November 25, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 22, 2006

Day Twenty-Two - What it Takes to Buy a Bell Pepper

This is why I don't like to grocery-shop in my neighbor.

Today, I had a big jelly-making marathon ahead of me, but lacked a red bell pepper for a batch to Thai pepper jelly. I made a quick run to nearest store to grab one. $1.59 for one pepper. Sucks, but I understand. They're out of season, transportation costs are up, and the past few years have been bad for pepper crops. That's exactly what I expected to pay.

Got to the checkout. While ringing up the guy in front of me, the cashier looked at me and my lone pepper. "We have those?" she said.

"Um, yeah."

"I thought we only sold those in packs of three. How much is that?"

"$1.59, and only the green peppers are in packs. Colored peppers are sold loose."

"$1.50?!?! Why do you have just one? Why aren't you getting the whole pack?"

"Because they're not in a pack and I only need one," I said, just wanting to take my damn pepper home.

Meanwhile, the old man behind me is offer helpful tips like, "It costs a dime! It's so expensive because they grew it on Mars! Gimme a quarter for it!"

The cashier got the produce guy's attention - mind you, all of this is transpiring while the guy in front of me waits for his order to be rung up. It wasn't even my turn yet. "How much are these peppers? And don't they come in packs of three?" she asked the produce guy.

"They're $1.59, and they're sold single," he said. I'm sure his eye-roll wasn't directed at me, but instead at the cashier, who hadn't even bothered to look up the code on the pepper to see for her damn self how much it costs.

With this gal working the day before Thanksgiving, it's gonna be a loooooooooong day.

Wanna make my trip to the store worth my while? Buy some damn jelly. I restocked my Etsy store this morning. There's the afore-mentioned Thai pepper jelly, pomegranate jelly, key lime jelly, lavender jelly, and whole-berry cranberry sauce. Please don't make my pepper-suffering have been in vain.

Posted by Robin at 02:10 PM | Comments (1)

November 19, 2006

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

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

True dat, Bob. True dat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 28, 2006

Idiots Vomiting in the '80s. In China.

This made my day. While reading the stats for my blog, I discovered that a Chinese search engine returns a photo of my dogs if one searches for the word "idiot".

By that token, I wonder if a search for "weird vomit" would return a photo of my cat. As you might recall, earlier this month my cat Romi performed the oddest vomiting acrobatics I've ever seen. She almost topped herself last night.

It all started around midnight-thirty last night. B. and I were reading in bed when Romi let out a few yowls to let us know that all's well, nothing to worry about, she captured the intruder that was sure to kill us all in our sleep. She came sauntering in with a little black beetly-crickety thing dangling out of her mouth. Never much in the way of manners, she proceded to eat the bug in front of us, not once offering to share.

After she finished eating her prey, Romi joined us in bed, nestling into B.'s pillow. In no time at all, I caught her licking her lips, panic creeping into her eyes. Yar she blows. Bug-chunks, that is.

We ran her off the bed and she vanished, only the siren song of her bug-hacking remained, echoing through the house. So here we are, quarter til one in the morning. B.'s looking for a cat and I'm looking for puke. Both were located. The bug remains are still unaccounted for.

Have I told you about my neighbor, '80s Lady?

Of course I have, but since it's been awhile, let me refresh your memory.

One early morning back in, oh, let's say 2001, I was driving out of my neighborhood, probably on my way to culinary school. I'm pretty sure that's the only place I've gone in the past seven years that required me to leave my house before 7:30 AM. Early enough for the neighborhood kiddies to be out, waiting for the schoolbus.

I sat at the stop sign by the nearest bus stop, teaming with elementary schoolers and their moms, when I saw her. I furrowed my brow as I gawked, thinking, "What's the date? Is it Halloween? Shit. It's Halloween. I forgot to buy candy. Okay. Gotta stop by Walgreens between classes and buy candy. Hmmm ... little bitty Snickers bars. I love Halloween. Wait. It's February. Why is that woman in costume?"

This woman was wearing one of those padded ski vests. You remember, they were actually coats, but the sleeves had zippers so that they could be removed. Frostbitten arms were all the rage in 1982. Under the vest peeked knee-length gym pants. Of the Spandex variety. In electric blue. Had I been driving past, and not offered the gawker's luxury of a stop sign, I might have thought that some mean kid had stripped her naked and covered her flesh with shiny blue duct tape. On her feet? White high-top Reeboks, the ones with the two Velcro straps around the ankles.

And her head ... oh, her head. The glory of her platinum-blonde tresses, cascaded in a flat-ironed sheet down her back. But how can a woman of such obvious athletic inclination manage such a mane? The solution is two-fold: First, cut the top and front of the mane into three-inch spikes. Second, sport an Olivia Newton-John - inspired headband across the forehead region.

