November 30, 2006

Day Thirty - Last Day! Real Content!

Ice has been falling from the sky since 8:30 this morning, minus taking off the noon hour for lunch. This is what my front porch step looks like:

Ice. On the step. Tread with caution.
So sparkly. So terrifying.

Awhile back, my Yooper mother-in-law made wise about us "southerners" closing schools when we have an inch of snow, while they function just fine with 3,847 feet of white stuff on the ground. To which my mother replied, "Ever try to drive on a two-inch sheet of ice?" or something to that effect.

We're not having a snow day today; we're having an ice day. I'd decided to keep Clara Jane home from daycare about ten minutes before her teacher called to tell me they were going to close due to weather.

Oh, how I love snow/ice day! I throw the rules out the window on snow/ice day. We can watch too much TV, eat junk food, play a little loose and free with naptime. What does it matter? We're not going anywhere!

The day started with Clara Jane asking to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas during breakfast. We piled onto the couch, she with her apple, cheddar cheese, and sippy of milk; I with my steel-cut oatmeal and coffee, for that is the snow/ice day way.

About a year ago, on a similar snow day, I made a post about making cookies and watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" with Clara Jane. Today was no different, but completely different. I had a job for us.

I've been in a bit of a quandry about our Christmas tree this year. Clara Jane loves Christmas trees with a depth that borders on idolotry. I'm cool with that. The problem is, our tree (which we haven't set up yet; I refuse to buy a tree prior to December) is always decorated in tastefully matched silver and purple glass bulbs that we got for a wedding gift. Very breakable glass bulbs. On one hand, I don't want to deny my little tree-hugger. On the other, I don't want to spend the next month with shards of glass wedged in my feet.

Solution: let's make salt dough ornaments! Better yet, let's paint the salt dough ornaments purple and silver so I'm not completely sacrificing my pretty, pretty ornaments! And even more better, making salt dough ornaments will give us something to do when we hit Hour Three of snow/ice day and I start freaking out because we're snow/icebound.

Oh, what a difference a year makes.

December, 7, 2005:
Cookie cutter bracelets
Clara Jane wears her cookie cutters as creative fashion accessories, and covers two rooms of my house with green decorator's sugar.

November 30, 2006:
Making sugar dough ornaments
Clara Jane personally cuts three baking sheet's worth of salt dough ornaments all by herself, even lifting them off the table with a spatula and placing the on the baking sheets without dropping or breaking. Unlike her professionally-trained cook mother, whose salt dough cut-outs look like the snowmen who live near the toxic waste dump.

Last year: Clara Jane kept talking to the children on the TV as if they were really there.

This year: While making ornaments and listening to the show's soundtrack, Clara Jane recites bits of dialogue she remembers from her breakfast viewing of the show, reenacting the entire Schoder and Lucy piano scene.

Last year: I'm sure there was probably a temper tantrum when all the green sugar disappeared from her grip.

This year: Clara Jane has the emotional maturity to say, "This song makes me feel happy," when "Christmastime is Here" comes on.

Last year: Clara Jane squwaked a bit about being stuck at home.

This year: "Mommy, can we make a snowman?" No, honey. I'm afraid the only thing we can make out of this stuff is a Vanilla Iceman.

Last year: Clara Jane shoved half a tube of pre-made cookie dough down her gullet.

This year: "Mommy, we don't eat Play-Doh." That's what she said when I stupidly kissed the wad of salt dough she held in her hand.

And she's right. Don't eat the dough. It'll dry out your innards. Some things are learned the hard way.

Posted by Robin at 03:37 PM | Comments (11)

November 29, 2006

Day Twenty-Nine - The Scary Room

Do you have any idea how pissed off I'll be if I wake up with no power tomorrow because of the massive winter storm that's coming to destroy us all and I'm unable to post? You have no idea. Winter's wrath? Nothing compared to Robin's Wrath From Posting Every Damn Day for a Month and Getting Canned on Day 30.

