May 02, 2007

A Brief Escape

Still no new news on the goddamn fucking house front. But everyone who said we should take the offer and run? You're right, and we will. My dear PKB is going house-hunting with me today, and she doesn't even mind that I'm too sad to be bothered with putting on real clothes. She just might take me house-hunting in my pajamas. That's a friend.

In another case of impeccable timing, my equally dear Kristina has interviewed me. And her questions are wonderful, pure fantasy and good times, which is what I desperately need right now. Well, that and a glass of wine and some Klonopin. Anyway, let's escape while we continue the long, constant wait for the real estate agent's call.

1. B.'s birthday gift to you this year is a hot night with one of these guys: Jeff Tweedy, Jack White, Tyler "Sweaty Boy" Florence, or Anthony Bourdain. No strings, no guilt, just...fun. Whom do you pick and why?

B.'s the most awesome guy in the world, if he did that. Honestly, I'm not really into Jeff and Jack in "that" way. As much as I dig musicians, I'm not really that attracted to them. I'd much rather hang out with them and talk. Besides, as much as I love Jeff and Jack, I think they'd be too whiny and self-involved.

So that brings us to the chefs, which makes this a hard one because chefs are totally hot. While Anthony's so damn hot, he's a little too arrogant (which is funny because that's what I like about him). He could very well be the type who takes care of himself and that's that. So it's definitely Tyler. He's got bonus points for having written this not-safe-for-work article. His answer to question #4 pretty much seals the deal. Yep, Sweaty Boy it is.

Boy, that took my mind off real estate.

2. It's the last day on Earth. What do you eat and drink for dinner?

I think I'd start the day with all the super-rare, expensive delicacies: black truffles, 100-year-old balsamic vinegar, caviar, sweetbreads, and such. And really, really fabulous wine, of course. But I'd want to close the day with all my favorite comfort foods: my granny's noodles, your Aunt Louise's marinara, watermelon, chicken tikka masala made by my Indian former boss, my ma's fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy, veggie pizza from Shakespeare's, those little dim sum sweet red bean dumplings and a giant All Shook Up concrete from Ted Drewes, about a pound of Maytag blue cheese. Washed down with sweet tea.

3. Since I am unoriginal but interested, what's your best concert experience?

So many. The November, 2001 U2 show was a fantastic experience, what with the camping out. Also, during "Sunday Bloody Sunday", I think I came to terms with 9/11 and it was such a powerful moment. U2 in Vegas was amazing, too. Wilco at the Pageant in March, 2006, was fun and moving and reassuring when I needed some reassurance in a big way. And those pregnant White Stripes shows were so much fun and so surreal.

4. We're going back to Memphis (seriously, we need to!). What would we do this time?

We're going to the goddamn Memphis Rock and Soul Museum, because this time we won't have a traveling companion who bitches about the price of admission, only to spend twice that amount at Hot fucking Topic two hours later! Aside from that, I think we need to go off the beaten path this time. Go to Sunday services at Full Gospel Tabernacle and have lunch afterwards at Four-Way Grill. This, of course, after a night of hitting clubs and bars off the tourist path. Gotta end the trip with banana pudding on the banks of the Mississippi, though. That's a must. And this time, we will be staying at the Peabody.

5. If you could live in a novel, which one would it be?
One that has absolutely no drama at all whatsoever. And one with stable housing.

Posted by Robin at 10:17 AM | Comments (3)

March 25, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 14, 2006

Depression Blindness

One of the worst parts of depression - all the parts are the worst, really, but play along with me here - is that it creates a kind of blindness that makes it impossible to see what's right in front of one's face. It's like looking at a flower and only noticing the one wilted petal and an angry bee who's giving you the evil eye(s). Depression shrouds the part of the brain that recognizes all the good.

On Monday, when things were at their worst, I caught myself thinking, "Nobody wants to be around me and I don't blame them one bit. I'm wretched. I'm awful. I'm a pain in the ass who can't do a goddamn thing right." I think I might have even said it outloud at one point.

That was the blindness talking because sweet lord, so many of my friends have reached out in the past few days.

There's Mary, who has this radar ... it's uncanny. She knows when I need a boost. It's either a superpower, or she's the one person who's figured out that when I'm not blogging, something might be amiss. She called on Monday with a lunch invitation.

And Allison, who's trying to get me to join her in making fun of art quilts and drinking iced mochas.

