll switch to tapping it with her fingertips, telling us that she's playing piano.
    The list goes on and on. The fact is, this kid loves music. Just about everything she wants to do involves music in one way or another, either listening to it or finding ways to make her own.

    I wasn't 100% sure that this wasn't just normal toddler behavior. I asked Miss K. if she's noticed Clara Jane having a particular aptitude for music. "She loves playing with the toy pianos and singing songs," she said. "She's just very, very smart. I don't have to tell you how advanced she is in everything."

    "Actually, you do have to tell me. I know she's smart, but I don't know what constitues 'advanced'," I said.

    I have a real problem with comparing kids to each other. With having two parents with perfectionism issues, I want to do whatever I can to keep Clara Jane from going through that. Saying a kid is "advanced" seems dangerously close to putting her on a continuum. Even if she's towards the top of that continuum, I don't want her to have to deal with that.

    I went on to tell Miss K. the items on the above list, watching as her jaw dropped lower and lower with each item. "That's amazing," she kept saying, over and over. "That's so far beyond where most kids her age are. Get her in music lessons. Now. What she's doing is exceptional."

    There's that word. Exceptional.

    I know I shouldn't be surprised. I've got the test scores around here that prove I was a gifted child, which is another loaded term to me. B.'s so damn smart that NASA saw fit to let him write software for the space program. And not accounting software, either. It's always been assumed that we would have a smart, talented child.

    That hasn't been important to me, though. In fact, I think there's a part of me that hoped for a child who might be just average, someone I could love without placing the burdens of overexpectation on either of us. With being average, I could let her know that I love her for who she is, not because of the exceptional things she can do.

    Music has always been one of the most important things in my life, even though I have no talent or skills in that area. I can't play any instruments. I certainly can't sing. I can't read music. I always wanted some musical talent or skill, but things didn't go that way. By the time I started piano lessons, I was 14 years old - impatient, short attention spanned, and so used to doing things that came easily that I had no drive to actually work at something I didn't have a natural aptitude for. It felt too much like failure. I quit after six months.

    So, now I have a child who's showing signs of having an early aptitude for music. I've got to be honest, that's what I dreamed of when I thought of my future child. Someone who might share my love of music, but who might take it much further than I ever did. However, I'm terrified of walking the line this situation presents. I want to give her every opportunity to explore whatever she wants to explore, music or otherwise. But I don't want to be that parent who forces her own failed dreams onto her child. It's really easy to confuse what she wants with what I want, to let my own projected desires bury hers.

    I wonder if her love of music is a combination of B.'s math-encrusted DNA and my insistance on standing five feet away from a speaker stack at a White Stripes show when I was six weeks pregnant. Whether it's environmental or fundamental, it feels good to know that we are responsible for this, that this is the person we have created. But my lord, what a huge responsibility it is.

    So yesterday afternoon, after this conversation, I was a mess. Thrilled, proud, happy, and relieved to learn that it's not my projection, that Clara Jane really does have something. But also fearful of so much, mostly that I'll do something to screw this up for her. Ultimately, I want her to love music - or whatever it is she's supposed to love - and I want her to take it as far as she wants.

    When we got home, I called my mom to give her the usual post-daycare update, along with the news that, duh, Clara Jane digs music more than the average 2-year-old.

    Later in the conversation, my mom said, "Oh, I've got to read this to you. Do you know what animal you are in the Chinese zodiac?"

    "I'm a rat."

    "This is from some magazine Flo gave me. It's your Chinese horoscope for this year." She paused while she searched for my sign, then laughed. "It says you're exceptionally good with words and that in 2006, you'll make money from your written words. Or from selling your stuff on the internet or in a garage sale."