Remember the deal with NaBloPoMo? How, if you didn't post daily, you should at least comment a bunch for those of us who are posting daily? You've totally fallen down on the jobs, you lazy slacks. Delurk, dammit.

I have a new sewing machine, which I ordered last week. I'm thrilled because, unlike my old sewing machine, this one doesn't weigh as much as my truck. It's plastic, and it feels flimsy after years of sewing on a machine made from Army tank metal, but I don't care because I can pick it up without the need for a lifting brace.

I wasn't home to receive my sewing machine delivery, and when I saw the UPS sticker on my door, I figured I'd have to wait until tomorrow to get my machine. Not the case, as the UPS carrier probably doesn't want to navigate the steep, usually unsalted road in front of my house. The note simply said, "under back porch".

I don't have a back porch.

I went to the backyard, expecting to to find the package under the flight of stairs that lead to the backdoor. No package.

I checked to make sure the dogs hadn't stolen it to make sparkly, scanty costumes for their Vegas act. No sewing dogs.

I peeked into the scary room, which really isn't a room at all. The previous owners built on a room to the back of our house that extends past the basement. The room's basically on stilts surrounded by flimsy walls. We removed the door several years ago. Or rather, our next door neighbor, Boy, removed the door for us by throwing a cinder block at it repeatedly. That's okay. Without a door, the scary room might seem a little less appealing to neighborhood junkies looking for a new crack den in which to squat.

Speaking of squatting, we have a toilet in the scary room. It's not hooked up to anything. It's just there. I can't recall why. I think Boy's parents gave it to us to replace the wobbly one in our bathroom.

You know, the more I write about the scary room and its contents, the more I realize that every single thing about the scary room requires explaination. In hindsight, I probably could have spent the entire month explaining the scary room and I wouldn't have run out of material. Anyway.

Boy's father worked in maintenance for an apartment complex and was always giving us cast-offs. I had an army of cast-off refrigerators in my basement during my catering days, thanks to Boy's day (Big Boy?). Although now that I think about it, who the hell wants a second-hand (second-ass?) toilet?

Point is, my sewing machine was perched on the toilet in the scary room. For obvious reasons that cracked me up, but not enough for me to go back inside and get my camera.

December is going to be NaShuUp&SewMo - National Shut Up and Sew Month.

Posted by Robin at 09:14 PM | Comments (13)

November 28, 2006

Day Twenty-Eight - Thank God, a Tagging!

I'd hoped to write one of my long-winded, thoughtful, possibly humorous posts today, probably about earplugs, but that's so not going to happen. I'm exhausted. Still feeling slightly crappy, and Clara Jane's still snotting all over the place. I spent the day trying to get everything back to normal after the long weekend away, which means shitloads of laundry. No real break, since The Snotmeister 2004 opted to not nap today.

Yeah. Brain-dead. That's me.

Luckily, my old pal Kara Joy, who I've known since we weren't a whole lot older than our kids are now, tagged me to talk about how weird I am. I'm pretty sure I did a similar meme a year or so back. Once I answer this one, I'll dig up the URL for the old one and post the link so you can get a double-dose of my weirdness. We'll see if I repeat.

Are y'all getting bored with this? You're getting bored with this. I can tell. You're all very quiet. I don't blame you one bit at all. I'd be sick of me, too, if I'd read 28 days of me.

Anyway, back to the meme. Here's the rules: Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you”. People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

I normally don't tag, but I'm going to tag some of my fellow NaBloPoMoers to give them a boost. I know I needed it.

1. I love grocery stores. It can be frou-frou places like Whole Foods or Wine & Cheese Place, or a small-town mom & pop joint. Doesn't matter. I love them all, and I'm compelled to check them out. If I'm in a new city, I have to check out as many grocery stores as possible, partially because I have to try the local potato chips. Canadians - ketchup-flavored potato chips? Why?