Angie always knows when I could use a Venti hazlenut latte delivered to my door.

Jill's wanting to get together, despite dealing with her own two-year-old and mysteriously ill infant.

Julie's trying to get me to pay her a visit in Nashville, and I'm damn near on the verge of hopping in my car and going. Now. Because it sounds like so much fun. Nevermind that she sent me what is, officially, The Nicest Email Ever Sent to Anyone.

And what about PKB, leaving work and coming to my rescue yesterday. PKB + used crap = a happier Robin. There is nothing, I mean nothing more fun than digging through the Goodwill with PKB. We have this magic when we're together of finding the funniest crap in the world. Yesterday's winner: a white porcelain piggy bank from the Restless Leg Syndrome Association. Which brings two questions to mind: 1) Is this really a condition that merits an entire association, and 2) Is it a good idea to give them breakables?

Honestly? How can you feel bad when you locate things like this:



It's really hard to be sad when you're busy running for your life before Satan Raggedy Ann & Andy can eat your brains.

Unfortunately, the photo doesn't accurately depict the 3-D quality of the red yarn hair. That hairdo illustrate's Ann's disdain for restrictive Eurocentric beauty norms. Good for her.

And all the sweet comments left of my recent blog entries ... each one punctures that shroud and lets in a little more light. And a little more corn, but that's okay. We like corn.

Even Chloe, the poor dog who's been the target of my anxious hand-wringing all week, has jumped on the Be Nice to Robin bandwagon. This morning when Clara Jane awoke, Chloe parked herself outside Clara Jane's door. When she heard me get up and go to the bathroom, she joined me. Just making sure that all's right in her world. Which makes me feel bad. If my stress has put the Most Mellow Dog Ever on guard, it must be bad. The fact that she doesn't have maggot breath, unlike that other dog, wins her extra bonus points.

B. rocks. That goes without saying.

The worst part about this week was the feeling that everything I'd worked to overcome seemed to be coming back with a vengence. But it didn't. It was stopped be my army and me. And corn. Lots and lots of corn.

Posted by Robin at 01:25 PM | Comments (8)

March 25, 2006

In Which My Lovely Weekend Plans are Foiled by Snot

I'm so disappointed.

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

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

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

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

Snot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snot.

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

February 25, 2006

Working for the Weekend Tidbits

I've been far too verbose and serious this week. Really, I've had nothing else to talk about. The week has consisted of insomnia, a sick kid, a sick me, music aptitude news, and, well, that's about it. Today, I'm going to catch you up on the little bits of goofiness that have filled in the spaces between long-winded overthinking:

-I had a 90-minute-long phone conversation with my next-door neighbor on Thursday night. While she's not my favorite person in the world, I don't mind playing catch-up with her every six months or so. I just don't want to be her best pal, at her beck and call. I've been there. It's not fun. About ten minutes after I got my first might-be-positive pregnancy test, I was on the phone with my mom when this neighbor showed up on the doorstep, distraught over some miscellaneous drama. Hearing that I'd just found out I was pregnant didn't deter her from plopping down on my couch, moaning and wailing over something so minor I don't even remember what it was. That, I can do without. But the occasional neighborly chat's okay.

And in this particular chat I learned two interesting things: 1) she's started sex toy business, and 2) the neighbors across the street from her have a piercing and tattoo studio in their basement. So, if you're ever in the neighborhood for a Prince Albert and a Clitopatra II, make sure you stop by my place for a spot of tea.

In less quease-inducing news ...

-Looks like Clara Jane will be taking her first flight this summer, as my British buddy Sally and her darling boy Oz are going to visit her sister Kirsti in Detroit. While Detroit isn't exactly close to St. Louis, if Sal's there, I go. Relatively speaking, she's damn near in my neighborhood if she's in Detroit.

I'm a little nervous about traveling solo with the kiddo, although if we can survive last October's traveling vomitorium, we can handle anything. Also, I figure Sal's flying solo across the Atlantic and half the US with a kid six months younger than Clara Jane, so I have no room to complain or be chicken.

One of my favorite things about Sal - I'd give you the whole list of favorite things about Sal, but it might take months - is her unabashed love for things us Americans take for granted. Like IHOP. When was the last time you got excited about IHOP? Never? Well, I get excited about IHOP, just because Sal gets excited about IHOP. Excited enough to steal for her. Besides, it's the International House of Pancakes. I get to go there with someone who not only lives in London, but has also lived in Russia, South Africa and Australia. What could be more international than that?