    And I laughed, because some made-up hororscope in a grocery-line women's magazine managed to put my greatest hope for myself into words. I was an exceptional, gifted kid. I can't remember a time when I wasn't writing stories; I was writing before I could physically write. I had all the opportunities offered to me: a weekly gifted class in elementary school that fostered my creativity, some teachers along the way who vocally encouraged me and made it clear to me that I had a talent and a gift, parents who tolerated my creative bend even though I'm sure they worried about me being such a weirdo at times, bosses who've paid me to write, a husband who brings home the bacon so I can spend it on daycare and a day of coffeehouse chow one day a week while I wrestle with the book I've always dreamed of writing. Some of those opportunites, I squandered for various reasons, or flat-out didn't see as being opportunities. Others, I've taken and done my best with them.

    And I know that's what Clara Jane will do. No one has a map or an instruction manual that gives explicit directions on how to best utilize the gifts we're given. We just do it, hopefully with the support of people who recognize and respect those gifts. I've had that, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure my child has that, too.

    I'm also going to make sure she has a shuffle, because Lord knows that child needs her tunes:

    1. Tanga, Rumba-Afro-Cuban - The Mambo All-Stars (She'll love this - bongos and horns.)
    2. Caress Me Baby - Jimmy Reed (I hope she loves this, because Jimmy Reed makes some great dancing-around-the-house music.)
    3. Not What You Want - Sleater-Kinney (She adores "I Wanna be Your Joey Ramone", loves to scream along with the "yeah yeah" chorus.)
    4. We've Been Had - Uncle Tupelo (Another favorite, as she already recognizes the genius of Jeff Tweedy, all the more reason for us to move to Belleville.
    5. Never Say Never - Romeo Void (Let's just skip this. I don't need her singing "I might like you better if we slept together" at her Methodist daycare.)
    6. Atomic - Blondie (Drums! Behold the glorious drums!)
    7. Something I Can Never Have - Nine Inch Nails (Um, yeah, let's hold off on this one, too.)
    8. Keep Your Hands Off My Baby - Little Eva (Hand claps! Loads of hand claps! My adoration of early-'60s girl groups is actively being passed along to the next generation.)
    9. Until the End of the World - U2 (She likes it, but it ain't "City of Blinding Light".)
    10. Monkey Man - Rolling Stones (Monkeys and music? We're in Clara Jane's happy place right here.)

    Posted by Robin at 01:39 PM | Comments (10)

    February 17, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Dogs Love Bacon Edition

    For blatantly obvious reasons I dont blog about B.'s job. I know from which side my bread is buttered and we'd all like to keep the butter coming, thank you very much. I've got to make an exception today, though. Since I won't be bad-mouthing his employer, I'm sure this one transgression won't be a problem.

    B. often gets the opportunity to participate in product tests and surveys in exchange for extra little goodies at work - coupons to the company store, free DVD rentals, etc. Sometimes these tests involve sniffing used kitty litter. Now, if someone asked me to sniff dirty kitty litter for a prize, it would have to be a prize large enough to merit a declaration on my income tax statement. But lucky for us, B. is hard of smelling, so he doesn't mind the kitty litter tests so much. I wonder what this does to their test results, though. If you find yourself with extra-stinky kitty litter, you can probably blame my husband.

    The latest series of product tests involve dog treats. B.'s company has sent him home with several dog treat prototypes and he's to feed them to our dogs, the Idiot Twins. There are several issues:

    First, I really can't think of anything my dogs do that merit reward. "Chloe, you did a fine job of sleeping 22 hours today and destroying our couch with your foul aroma. Here. Have a cookie." Or perhaps, "Murphy, you are so vigilent in your staring that you went twenty whole minutes without blinking! Snausages* for you!"

    Second, when B. does, say, the kitty litter sniff tests, it's pretty easy to get the results. He fills out a form and describes the odor of the kitty litter**. I can already tell you that Chloe and Murphy are going to have some real trouble when it comes time to give their feedback. For starters, neither of them can ever find their #2 pencils, probably because Murphy ate them.

    "I'm supposed to describe their reactions to the treats," B. explained to me, trying unsuccessfully to not roll his eyes.