Sometimes I even miss grocery stores from my past, or get wistful about stores that I never visited. One of the local grocery chains went out of business the same week I moved to St. Louis almost eight years ago. Just last week I drove past what had been the location closest to my house and thought, "Gee, I wonder what shopping at National was like?"

2. My bras have to fit perfectly. If they don't, I will fidget myself to death. I'm not above doing pilates-style moves with my shirt hiked up to my ribcage to adjust the back strap in public, or, as I displayed a few days ago, standing on a patio with other human people and passersby on the street, bent over, with my hand shoved into my right cup to get everything adjusted just where I want it. But at least you'll never see my 32 ounce boobs spilling out of a 20 ounce cup. I may have absolutely no class whatsoever, but my boobs look good and I'm comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable, now that I think about it.

3. I read in bed every single night before I fall asleep. Doesn't matter how tired I am. I will read until my eyes slam shut, even if it's just one page.

4. I like my leftovers cold. Pizza, chili, Thanksgiving fixings (except for cold gravy, which is disgusting and could almost turn me off of gravy altogether ... almost), fried chicken, burritos. I rarely reheat any of them. This goes against everything I learned in culinary school about taste and temperature, but I don't care. I like cold leftovers. Always have. Although I seem to be outgrowing my cold chili affection. I've been reheating it over the past few years.

5. I hate having unannounced visitors, mainly because I dress like a complete slob when I'm at home and I'm probably not wearing a bra, despite (or because of) what I said in #2. If you were to drop in right now, you'd find me in ratty yoga pants, a three-year-old maternity t-shirt that's threadbare in areas and, of course, no bra. You'd find yourself punched in the face. Okay, not really, but you'd probably find yourself standing on my porch, wondering why I'm glaring out the window at you and not letting you in.

6. I've never had a cavity or braces.

Am I as weird as I was sixteen months ago? You be the judge.

I lied. I'm not going to tag. Too tired and lazy. If you're NaBloPoMoing and need some fodder, run with it.

Posted by Robin at 06:18 PM | Comments (9)

November 27, 2006

Day Twenty-Seven - Phoning in Some Dots

Yeah, I know the content has been sketchy at best. Busy weekend, busy day, and not a lot of energy. I've managed to catch my 8th (or thereabout) coldish-type malady of the season. Nothing bad, just enough to make me want to lie on the couch and do nothing. But I'll be damned if I give up on NaBloPoMo with less than a week to go.

1. Storm Coming - Gnarls Barkley
2. Glad Girls - Guided by Voices
3. Hot Dog (Watch Me Eat) - Detroit Cobras
4. Car Carrier Blues - Leo Kottke and Mike Gordon
5. Your Little Hoodrat Friend - The Hold Steady (who are quickly becoming one of my favorite groups)
6. Bad Reputation - Joan Jett
7. Kick Me to the Curb - The Dollyrots
8. Harder to Ignore - The Features
9. Adventure - Be Your Own Pet
10. This Sentence Will Ruin/Save Your Life - Born Ruffians
11. Fire Sign - The Gossip
12. London's Burning - The Clash
13. Don't Speak (I Came to Make a Bang!) - Eagles of Death Metal
14. If You Have to Ask - Red Hot Chili Peppers
15. The New Seeker - Clinic
16. That Teenage Feeling - Neko Case
17. Fired - Ben Folds
18. Is That the Thanks I Get? - Jeff Tweedy
19. Why Drunky? - The Blacks
20. They're Blind - Kelly Willis
21. Glitter in Their Eyes - Patti Smith

Posted by Robin at 03:04 PM | Comments (2)

November 26, 2006

Day Twenty-Six - Home

We are home, where no one will fart on a loved one, and no one will drool into the mouth of a loved one.

It's good to be back, although I'll miss laughing at the farts and drool, since I wasn't the recipient of either. Good thing Christmas is only a month away and we can do it all over again.