Last night, B. suggested a trip to IHOP for dinner. Sounded good, since I've had IHOP on the brain all week in anticipation of Sal's visit. I think IHOP's happy about the upcoming visit, since they're going to have their own little Shrove Tuesday celebration this week. In preparation, Clara Jane wore her Mardi Gras beads and insisted on dancing when Elvis came on the PA system:



And I insisted on taking a photo of my dinner, just for Sal:



You're two months and two days away from the chicken fried steak promised land, my friend.



Clara Jane would just as soon bypass the fried beef and pancakes in favor of a pound of bacon, please. It's good to see that her experience with puking bacon across rural Illinois last October hasn't detered her hog product consumption.

-My poor, stupid little dog Murphy had a horrible experience last night. When we got home from IHOP, we got out of the truck and B. said, "Jesus Christ, Murphy! Shut the hell up!" We could hear her in the house, whining, all the way from our driveway.

We came inside, and Chloe greeted us at the door. Murphy couldn't be bothered to get up. She just laid on her back in our big red chair, whining and wagging and wiggling around like a damn squirrel. I gave her a belly rub, lovingly told her what a fucking window-licker she is, and went about my way. Still, she stayed in the chair, wagging. I had the thought that maybe she had her harness hooked on the quilt in the chair. I checked, and she was free, so I moved on, muttering about what a damn weirdo she is.

Five minutes later, she was still on her back. Even by Murphy's uber-freak standards, that's a bit excessive. B. took another look, and discovered that Murphy had one of her front toenails hooked in the ring for her ID tag.

Obviously, Murphy gets her intelligence from me.

-It's the end of an era. In today's mail, I got the 20th and final volume of Kristina's Rock Yer Punk Ass mix CD series. It all began an astounding four years ago this month. It was her first mix CD, throwing her into the mix CD crazy place where Kara and I had resided for about a year. Of course, we welcomed her to Crazyland with open arms. The three of us traded CDs like mad, with the unspoken rule of not repeating songs. For example, let's say I put Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen on my "Punk Kids Vandalized My Derelict Car" mix, then it would be in bad form for Kara or Kristina to put it on one of their mixes. It's just good mix CD manners.

However, even with our stupifyingly large music collections, we were always unwittingly using the same songs. The most overused being Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys. We latched onto it like, well, like a monkey to a handful of feces. We made it ours. And even though the song is about a really horrible cocktail, we took it literally.

Do you need some stuff with monkeys on it? Well, Kara, Kristina and I have some stuff with monkeys on it. Like the fabbo $4.50 monkey clock Kristina gave me last year. So intense was our zeal to procure the best monkey-related junk for each other that Kara kept saying, "We're taking this too far. Too many monkeys." To which I said, "We haven't taken it too far. Until one of us winds up with a live monkey, we haven't taken it too far."

For Valentine's Day 2003, I found a pair of cheesy, horrible cards with leery photos of chimps with shaky googly eyes. Of course, I sent them to Kara and Kristina, signing them from Priscilla von Monkeyassen, who resides at 6969 Baboon Lane, Monkey Island, South Carolina.

Of course, once they spied my awesome monkey alias, they had to have them, too. Thus Star Monkeybrass and Exena Humpamonkey were born. It's just good sense to have an alias, you know. When I got pregnant a few months later, my fetus was christened Coco Monqueytoes.

Had I known the monkey names would stick for this long, I would have picked something other than Priscilla for myself, since that's my mother-in-law's name. I eventually shortened it to Prissy. So, when you see a police report in your local paper regarding one Prissy von Monkeyassen and her accomplice Coco Monqueytoes being held in lock-down for stealing carafes from the IHOP, you'll know it's me, and I need to be sprung, please.

I'm sure Kristina will keep making mix CDs; she's just retiring the "Rock Yer Punk Ass" moniker. It has rocked her well. She's got a castle in Brooklyn that's where she dwells.

Enclosed with the CD, Kristina included an article about Loverboy from the December, 1983, issue of Creem Magazine. She even took the time to highlight each usage of the phrase "hog balls" in the article. I leave you with photographic evidence:



I think that headline pretty much sums up why we listened to Loverboy way back when: because they were there, and remote control technology wasn't like it is today, therefore making it more difficult to change the station to something that didn't suck.