    "But B., they eat everything. I once watched Murphy eat an entire artificial Christmas tree. Her reaction to that wasn't much different than her reaction to those handfuls of meatloaf she gets from Clara Jane."

    "Maybe the question on the form will pertain to the amount of finger the dog bites while trying to get to the treat. With the original formula of this treat, Chloe would chomp down to my third knuckle when I gave it to her. But with the new version, she only gets to the middle knuckle. Obviously, the new product is inferior."

    That's the kind of knowledge one gets with a masters degree in engineering.

    We're going to be out of town this weekend, which means man's best codependent friend will be dogsitting. And by "dogsitting" I mean she'll be caring for my dogs. Sometimes "dogsitting" is a euphemism, which is good to know when acquiring a dogsitter, lest you come home and find something so mortifying that you join your dogs in hiding under the dining room table for three hours. But I digress. During this weekend's dogsitting, she'll have to give the dogs their treats and have to note if they refuse to eat the treats. Or if it affects Murphy's staring. Or Chloe's stinking. Or if they go blind, develop convulsions, break out in boils or start barking in tongues.

    Dogs love shuffles***.

    1. Foolish Love - Rufus Wainwright
    2. The Deepest Blues are Back - Foo Fighters
    3. Hungry Eyes - Merle Haggard
    4. Sing Sing Sing (With a Swing) - Benny Goodman & His Orchestra
    5. Time - Tori Amos
    6. The Darker Days of Him & Me - PJ Harvey
    7. Rip This Joint - Rolling Stones
    8. Sunshinin' - The Vines
    9. Drop Down Mama - North Mississippi All-Stars
    10. Fat Bottom Girls**** - Queen

    *Not the actual product being tested. In fact, this product is made by a competing company and I probably just got B. fired by providing free advertising for the competition.

    **I'm not supposed to call it "kitty litter". That phrase is verboten. B.'s definitely losing his job right now because of me.

    ***For any new readers, every Friday I set my iTunes software to shuffle and post the first ten songs that come up. You're welcome to shuffle, too.

    ****If I ever come into a great deal of money, I'm going to hire a valet to walk behind me with a boom box blasting this song at all times.

    Posted by Robin at 09:07 AM | Comments (9)

    February 10, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Stop Touching Me Edition

    I got about halfway through composing a rather long-winded blog entry yesterday. It was about dogs. Specifically, my hilarious history of owning really, really stupid dogs. You would have loved it, I'm sure, had Clara Jane not hit the shiny red OFF button.

    You see, I don't have my own office, per se. I did, once upon a time. One of the reasons why we bought this particular house was because of the lovely little room in the back of the house, filled with windows overlooking the backyard. And space! Oh, the glorious space! I had two - two! desks back there! And enough space that I could have a little dance party whenever I wanted.

    The summer after Clara Jane was born, when she reached the point where she was no longer content to spend most of her waking hours in a swing or sling, I had to give up my office. It was too isolated from the house. For about a year and a half, my "office" has been in the "dining room", which is really just a small space between the kitchen and living room, open floor plan and all. On the plus side, I can be at my desk with Clara Jane in my line of sight, without putting much of a cramp in her motivation. On the negative side, my desk is in the middle of the house for everyone to abuse at will. Nevermind the intricacies of consolodating an entire office into the space of one desk. Precarious doesn't begin to describe it. Oh, the mountains I constructed from paper, notes, cooking magazines, yarn, half-finished knitting projects, rough drafts of chapters, CDs, bills, telephones, cameras, purses, beverage vessels and one very snazzy monkey clock! Mountains that have been driving me out of my mind for approximately 18 months. Now that Clara Jane thinks everything in the world belongs to her, some changes are in order, because the mountains, they are crumbling down.