Posted by Robin at 08:43 PM | Comments (3)

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 24, 2006

Day Twenty-Four - Trussing up Loose Ends Like a Turkey

Seriously. If I eat anything else for the rest of my life, I'll die. I'm sure of it. I think my spleen has been forced out of my body by the 3.8 pounds of cornbread stuffing I've consumed in the past 24 hours. However, I promised to tell you about some stuff, and I intend to do so, hopefully before my fingers expand to a size too large to be accomodated by a standard keyboard.

Sadly, I will not be poking fun at Two-Finger Bill and the Harmonica Man. Today we had a big family lunch at the cafe where they hang out. It was just Two-Finger Bill, and he was crying. Nothing breaks my heart quite like someone sad, all alone in a restaurant. I overheard the server consoling him, and it was obvious someone died. No word on whether it was Harmonica Man or not. Regardless, I can't make fun of someone when they've been all human like that.

I can, however, make fun of my family.

I'm slightly embarrassed to admit this, but in my family, when dinner's complete, everyone under the age of 50 disappears, leaving clean-up duty to the moms and old ladies. I know. I know. We're terrible human beings and need to be horse-whipped. Wait here and I'll go get the whip for you.

I blame this on the fact that, before Clara Jane was born, the last baby born in our family arrived in 1981. This lack of children has allowed us, the last generation of children, to remain as such well into adulthood. Either that, or we're just a bunch of lazy assholes content to let our mothers, grandmother, and great-aunt all the hard work.

Really, I'd like you to smack me.

Yesterday, my mom informed B., my cousin Travis, The Cuz and I that we were going to be on clean-up duty. First we tried to convince her that we all had pressing engagements to attend at 12:30. When that didn't work, we tried our usual tactic of lying on the couch while our overfed carcasses bloated. Not exactly a good tactic, but we really couldn't muster the energy to do much else. We were shooed into the kitchen, and rightfully so.

We restrained ourselves for a full five minutes before food started being flung:

Dear Jesus: I'm so thankful for the abundance you've granted me. I'm especially thankful that you've blessed us with so many dinner rolls that we can freely whip them at my cousin's face. Thank you.
Clean-up duty

We found a good home for the rolls that were spared from being whipped at Travis' face:

Then Travis found an efficient way to wash the pots:
Washing dishes

Not only will we never have to clean up again, I'm pretty sure none of us will be invited back. Shut up, Mom.

After clean-up, the weather was so gorgeous that we all went outside to watch the horses.

Chloe had her Thanksgiving feast: horse shit.
A Thanksgiving feast
It was almost as abundant as dinner rolls to be whipped at Travis' face. My parents have the best naturally-fertilized yard ever.

While sitting outside in the horse latrine, my granny - the sweet Pentecostal granny who never says anything bad - was talking about circus peanuts. Only it came out as "circuit penis". Wendy died a little inside at that moment:
Wendy's dying inside
I was starting to worry that this might be a sign of Granny's advancing age. Because one of my biggest skills is spotting signs of impending death and/or decreption and then panicking about them. You might recall back in October when Granny had a similar verbal slip-up involving erection-shooting. But my mom told me that when she was little, Granny once told the minister, "Maxine (my mom) likes to chew the tits off of bobby pins," so apparently she's lived a life full of accidental verbal porn. Who knew?

We didn't actually put paper plates in the dishwasher, but after our clean-up, we realized we should have, just to guarantee that we wouldn't be asked back.

After the family left, my parents, B., Clara Jane and I headed downtown. Every Thanksgiving night, they light up the restored old hotel, followed with fireworks set to "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy".

I destroyed my back and got my glasses snatched right off my face:

This lighting/fireworks business is pretty new. As in, this isn't something that we always did after Thanksgiving. For most of the time I lived in my hometown, the hotel was a rat-trap flophouse. A few years ago it was fully restored to its Jazz Age splendor. B. and I spent our wedding night there. It's rather astounding to see the transformation of my little town.
Downtown Sedalia, Missouri

I was also amazed that I only recognized one person in the crowd. I had assumed that I would see people I knew, and would be recognized by people from my past. I neglected to remember that I lived here for 18 years, but I've lived elsewhere for over 15 years. My mark in my hometown is mostly gone. It's a different place now, one that shoots fireworks off the roof of an 80-year-old building. And that's fine with me.