Hog balls.



Nothing screams "heavy metal" quite like an unattractive Canadian man wearing nothing but a towel while blow-drying his man-perm.



That's Exena Humpamonkey on the left, lovin' every hog ball humping minute of it while she's working for the weekend.

Posted by Robin at 02:01 PM | Comments (4)

January 24, 2006

I Gots Me Some Good Friends

My pal Mindy, she of the Converse sneakers and the iguanas and the fancy-footed, oh-so-very-gay dogs? She's responsible for my lovely new banner. Cute, isn't it? Go heap some love on her.

I had a rather crabby morning. Somehow I managed to get so caught up in feeding my child, procuring dog food, and feeding a bunch of overgrown goldfish in a pond that I forgot to feed myself. Ironic, don't you think, considering my last two entries have involved meatloaf shaped like a house and toddler muffins. I finally got home, only to get caught in my driveway by a new neighbor who apparently wants to clean my house. There I stood, in the cold wind, stomach rumbling, child crabbing, while this woman tried to sell me on her mad housecleaning skillz. This does not bode well. Not at all. I'm having images of this woman, pounding on my door at 6 AM with a vaccum cleaner, screaming to be let in.

Anyway, I finally shooed her away, got inside, got Clara Jane occupied (Miffy, you are the best babysitter ever!), and was just taking my leftover whore sauce out of the fridge when the phone rang. Normally I would ignore it, but for some reason - hey, I'm already irritated and hungry so I might as well take it out on whoever's calling - I answered.

I am so glad I did. No matter how badly a day is going, I know it's going to get infinitly better when I hear the lovely clipped British "Hello Poppy darling!" coming from across the Atlantic. Really. I could get hit by a car and would instantly feel better if I happened to get a phone call from Sally shortly after. And then she stroked my ego all over her blog.

Yep, those people in my life? They're keepers, all of 'em.

Edited to add: My pal Allison has joined the blogging fray. She's funny, smart, cute and makes lovely things with needles. Go say hello and wish her a happy birthday.

Posted by Robin at 03:25 PM | Comments (5)

January 16, 2006

Lemme Tell You About My Friend Lisa

You've probably read about my friend Lisa, or PKB (short for Princess Kicking Bear). When you've read about her, it's always a hoot. Like our accordian-hunting, car-alarm-blaring, Starbucks-barista-frightening outings. If you're a reader from way-back, you might recall the time she hauled me out for Ted Drewes Frozen Custard with a carload of 14-year-olds. Or maybe you've seen her comments on this-here blog.

This is the kind of person Lisa is: When Clara Jane was a week old, I was sick. Really, really sick. I had an infection growing in my C-section incision that would eventually put my health in jeopardy. Worse than that, I was going through a case of postpartem depression so intense that I couldn't do anything. Nothing.

Lisa came over that Sunday afternoon with her 14-year-old son, Lance (aka The Coolest Kid in the World). Lance takes after his mother in that he's got one of the biggest hearts in the world. While I maintained my Jabba the Depressed Hut-like pose on the couch for the entire afternoon, Lance sat at the other end, Clara Jane dozing on his chest. What 14-year-old boy is willing to spend the day holding an infant with a depressed, infected, lactating fool who can't even string together a coherant sentence? Does that tell you what kind of kid Lisa's raised?

While we sat, Lisa vanished to the bathroom, claiming to be experiencing some intestinal distress.

Lisa's a liar, because what she was really doing was cleaning my poor, neglected bathroom from top to bottom. She spent two hours scrubbing my disgusting bathroom floors and rearranging all my junk.

That's the nicest, most loving thing anyone has ever done for me. In the really dark first month of Clara Jane's life, that's the only memory that stands out clearly in my mind.

Wanna see a photo of a post-toilet-scrubbing Lisa, napping with a one-week-old Clara Jane?


Obviously, scrubbing The Filth kicked Lisa's ass. What can I say? I'd been very pregnant for a very long time at that point. When I took the photo, I'm pretty sure I was hurling obscenities at Lisa, which is post-partem depressionese for, "I love you and I can't believe how much you love me."

Lisa had a niece named Heather. They didn't have a typical aunt-niece relationship in part because they were much closer in age than most nieces and aunts. I can't remember the exact age difference, but it was close enough to make them more like sisters. This was compounded by the fact that Heather lived with Lisa's family when they were kids. Bottom line: Lisa and Heather were close and had a really special relationship.