In fact, looking at that photo, I think I've seen my neighbor - forever to be known as, obviously, '80s Lady - wearing that same outfit. Every time I've seen this woman, she's been wearing one relic or another. And I can't help but wonder several things:

1. Has she not looked at another human being in the past 20 years?

2. Why do her clothes look so new? I'm wearing a pair of jeans that are at least six months younger than my child, and they're sporting patches on the inner thighs and a safety pin-reinforced zipper. How is it that this woman has an entire wardrobe older than college graduates that looks brand-new, and I can't keep my jeans from falling off my lower body in desert-island-refugee-style rags after a mere 17 months of wear? It's not like I'm wearing them while digging ditches or getting physical.

Perhaps '80s Lady is simply an ultra-trendy menopausal woman and she's buying her clothes at the chic juniors boutiques, where the '80s are hip and cool again.

What's all this about? Well, I was forced to make a stop at my neighborhood Wal-Mart today. I'd rather dress like '80s Lady than go to Wal-Mart, and I'd rather dress like '80s Lady with a rat tail than go to the Wal-Mart in my neighborhood. On the plus side, I found a home Brazilian wax kit in the clearance aisle.

I also found something else at Wal-Mart. While I was standing before the display of anti-snot agents, I felt something bearing down on my heels with such a force that I jumped away, just in time to feel the breeze circulated by '80s Lady as she zoomed past me.

Turns out all that Spandex, the Reeboks and that aerodynamic 'do makes her really, really fast. I think she might have been attempting to reach 88 mph so that her flux capacitor would send her back in time to be among her own. But since I slowed her down, she settled for browsing the bunion remedies instead.

Posted by Robin at 07:20 PM | Comments (6)

January 05, 2006

I'm a Little Bit Frightened ... And I'm a Little Bit Mortified

In my attempt to make 2006 The Year of Crafty Goodness, I'm working to improve my almost-non-existant sewing skills.

Okay, that's not entirely fair. After all, I did make the fabulous candy corn Halloween costume. Except for the rather biggotty-looking hat; B. made that. My granny taught me to sew the summer before eighth grade, and I was pretty good at it. That is, until I took a sewing class in ninth grade. The teacher spent a full semester informing me that the sewing method my grandmother - who'd been sewing longer than this teacher had been breathing oxygen - was All Wrong. She gave me the lowest grade I'd ever received in my gifted-class-attending life and that was the end of sewing for me. As a rule I don't do things I suck at. Life's just easier that way.

So I'm not sure why I've been on such a sewing bender lately. Since I learned to knit, I guess I've had it in my mind that I can probably learn to sew, too, just as long as some asshole doesn't come along and remind me several times a day that I'm doing it All Wrong.

While grocery shopping Monday night, I picked up this magazine:

I think it's obvious why I bought this. It's because it has information to help me learn the basic techniques, right?

Nope.

Okay. It's because it has basic skills for successful sewing, of course.

Nope, that's not it either.

It's gotta be the 16 easy-to-make projects. It has to be. Sixteen projects for a mere $6? Of course!

Not quite.

The real reason I bought it? Because I'll buy any magazine with pictures of pretty pillows made with Amy Butler fabric. Hell, I'd buy a magazine that had a picture of a death shroud or used tourniquette or old litter box liner if it was made with Amy Butler fabric. I figure that, if I can't figure out how to make the pillows, at the very least I can prop the magazine on my couch to give the illusion of pretty Amy Butler cushions.

Turns out this was a good purchase. I'm reading the magazine and learning a lot. I'm gaining confidence in my sewing skills and feeling good about myself as a human being. However, I'm bothered by something I found at the end of the magazine:

Hey Marie Osmond of TV's "Donny and Marie and, later, Donny & Marie: whatcha doin' with that soldering iron? Why are you smiling like that while you burn sparkly pink stones into that ass? Has your face moved since 1982? Do you always wear your pink immovable vinyl jacket casually around the house while working on simple yet dazzling craft projects? If I continue sewing, am I going to turn into you? Because if so, please give me my D so I can get on with my life. Thanks.

Posted by Robin at 07:19 PM | Comments (9)

January 03, 2006

Worst. Date. Ever.

Holy shit, it's 2006! 1996 was one of the most pivotal years of my life, and ast night I realized - hello - it was ten years ago.

1996 was the first year since 1975 that I wasn't in school at any point during the calendar year. It was the year when I got my first "real" job - full time, benefits, pager and a pointy-haired micromanager. It was the year of my first serious grown-up relationship in which the L-word was uttered. Two L-words, actually: love, eventually followed by "lunkheaded-geeky-big-ol'-mama's-boy" when the relationship ended six months later. The 10th anniversary of the beginning of that relationship will fall within a day or two of Clara Jane's second birthday.

In 1996, I spent a lot of time with my old pal, Big Daddy B., which means I did a lot of stuff that I won't mention, since my mother insists on reading my blog. She probably doesn't want to know the details of Tequila Night. Or about all the nights at the gay bar. And she definitely doesn't want to know about that one time, when we were at a drag show, and I had a slight altercation with a drag queen. She (the drag queen, not my mom) kept grabbing at my boobs, eventually forcing me to bare my cleavage and annouce, "You can't beat Mother Nature, Honey, so don't even try." This would be the first of a series of boob-related drag queen altercations that littered my mid-20s.