    Last weekend, B. and I gutted the rather large closet/pantry off the dining room to make room for all my crap. No more mountains! I'm happy. So very happy, indeed. But there's one thing I've been longing for. For years I have wanted a privacy screen. Before, I just wanted one to use as a room divider, open floor plan and all. But with my desk in the dining room, I've decided that a screen is essential to my survival. You see, I cohabitate with people who believe that, if they can see me it means that I am just waiting anxiously for them to ask me a question/fix something for them/listen to their incessant chit-chat/read them a damn book/etc. No amount of education on this topic seems to work with either of the people who share my living space. And by "share" I mean "plow over me at every given opportunity, especially when I'm eyeball-deep in editing a chapter for my book".

    I need a damn screen.

    Now, I love Isaac Mizrahi. I usually don't care one whit about designer anything, but I la-la-la-love anything Mr. Mizrahi does. Hell, if he groped me, I'd just laugh it off. Not like it would be the first (or second or even fifth) time I've been groped by a queen. Although I might ask him for a pair of shoes, if he really wanted to apologize.

    When he introduced his line of home goods at Target, I knew it was kismet because what was all over his stuff? Poppies! Big, bright orange poppies. I do so love poppies. And what was the centerpiece of this line? Why, a big privacy screen enblazened with a giant, luscious poppy!

    Today I was at Target and lo and behold, they have clearanced the lovely screen to $25. It's huge, so I pressed the button for customer assistance. And while I waited, I got kicked to a fucking pulp. Attacked, right there in the furniture department of my friendly neighborhood Target. Who would do such a thing, stomping the ever-living fuck out of a gal who wants nothing more than a 75% off poppy screen that will grant her the only wish she's had for herself in nearly two years - privacy?

    
    
    Oh. It's you. Hello there, Devil Baby. I ... I thought you'd returned to the cornfield with the other minions.

    No such luck. Devil Baby returned today, and she returned with all the fires of Hell blazing in her fury. I really think it's that sweater. It's cute and all, but she was wearing it again today, and her attitude matched that look on her face.

    Clara Jane, would it fucking kill you to stop kicking me in the gut? Will your legs atrophy and drop from the seat of the shopping cart like lightening-struck branches on a tree if you ceased kicking for more than 30 seconds? Because if you don't stop kicking me directly in the incision the doctor made when she hastily removed you from my body - you know, where I gave you motherfucking life - I'm going to introduce you to another man named Isaac. I'm sure you'll have a grand ol' time, frolicking in the corn fields and worshipping Satan.

    Yes, I cut my shopping trip short because I was sick of being kicked by my child, and sick of getting nasty looks from other shoppers every time I'd hold her legs and say, "Clara Jane, please stop kicking me." And yes, I've become one of those moms who does nothing but repeated things like, "Clara Jane, please stop kicking me," while her child continues kicking! Harder! Because she loves the sound of my voice!

    Before we went to Target, we were at lunch. As Clara Jane repeatedly shoved handfuls of fried rice up her nose, and I repeatedly said, "Clara Jane, please stop shoving fried rice up your nose"*, it hit me. Oh my God, I am Jeffrey's mother. Remember Jeffrey's mother from Bill Cosby: Himself? She's a young mother who boards a plane with her young son, Jeffrey. Little Jeffrey repeatedly tells everyone on the plane, "I'm four years old! I'm four years old! I ... I ... I'm four years old!" As Mr. Cosby put it, "Little Jeffrey. I remember his name, not because he said, "I'm four years old," but because Jeffrey's mother said his name all 2500 miles of the trip."

    And that's where we are. "Clara Jane, please stop kicking me. Clara Jane, please stop shoving fried rice up your nose. Clara Jane, please stop touching the bleach. Clara Jane let me wipe your nose and get rid of that rice. Clara Jane don't make me tell you again to quit kicking me. Clara Jane Clara Jane Clara Jane just .... stop it! Clara Jane, let's shuffle."