Yes, I'm speaking of Heather in the past tense. In early March, 2002, Heather killed herself. Not only did she leave behind Lisa, but also two young daughters, some dear friends, and a huge extended family.

No one saw it coming; she seemed happy.

I have seen how Lisa has struggled since she lost Heather, but I know the struggles I've seen are the tip of the proverbial iceberg. When Heather killed herself, she killed a part of every person who loved her. I've seen first-hand how her death killed a part of the joy that once lived in Lisa.

I can't imagine what part of her little girls died with her.

At the time of Heather's death, Lisa and I weren't close. We'd had some struggles in our friendship, growing pains of sorts. I didn't know about Heather's suicide until a week or so after the fact, when Lisa returned home from helping her sister pack Heather's things. While packing she found an antique book called, "Poppy: The Story of a South African Girl", printed in 1911. Lisa has always called me Poppy; that was the alias I used on the online bulletin board where we first met, and she's always preferred it to my given name. Her kids call me Aunt Poppy. Anyway, when she saw the book, she knew I had to have it. Didn't matter that we hadn't spoken to each other in months. Because if a sudden death teaches one thing, it's that life is too goddamn short and if you have any love in your heart for another human being, you'd better let them know.

Lisa called me at 7 AM the morning she returned, even though she knew it would piss me off. It did. She briefly told me of Heather's death, and told me that she was sending something home with B., who worked in the same building. It was the book, and we immediately started repairing our friendship.

I hate to say that we owe our friendship to Heather's death when so many people lost so much with her. I prefer to think that maybe her spirit, and the lessons we've learned from her death have had a guiding hand in Lisa and me doing right by each other.

A few months after Heather's death, Lisa called me at 8 AM (I'm not sure why she's so fond of dragging my ass out of bed, but I forgive her.), requesting that I be ready to go in two hours. We were going to Memphis to fetch Lance from his grandma's house.

Lisa doesn't invite. She doesn't ask. She informs you that you're going. And who am I to say no when, 1) I am morally unable to pass any opportunity to go to Memphis, and 2) I knew we needed this trip. Four hours in the car with Lisa, talking about Heather. We both needed it.

Heather's suicide changed so many lives. I never met her, but her death changed my life. Her death gave me back my friend, but it also robbed her of a huge source of light.

I've watched Lisa do her best to work through the grief that came from Heather's death. So much so that I decided awhile back that Lisa is a superhero. She's .... dum dum da dum ... Grief Girl! And I'm her trusty sidekick, Funeral Slut! I'm sure you can imagine what our costumes look like.

This August, Lisa's going to put her superpowers to the test by participating in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's Out of the Darkness Overnight Walk. She and one of her friends who also lost a loved one to suicide will be walking 20 miles from dusk on August 12 until dawn on August 13 to raise money for AFSP. Lisa's walking in Heather's memory, and I have no doubt that this walk will be a huge milestone in Lisa's healing.

If you'd like to pledge a few bucks, here's the place to do it. It's all tax-deductable and what-not.

Posted by Robin at 02:32 PM | Comments (13)

January 13, 2006

I'd Like to Take a Moment

...to profess my undying love to my pal Dixie. Boy, does this girl get it. She really does. When someone's really awesome, I tend to say, "Oh, he's a peach!" While that's a fairly well-used term of endearment, I don't think I ever used it until I met Dixie. So when I call someone a peach, it's because they've managed to reach the pinnicle of all that's great - Dixie Peachitude. Unless I'm snarling it sarcastically. Then it means something else entirely.

I'm outta here for a few days. Gots me a room at an undisclosed hotel where I'll be staying until I decide I like human beings (Dixie notwithstanding). The breaking point: my non-napping toddler came thisclose to walking into a pile of dog vomit and my head exploded. It's time to take myself away before they come to take me away.

In case I'm still in the fetal position on Sunday (highly likely), please take a gander at the Metro section of the Dallas Morning News' Sunday edition. There's going to be an article in the Metro section in which I rant a bit about people leaving their holiday decorations up to long.

No shuffle for me today. I think Dixie shuffled enough for all of us, don't you?