Posted by Robin at 08:11 PM | Comments (11)

November 23, 2006

Day Twenty-Three? Four? The Things to Remember for Later

I'm far too triptophaned out to do any justice to ... what was I saying? Right. So here's a list of things I'm going to try to tell you tomorrow:

Yep, that's pretty much Thanksgiving in these parts.

Posted by Robin at 08:26 PM | Comments (4)

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 21, 2006

Day Twenty-One - A Fancypants Dead Deer

Spotted this morning at the fancypants intersection of Lindbergh and Ladue Road in the most fancypants part of St. Louis:

Pretty much self-explanatory, don't you think? Actually, it's not. You know I want to know why someone's hauling a dead deer around the toniest part of town. I'm guessing the driver didn't pick this bad boy up at a pre-Thanksgiving sale/tea up the street at Neiman-Marcus.

Oddly, this isn't the first dead deer hoof I've faced this week. Yesterday, PKB and I were partaking in one of our favorite hobbies - running amok in an antiques mall. Her find of the day: a taxidermied dead deer hoof that had been fashioned into an ink well, which I'm sort of regretting not buying.

I think the dead deer are trying to send me a me a message. Any ideas on what it may be, because I'm clueless on this one.

Posted by Robin at 09:48 PM | Comments (8)

November 20, 2006

Day Twenty - In Which I Beg for Clothes

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

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

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

Not the case eleven years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 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)

November 18, 2006

Day Eighteen - I Need My Face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unibrows aren't so bad. Really.

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

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)

November 16, 2006

Day Sixteen - This is My Post

This is all you get today.

I spent 30+ minutes writing a post, only to have it vanish when I accidentally hit whatever key combination on piece of shit Microsuck keyboards that makes windows vanish.

Too bad, as the entry I was writing involved $6 candy bars. I was going to give them away to readers, had the keyboard not fucked things up for everyone.

Send your complaints to the Microsoft Corporation.

Thank you.

Posted by Robin at 05:35 PM | Comments (5)

November 15, 2006

Day Fifteen - Schlemiel-Schlamazel

It's a crap day around here. From the hours of 3 AM until 7:15ish AM, my eyes remained open. The wee bit of sleep I eeked out afterwards barely counts for anything. I've got a massive knot in the middle of my back from three nights of trying to sleep on the couch, since conditions in my bed have been less than optimal for sleeping of late. To top it off, once again it rained all day. Normally I love chilly, rainy fall days, but we've had several in a row. Quite frankly, it's making my dogs stir-crazy, which in turn is making me a little nuts. Trust me, there are few things as pitisome as a Basset hound with cabin fever. But we've got one. At one point, she was so bored that she crammed her head under the couch cushions to do a little crumb-surfing. She and Murphy both sat at rapt attention, listening intently while I read Biscuit books to Clara Jane. When dogs take an interest in literature, you know they're mere inches away from the dreaded Death by Boredom.

I totally phoned it in today. Clara Jane and I stayed in our jammies. We ordered pizza for lunch and ate in on the couch while watching "Sesame Street". Since her sleep patterns are a bit wonky right now, too, there was no napping. We read and played, watched way too much TV, and snuggled. No new things were learned. No new experiences were had. We ate bad food and watched bad TV, but we'll get to that in a bit.

I don't know if this happens to everyone, but if I see parts of day which I normally sleep through, it really screws with my perception of time through the rest of the day. Luckily, most of the time, it makes the day fly by. That's what happened today. If feels like it should be about 3:00 and it's nearly 6:00, which means sweet, sweet sleep in the spare bedroom is just around the corner.