    1. What Sarah Said - Death Cab for Cutie
    2. Out of Time - Rolling Stones
    3. Set You Free - Black Keys
    4. Going to Town - Afghan Whigs
    5. Unchained - Johnny Cash
    6. Down by the Water - PJ Harvey
    7. My Hometown - Bruce Springsteen
    8. Magnolia Mountain - Ryan Adams
    9. In Your Honor - Foo Fighters
    10. Dinner at Eight - Rufus Wainwright

    Posted by Robin at 02:21 PM | Comments (9)

    February 03, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Kid-Free Edition

    It's a melancholy day in these parts, as Clara Jane's going to visit her grandparents for a few days. On one hand, B. and I are looking forward to having some grown-up time (translation: hot, wild, all-night sleeping action). On the other hand, I'm going to miss this little kid with the bad haircut who's been running around the house singing "Oh! You! Look! So! Beautiful! Tonight!" from U2's "City of Blinding Light" all week.

    Three years ago this week, I went off the pill. My ob/gyn wanted to start me on Clomid because my chances of getting pregnant were so slim. I said no, that I wanted to try without drugs for a year. It would be wasteful to jump straight to the drugs, and I didn't want to put my body through that unless I knew I couldn't get pregnant otherwise. And while I didn't say it outloud, I wasn't 100% sure I really wanted to get pregnant.

    I'm glad I just said no to drugs. Otherwise, this blog would be about life with octuplets.

    Two years ago this week I was roughly the size of a bottlenose whale, spending my few waking hours each day issuing terse eviction notices to my overgrown tenant.

    A year ago this week, all my friends were so miserable and bitter that I spent a week using Morrissey and The Smiths song names for all my blog titles on their behalf.

    But this year, the first week of February will be remembered as the time when this kid - she's a kid now, not a baby - started sprinting through the house, singing U2 lyrics at top volume, and using chopsticks as drumsticks and horns. It'll be remembered as the time when she figured out that she's big enough to crawl on the couch with a blanket and cover us up for snuggling. It's the time when I realized, after months of chanting that she's such a big girl, that she really is.

    I need a few days to digest that information. And shuffle.

    1. Price of Gas - Bloc Party
    2. Tangled Up in Blue - Bob Dylan
    3. I've Been Loving You Too Long - Otis Redding
    4. Sometimes You Can't Make it on Your Own - U2 (A song about a grown son sending a message to his departed father about how his father's the reason for the music in his life ... commence sobbing here.)
    5. Speedbumps - Luna
    6. The World at Large - Modest Mouse
    7. Let 'er Rip - Dixie Chicks
    8. While the City Sleeps - Irma Thomas
    9. This Mountain - Kasey Chambers
    10. Entertain - Sleater-Kinney

    Posted by Robin at 08:32 AM | Comments (3)

    January 27, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Irritated Beyond All Rationality Edition

    First we had the malaise. Then we had the boredom. Now we have moved on to the all-emcompassing irritability that threatens to destroy the House of Poppy and all who dwell within it. Here, a list of shit that's under my skin:

    
    
    • Stupid fucking operator error, navigating away from what I was working on, thus forcing me to compose this post again. I miss my ability to do things right. I really do.
      
    • Turns out, crack addicts are unreliable sources. Thanks Oprah. Never could have figured it out without you.
      
    • Clara Jane, if you bring me one more book to read, then walk away before I manged to read the first page to you, there's gonna be a book-burning.
      
    • Clayton, Missouri, if I ever dare enter your yuppified, overpriced, parking-retarded city again, I demand to have a bank executive put out his stogie on my face in the name of aversion therapy, because nothing else seems to be penetrating my thick skull on this matter.
      
    • Lane Bryant, please put disclaimers on your coupons that read as such: Good towards the purchase of items so hideous they make blind people weep. Not valid on your basic beloved tees. Not that it matters because we're not making the cute "Vintage Green" one in your size, anyway. Sucka.
      

    At least the shuffle's not irritating.