Posted by Robin at 03:52 PM | Comments (4)

December 18, 2005

Apres-Apres Party

1. I don't feel like someone who drank six pomegranate cocktails* last night. I feel fantastic! Not fantastic enough to compose real paragraphs, but pretty damn fantastic considering the amount of vodka and brandy that beat the hell out of my liver last night.

*A drink of my own concoting, and quite divine, I might add. Feel free to make them at your own holiday gathering. Or for breakfast. I'd be honored if you'd refer to it as the Poppy:

1 shot vodka (I prefer Ketel 1)
1 shot pomegranate juice
1 shot Kirsch (cherry brandy)
1 wedge lemon

Put ice in a martini shaker. Add shots. Give the lemon a squeeze and toss it in. Shake. Pour. Imbibe. Dance on the dining room table with your pants around your ankles. Take photos and share them with me.

2. I like cooking again. I knew I would, once I quit catering. I just didn't expect to like it again so soon. Last night's menu:


All my recipes. And it was fun. Cooking is fun again! This makes me insanely happy.

3. I really don't know what possesses me to throw holiday parties. There are just too many other things going on and it's hard to get everyone I'd like to see together at the same time. From now on, I think I need to forgo the holiday stuff and do something in, say, mid-January, when everyone's bored senseless. This isn't to say that last night wasn't great. It was. I should host more small gatherings. It was nice to be able to sit and actually converse, instead of mingling.

4. Mindy makes the most fabulous things with paper and photos. She surprised me with an amazing Clara Jane photo book. Seriously. Damn near made me cry, it was so perfect. I wish I could show it to you, I really do.

5. Although Angie couldn't make it to the party, she did leave a Starbucks gift card in the amount of a venti eggnog latte on my porch yesterday morning. I think that means I owe her a blow job. Feel free insert the "fluid pudding" joke of your liking in this space.

6. Speaking of being horrible, I was actually very well-behaved in the presence of Mr. Greenlight. He was the one who brought up sodomy. Not me.

7. My 8.5-year-old Basset hound, Chloe, finally succeeded in leaping over the back of the couch after months of trying. While I avoid giving her table scraps, I felt like she earned a bit of fresh-from-the-oven salmon for that feat. So not only is her old body feeling the brunt of the jump, but she also has a burnt tongue.

So overwhelming was Chloe's night that she slept where she dropped:


Yes, she's asleep. Yes, I'm headless. Yes, Mindy has the cutest headband and boots in the world. And yes, B.'s totally drunk.

8. This morning, my codependent little elf and I had our own little Christmas morning gift exchange. Because we're all about the schmoop, we surprised our men-folk with stockings of goodies. They both got Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas on DVD. Why yes, Kara and I are both involved with 11-year-olds.

9. Kara gives good codependent loot. There's the Vertigo 2005//U2 Live From Chicago DVD, partially filmed at one of the U2 shows we attended (new link - I originally posted the wrong one). Since Greenlight gave her the same thing, we've discussed synching the DVDs and watching them at the same time, at our respective homes, and looking for ourselves. Codependency: the gift that keeps giving.

She also gave me a big pile of porn in the form of sweet, sweet sweaty Tyler Florence's new book. You do know how much I lah-uve Tyler, right? His new book, Eat This Book (yes, SIR!), should be sold in a brown paper wrapper, because it's pure porn! I love it. I love it so. And I apologize to everyone in my house this morning who had to witness how much I love it.

As if that wasn't enough, Kara also loaded me up with goodies from Lush. I haven't tried the two bath bombs yet, but I've become intimately acquainted with their lovely Candy Fluff and Silky Underwear dusting powders. A word to the wise: when desperately trying to open the can of dusting powder, don't pound on it with the antennea of your cell phone, no matter how good of an idea it may seem. Because when the antennea finally penetrates the plastic with the use of much force, the geyser of sugar-scented powder that erupts will leave you looking like you've spent an evening in a toilet stall at Studio 54 with Liza, Bianca and a Colombian named Hernando who wants cash from you now.

10. Clara "Thank God I Missed This Soiree" Jane is visiting her grandparents and having a lovely time gorging herself on Bugles. B. is punishing himself today by hauling his hungover ass to the stores to Christmas shop for me. I'd love to see this, this, these, or this, which doesn't smell nearly as slutty as you might think. But really, I'll be thrilled with whatever he gets me. The fact that I'm home, in my pajamas, alone all day today is just about the best gift in the world.

Posted by Robin at 11:54 AM | Comments (9)