We watched a lot of "Laverne & Shirley" today. I know I've mentioned my lifelong adoration of Laverne & Shirley. It was my favorite show when I was a kid, and in the past few months I've rediscovered it via digital cable upper-tier reruns. You know, on the cable channels no one ever watches. As far as I can tell, this particular channel, a spin-off of Lifetime, shows nothing but reruns of decade-old made-for-Lifetime shows and Laverne & Shirley. Every afternoon from 2-4 (which is Clara Jane's naptime), it's time to go to Milwaukee and hang out with those girls.

I'm always amazed that when I'm having a bad day, this channel has a knack for showing episodes I absolutely adored back in the day that still crack me up. Maybe that's because I adored just about every episode. Today was no exception. There was a talent show episode, and let me tell you, if I was allowed only one sub-sub-sub-sub-sub genre of TV for the rest of my life, I would chose the Laverne & Shirley talent show episode sub-sub-sub-sub-sub genre, as that's just about the best TV ever made. There was also the hilarious episode where Laverne breaks a tooth and Shirley's dental student cousin offers to fix it for free. There's a scene where the girls are in the exam room, stoned on laughing gas, that I find just as funny now as I did when I was ten. "Reach for the sky!" "You wouldn't dare!"

Which means I really haven't matured much over the past 24 years.

As an adult, one who happened to be bored and exhausted while entertaining these thoughts, I've noticed that a lot of decisions in my adult life led to Laverne & Shirleyesque situations and scenarios. To whit:

In this time-wonky "Laverne & Shirley"-filled afternoon, I caught myself thinking back to being ten years old, and how that seems to be the year that formed my personality. The things I liked when I was ten are pretty much the things I love now: "Laverne & Shirley" reruns in the afternoon, books (I read the better part of an encyclopedia set that year), writing (thanks to an encouraging third-grade teacher), music (I got my first radio that year), cooking (I learned about clipping and organizing recipes that summer. It was a decade before I set foot in a kitchen, but it was ingrained.). It was all there when I was 10.

I was obsessed with baseball when I was ten, something that's fallen by the wayside. And yet, when our power and cable were knocked out the night of the final game of the World Series, you know what I did as soon as the lights were back on? I sprinted to the nearest radio to see if the Cardinals were winning. And when they did, you better believe I cried like a little kid. The baseball thing might not be front and center anymore, but damn if it's not still lurking.

Immature sense of humor aside, maybe this is the sign of adulthood: getting past the trial and error of youth and realizing that what you liked when you were a kid, before your brain was bombarded with choices and options, is the core of who you really are.

If that's the case, pass the milk & Pepsi and smack an oversized L on my left boob.

Posted by Robin at 05:49 PM | Comments (3)

November 14, 2006

Day Fourteen - Phhhhhhhhhhhhht

I'm so not down with posting today.

Only one thing of interest has happened this week, and while I could blog about it, I won't because it would be unfair for reasons I can't divulge.

Don't you hate it when bloggers get all cryptic and shit? I know I do.

Granted, I'll take boring over last week's emotional near-trainwreck and pukefest. It makes for dull writing, though. Yeah, I could go into the archives of my brain like I did yesterday, but I was just there and don't feel like going back just yet. Instead, I'm going to blatantly copy my pal Dixie and give you fourteen dots.

Posted by Robin at 06:28 PM | Comments (2)

November 13, 2006

Day Thirteen - Clean Nuts

My life just isn't exciting enough to support 30 blog entries in a row, so I'm going into the vaults today. I can't remember if I've told this story here before. I do know that I've told it everywhere else, but so severe is my lack of material, I'm telling it yet again. I considered being really lazy and simply pasting the piece I wrote regarding this story years ago, the one that landed me a long-term gig with a food magazine, but I'm going to take the effort to retell it. Which actually means I'm too lazy to look for the original on my hard drive.

This isn't random, though. A few minutes ago I glanced at the book for my recent-acquired bread machine. There's a recipe on the cover, written in my mom's handwriting, for English toffee, which is where our story begins.