    1. I Believe in You - Neil Young
    2. Section 18 (Everything Starts at the Seams) - Polyphonic Spree
    3. Compliments - Bloc Party
    4. I Guess I Planted - Billy Bragg & Wilco
    5. Motorway to Roswell - Pixies
    6. Bandages - Hot Hot Heat
    7. Ain't No Mountain High Enough - Marvin Gaye
    8. The Hives Declare Nucleaire Guerre - The Hives
    9. Dreamsome - Shelby Lynne (my birthday twin)
    10. Grown so Ugly - Black Keys

    Posted by Robin at 09:42 AM | Comments (19)

    January 20, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Hollering Back Edition

    Since I'm still having back woes, today's shuffle is all about the back.

    1. Back in the Saddle Again - Gene Autry
    2. Look Back - Sam Ashworth
    3. Highway to Hell - ACDC (from "Back in Black", dontcha know)
    4. Call Me on Your Way Back Home - Ryan Adams
    5. In the Backseat - Arcade Fire
    6. Back Up and Push - Bill Monroe
    7. Backstreets - Bruce Springsteen
    8. Police on My Back - The Clash
    9. Come Back Jonee - Devo
    10. Take Me to the Backseat - The Donnas

    There are 81 songs on my hard drive with the word "back" in their title, providing me with nearly five and a half hours of ceiling-staring musical fun.

    Once again, there's a cluster of knots along my spine that are impervious to all pounding, kneading, rubbing, and assaults with Mineral Ice. This same spot has always given me fits. On New Year's Day, B. rubbed the knot so vigorously that he wore the skin off. Which sounds like he was doing something else entirely. But really, this is all about my geriatric back.

    I've said it before and I'll say it again: the knot of muscles in my back, borne of tension and baby-haulin', holds my entire world together. The day B. or a licensed massage professional manages to unkink the knot, my limbs will surely fall off. In the meantime, I'm the true hollaback girl, hollering because holy crap, my back hurts.

    This shit truly is bananas, my friends. B-a-n-a-n-a-s.

    Posted by Robin at 10:01 AM | Comments (7)

    January 06, 2006

    Friday Shuffle - The Fucking Cranky Edition

    I'd resolved to include the shuffle with some actual content in '06, but that's not gonna happen. Contain this: I'm fucking cranky and pretty damn hateful today. I'm fine. Really. Chickpea and cauliflower curry, mango Lassi and basmati rice pudding, along with another kind of pudding and a toddler who requested a nap cured what ailed me.

    1. Video Killed the Radio Star - Ben Folds Five
    2. Rhymin' and Stealin' - Beastie Boys
    3. Silence - Delerium & Sarah McLachlan
    4. I See You Baby - Groove Armada
    5. So Here We Are - Bloc Party
    6. One Fine Day - The Chiffons
    7. Eli, the Barrow Boy - The Decemberists
    8. Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwright
    9. Story of My Life - Loretta Lynn
    10. Stack Shot Billy - Black Keys

    Posted by Robin at 10:17 AM | Comments (4)

    December 30, 2005

    Friday Shuffle - The Shuffle Your 2005 Bitch-Ass Outta Here Edition

    I'm going to rant a bit after the shuffle. Stay tuned.

    1. Not Pretty Enough - Kasey Chambers
    2. Song 2 - Blur
    3. Problems - Robert Randolph & the Family Band
    4. This Love Affair - Rufus Wainwright
    5. John, I'm Only Dancing - David Bowie
    6. Best Friend - English Beat
    7. Warm Beer & Women - Tom Waits
    8. No Money Down - Soulard Blues Band
    9. Can''t Get There From Here - REM
    10. Shame - Morphine

    For such a shit-ass year, that's a mighty fine shuffle right there. I can't balk when my favorite Bowie song appears. That's gotta be a sign of hope, right?

    It seems whore-bitch 2005 is insisting on going out with the same fucking miserable bravado she's exhibited all year. Yesterday sucked. Really. We got some not-good financial news. Nothing life-shattering, but it puts a bunch of our plans that much further out of reach. Then I got some not-great health news during my doctor visit. Again, nothing life-shattering; just not what I wanted to hear even though I knew it was inevitable.