Big Daddy B. and I had been friends since middle school, but hadn't seen each other for a few years, despite living in the same town and attending the same university. Such is the nature of our friendship. We're a little too intense for each other, so we need spells of a year or two or five every now and then to cool off. We ended one of those periods in January, 1996, and I've always felt our reunion was my reward for having gone through THE WORST DATE IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, which happened - I honestly can't believe this - a decade ago this week.

His name was Tom, and his last name was the same as my mom's maiden name. I can't recall how we met. For awhile that January, I was seeing four different guys and I don't recall where he fit in. I just remember the date. It was hastily planned, one of those, "Hey. You wanna grab dinner tonight?" deals. Since Boy #1, Boy #2, and/or Boy #3 hadn't already claimed me for that evening, and I was getting used to having my dinner purchased for me, I bit.

Tom wasn't exactly what I considered physically attractive, but he was smart and seemed interesting, and I've always been good with two out of three on the smart/interesting/hot triumverant. He had a really thick, dark beard and nerdy horn-rimmed glasses which, with the right interesting personality, can be assets. But I digress.

We hit my favorite little Italian cafe for some live music and pasta. A side note: can I say just how much I miss Bambino's? I really, really do. I miss being able to walk there from my apartment. I miss being 22 years old and being wooed by Rocket, the musician 18 years my senior. During a performance at Bambino's, he once sang "Brown-Eyed Girl" to me. "This song's for the beautiful redhead at the bar," he said. I sat on my barstool, sucking down a bottle of Bud, and yelled, "My eyes are green, you old fart!" While my life is infinitely better, and I'm a much better person now than I was then, I do get a little nostalgic for those days when my behavior earned me a song written in my (dis)honor - "Hurricane Robin". Every woman should have a song written about who she was when she was a wicked 22-year-old. But I'm digressing again, definitely a sign that I'm a decade past my wild days.

ANYWAY, Tom and I had dinner at Bambino's. We were about five minutes into our entrees when I noticed a big glob of Alfredo sauce lodged in his beard. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't shut the hell up long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.

The entire time we were at Bambino's, that sauce just sat there. Congealing. Quivering with every blah blah blah de blah blah word that came out of his mouth. If it had been marinara, it might not have bothered me as much. If it had been an olive oil-coated jumbo prawn, it might not have bothered me as much. But it was Alfredo. Greasy, slimy, white Alfredo. And oh my God, do you know what it looked like? Do you? Well, I don't think I have to tell you. Please don't make me tell you what it looked like. Because you know what it looked like.

About an hour after the Alfredo blob first appeared, we headed back to my place. Somewhere during the drive, the glob disappeared. No, I don't want to know what happened to it, either.

He walked me to my door, where I intended to thank him for dinner and beat a hasty retreat. I mean, I had three other guys in my stable; I had every intention of putting this one out to pasture.

Somehow, he wound up in my apartment. Where we sat on my couch.

For four fucking hours.

Until well after 2 a.m.

For one of those hours - a full hour, my friends! I know because I fucking timed it! - we did nothing but watch my cat play with a stray sock, and discuss the cat's sock-hunting techniques.

By the three and a half hour mark, I was sitting, ne, wedged, at the far end of the couch, sending every non-verbal, "Take your faux-semen-covered chin and go home NOW!" non-verbal signal I could muster while he droned on and on and on and on until I heard two words that got my attention:

"My wife."

"You're wife???"

He smiled slyly.

"What do you mean, wife? You're married?" I hissed, finally seeing a socially acceptable opportunity to scream, "Get out of my house, you troglodyte!"

He kept smiling. "I'm not married. Well, not anymore."

"Divorced?"

"No," still smiling. "Guess again."

"Seperated?"

"Nope. I'm a widower."

Well, then.

I don't know what's worse: the fact that we played a guessing game that could have been called "Guess How My Wife Became My Former Wife", or the fact that he kept that fucking grin on his face the entire time.

Oh my God. He's grinning. Grinning like a maniac. He killed her. I bet he fucking killed her.

And when you start entertaining thoughts that your "date" may have possibly offed his first wife, that's when it's time to officially call it a night.*

How does this pertain to my friendship with Big Daddy B.? Turns out, Tom and Big Daddy were co-workers. The following Monday, Tom went to work, bragging about his date with a cinematographer (I was an entry-level video producer). Somehow, it came out that it was me, thus leading to a reunion with my old pal, my reward for my night with the cum-faced wife-killer.

*I have no problem with young widowers, and I did feel horrible for his loss. But the fact that my brain immediately jumped from sympathy to, "Oh my God, I'll bet he did it!" was quite telling.

Posted by Robin at 02:21 PM | Comments (9)