Back in 1995, I was fresh out of college, living in my first apartment without roommates, and discovering a love for cooking I didn't realize I had. That holiday season, I learned to make English toffee, one of my all-time favorite candies. I'd spread a cup of chopped pecans in a pan, then cook three-quarters of a cup of brown sugar with half a cup of butter until it did that thing that candy does that makes it, well, candy. I'd dump the hot sugar and butter over the pecans, then sprinkle it with half a cup of chopped chocolate, which would melt from the heat of the sugar-butter. An hour later, when everything had cooled and hardened, I'd have a pan filled with sugary, buttery, nutty, chocolatey goodness, which might be one of the best goodnesses known to humanity.

British food gets a bad rap, but they totally make up for it be virtue of inventing a food that it nothing but butter and sugar. That forgives a lot of culinary sins, even the existance of Marmite.

Anyway, I made pounds upon pounds of English toffee that holiday season. I made it for friends, for my office, for myself. I could even make it while slightly drunk on cheap white zinfindel, so adept I was at toffee-making.

For whatever reason, my mom and I made plans to have a big ol' cooking day on December 23rd. Unusual, because most holiday cooking in my family involves my mom standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips, sighing heavily while she says, "Either do something useful or get the hell out of the way." I was going to do my toffee and rum balls. She was going to make homemade rolls (with the bread machine that's currently sitting on my kitchen table, incubating an oat loaf) and I don't even remember what else. Before we got to work, we paid a visit to my granny.

Now, my granny knows something about making sweet stuff. We all know that she's the jelly-making queen of west-central Missouri. She's also a wiz with peanut brittle, and my parents and I ran for the tins of it that day. As we shoveled it in, not even a bit concerned about ripping our maws to shreads with jagged brittle bits, Granny told us what was, without question, the most disturbing thing I've ever heard her say.

Now, keep in mind my granny grew up poor with a huge family during the Great Depression. She's thrifty, and never throws anything away. Ever. She used to have a dog that I'm pretty sure subsisted entirely on leftover biscuits and gravy. When I was a kid and decided to start a stamp collection, Granny disappeared to her attic, returning with vases filled with several decades-worth of cancelled postage stamps. I had a collection in a day. Kind of takes the fun out of it, really.

"I just couldn't get that brittle to set," she said while we behaved like sugar-covered peanut-starved coyotes. "I left it for several hours and it was still liquid by the time I went to bed. But then I couldn't sleep for thinking about it. So I got up, dug it out of the trash, washed the peanuts and remade it."

We stopped the feeding frenzy.

"We're eating peanuts that have been in the trash?"

"Well, I washed them. They're just fine!"

And for the next hour, my family brutally teased a sweet, candy-making old lady for being so damn cheap that she couldn't sleep over $3-worth of discarded peanuts, which she later fed to her family.

Think about that the next time you try to swipe a handful of Granny's awesome holiday party mix.

A few hours later, my mom and I were back at her house, confident in our cooking abilities, knowing we would never, ever feed anyone discarded and washed peanuts.

Now, Granny is the sweetest person in the world and would wish no harm on anyone. But Granny is also a very devout Pentecostal. While I'm sure she would never ask God to unleash His wrath on anyone, I'm not convinced that, if God witnessed anyone making jabs at one of his finer followers that He wouldn't do a little manipulation. This is the only possible explaination for why I used butter-flavored Crisco in my rum balls and my English toffee. My butter toffee. Repeatedly. The rum balls had the texture of boozy mothballs, and I spent hours making toffee, waiting for it to set, watching it burn to the black tar that fills my soul, throwing it out, and starting over.

In the meantime, my mom had approximately 274 batches of dinner rolls fail to rise.

About six hours into this cooking melee, I left the house for real butter, and so I could weep in the car and while walking the aisles of the grocery store. When I returned home, I looked through the window in the back door before entering the kitchen, and immediately started backing away from what I witnessed.