    Basically, my PCOS is, as my doc said, "progressing". What does this mean? More drugs, for starters. The medication I've been taking for 3.5 years is pretty harsh on the liver, and I'm looking at having to take more. Hmmm, which would I rather have: the diabetes, uterine tumors, and cardiovascular disease that go with rampant PCOS, or liver disease from years of downing 2000+ milligrams of metformin? Decisions, decisions. Lemme think on that one and I'll get back to you.

    There's the fertility issue, too. While I'm leaning towards not getting pregnant again, the progressing PCOS, along with my age, means that my chances of getting pregnant again are damn near non-existant. This isn't devastating news, but I don't like the fact that I don't get to be the one to decide if I have another pregnancy or not. Hell, a little over three years ago I thought I had no desire to be a parent. Then I had a major problem with the PCOS in which the word "hysterectomy" suddenly started making more appearances during doctor visits. That's what made me realize that, deep down, I wanted to have a child and to not be able to do so would be devastating. And we all know how that turned out, so I can't complain much. I'm lucky to have had one successful pregnancy, and to have my daughter. And my uterus. And I'm lucky that I have a great doctor who really does a great job of helping me manage this condition. It just feels like an uphill losing battle sometimes. Like now.

    I'd hoped that this week would be fun and relaxing. B.'s off work, and I had hoped that we could have some good, fun family time. That hasn't happened. Clara Jane's been out of whack from all the holiday excitement. Then there was all the time spent hopping from doctor to doctor, which really did need to happen. But we've done very little as a family this week, and the things we have done have been dictated by one uber-cranky child. I'm just exhausted and disappointed, which, now that I think about it, pretty much describes this damn year on the whole: exhausting and disappointing.

    I need to be at least a little positive, try to find some good in all of this. Good things did happen this year:
    

  • Clara Jane is making leaps and bounds, and she amazes me daily, even when she's driving me to drink.
    
  • I haven't had a panic attack in almost a full year. I could feel one coming on yesterday, and I was able to stop it in its tracks. A year ago, a similar situation would have left me incapacitated for at least a day. Now, it was a bad two minutes. A year ago, I never would have believed that would be possible.
    
  • The schmoop between these two is a constant source of warm-fuzzies and entertainment, and a sign that there might possibly be some sense of balance in the universe.
    
  • I'm writing my book. I'm writing my book, after a lifetime of dreaming about it. I'm writing my book.
    
  • Not only did I see U2 three times, but one of those shows was in Vegas, with primo seats, and 100% possible because of the extreme kindness and generosity of an extremely kind and generous person.
    
  • I've got more extremely kind and generous people in my life than anyone deserves.
    
  
  
  I'm not going to make a list of all the bad things that happened this year. What purpose would it serve? Pissing and moaning about the things I've already pissed and moaned about would be a waste. But I can see if I've actually learned anything.

  With all the shit that went down this year - my dad's bypass surgery and subsequent retirement, my near-suicidal state during the end of the anxiety and panic therapy, the loss of Kara's mom and the horrible mass tragedies that seemed to happen one after another, I'll remember 2005 as the year I finally became an adult. Every single one of those events illustrated something I had never fully grasped before - how important every single human being truly is.

  Facing the possible loss of one of my parents, the actual loss of a friend's parent, and the huge human losses in the wake of the tsunami, the hurricanes and the earthquakes was the slap in the face I needed to realize just how important being a parent really is. And not just perfect parents who seem to do everything right; any parent.

  This year I learned that humanity's foundation is the nurturing we give each other, and that parental nurturing is the deepest, most fundamental nurturing of all. It's the most important thing in the world, even when it's done by someone who stays in her pajamas all day and all too often turns on a Tivo'd "Sesame Street" when she's sure that reading Everyone Poops for the ninth time today will force her to do a swan dive from the roof.

  Where to go from here? I've been envisioning 2006 as being a year of great things, of putting into action the lessons learned in 2005. I keep seeing it as the year I sell my book and fulfill the one goal, the one dream that I've had for as long as I've known that books are written by people. Before 2005, I had plenty to write about, but didn't have the insight required to make it worth reading. Now, I think I have that. Paid a steep price for it, so I'll be damned if I let it go to waste.

  Now, c'mere and gimme a hug. I think we all could use one.

  Posted by Robin at 02:02 PM | Comments (11)

  December 23, 2005

  Friday Shuffle - The Obligatory Holiday Edition

  For the three people who are still reading and not doing what they should be doing: drinking eggnog to the point of blackout while hiding under the dining room table:

  1. Red Nosed Reindeer Blues - Asylum Street Spankers
  2. White Christmas - Bing Crosby
  3. Gee Whiz, It's Christmas - Carla Thomas
  4. The Chipmunk Song - The Chipmunks (although this year I like this version much better than the original.)
  5. Five-Pound Box of Money - Pearl Bailey
  6. Run Rudolph Run - Chuck Berry
  7. I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm - Billie Holiday
  8. Merry Christmas, Baby - Lou Rawls
  9. Santa Baby - Eartha Kitt
  10. (And my personal favorite, which had me singing and dancing in the cheese aisle at Trader Joe's last week) It's Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - U2

  Posted by Robin at 08:42 AM | Comments (2)

  December 16, 2005

  Friday Shuffle - The RSVP'd Off Edition

  I've been too busy with party prep to shuffle. I've officially hit that point where I'm wondering why in the hell I throw parties. But that happens the night before every party, and I always get over it. I'm sure this will be no different. It'll be lovely. Intimate. Right. Shuffle.

  1. Time is on My Side - Irma Thomas
  2. Folsom Prison Blues (Live at San Quintin) - Johnny Cash
  3. Life Like Weeds - Modest Mouse
  4. Seven Year Ache - Roseanne Cash
  5. Angels Walk - Paul Westerberg
  6. The Lifting - REM
  7. Charlie Don't Surf - The Clash
  8. The Cool, Cool River - Paul Simon
  9. September in the Rain - Julie London
  10. Come as You Are - Peter Wolf

  What a lovely shuffle. I think it's refreshed me enough that I can pick my tired ass up off the floor and clean the toilet. That's some powerful shufflage right there.

  Posted by Robin at 05:34 PM | Comments (4)

  December 09, 2005

  Friday Shuffle - The Anti-Urbanite Edition

  Somedays I just want to move to a nice little small town like this one (mainly because Star's Hollow only exists on Gilmore Girls)

  Then there are days like today, when I just want to move to a cave in the woods and turn feral.

  I think I'm over city-living. Here's your shuffle, which I should have culled from my country folder, but didn't. I'm not that far gone. Not yet, anyway.

  1. Hands Off, She's Mine - English Beat
  2. I'm Your Villan - Franz Ferdinand
  3. Since You're Gone - The Cars
  4. Now That You're Gone - Ryan Adams
  5. Funky Broadway - Wilson Pickett
  6. Chance - REM
  7. Mama's Boy - The Ramones
  8. Evenflow - Pearl Jam
  9. Working on the Highway - Bruce Springsteen
  10. Wreck of the Old 97 (San Quinten recording) - Johnny Cash

  Posted by Robin at 01:03 PM | Comments (1)

  December 02, 2005

  Friday Shuffle - The Shit, Don't You People Know How to Comment Edition

  Except for those of you who do, of course. You, I love, for you provide the ego-fondling I so desperately need.

  1. I Won't Back Down - Tom Petty
  2. Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk - Rufus Wainwright
  3. Cold Day in July - Dixie Chicks
  4. The Staggering Genius - Superdrag
  5. I Remember California - REM
  6. Earthquake Weather - Beck
  7. Just a Kid - Wilco
  8. Trouble on the Line - Loretta Lynn
  9. Stormy Weather - The Pixies
  10. Smackwater Jack - Carole King

  Tracks 5, 6 and 9 make me a little nervous. If something happens this weekend and California falls into the ocean, I'm going to feel responsible.

  Posted by Robin at 02:22 PM | Comments (6)