The cabinet doors under the sink were flung open. The bottom half of my dad's body stuck out of the doors, surrounded by heaps of tools. My mom came running to the door to let me in, and I shook my head in horror.

I'm not going back into that culinary house of terror! You can't make me!

Dad was taking the pipes apart to retrieve a towel, which had been snatched from my mom's hands by the garbage disposal. "Next time it's your hand," it growled.

"My God! The authorities need to get over here and rope this unholy place off with police tape before we all die!" I wailed. And then I proceeded to make batch #492 of my English fucking toffee, because 1) I finally had real butter, 2) I'm tenacious, and 3) I'm an idiot.

Even with the real butter, something went horribly wrong and my golden toffee turned black. I didn't give a shit. I dumped it onto my now-stale pecans, tossed a handful of chocolate chips in their general directions, and took my ass to bed.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen to find my mom standing at the work island, perfectly-sliced rectangles of toffee on a plate before her smiling face. "My toffee! It's perfect! Christmas miracle!" I squealed.

"Well, not quite. Yours never set up," she said. "I made this batch and it looks pretty good, don't you think? Have some."

I bit into the candy, and it was heaven. Sweet, buttery, tooth-shatteringly perfect.

"I didn't realize you had more pecans," I said. "I thought we only had the half a cup I used last night."

"Well, no, we didn't have more pecans. I, uh ... "

Oh lord, no.

"I rinsed your toffee goo off the pecans and reused them. But they never went into the trash can! I swear!"

I continued eating. "You know, the only part of this that gives me any hope at all is the fact that, at least you washed a slightly more expensive nut. When my turn comes to wash nuts, there's a chance it'll be something classy, like cashews. Or maybe macadamias, if I work really hard and marry well."

It was five years later, and they were really pricey locally-grown black walnuts from a botched batch of cookies that never got baked.

Shut up. They rocked.

Posted by Robin at 03:38 PM | Comments (9)

November 12, 2006

Day Twelve - Lazy Day Dots

This is the first day of NaBloPoMo that I haven't been chomping at the bit to post. Why? Laziness. I didn't have the best night's sleep last night, and I've wanted nothing more than to have a lazy, do-nothing day. But I committed to post, and post I must. But what's there to say on a lazy, do-nothing day?

Posted by Robin at 05:21 PM | Comments (10)

November 11, 2006

Day Eleven - Was a Pretty Good One

Like most married gals, I do a lot of bitching about playing the role of Julie, Your Cruise Director in this family. When we were dating, B. used to plan all sorts of cool things for us to do. Part of it was out of necessity. Since we lived in different cities, I couldn't be held responsible for planning activities in his city. Otherwise, we would have done nothing but go to the Gateway Arch and concerts, because that's all I knew of St. Louis. He introduced me to great restaurants, took me to really cool festivals, and led me in explorations of neighborhoods I never would have found on my own. Once, he even took his frequent flier miles and gave me a choice of two cities for a surprise weekend away.

Then I moved to St. Louis, and the planning went away. I've spent the past seven years leveling allegations of false advertising.

In light of recent events and moods, B., with a few suggestive nudges from my pal PKB, put himself back in my cruise director shoes (they're sensable flats, what with walking the decks and such) and created a delightful day for us in which I didn't have to make one single, solitary decision!

First, he took Clara Jane to PKB's house while I was still asleep this morning, giving me the opportunity to get showered and dressed without an audience. It also provided me with the opportunity to watch one of my favorite "Beavis and Butthead" moments of all time. Any day that starts with making fun of Morrissey is going to be a good day.

When B. picked me up, I found that he'd cleaned the inside of my truck, which is akin to cleaning out the interior of an abandoned crack den, but with few pipes. I'm not a tidy driver. In my newly stink-free vehicle, we headed to Pretty Town for excellent diner food. So massive was my breakfast that I brought about half a hog's leg-worth of ham steak with me afterwards, which I gnawed on throughout the day as we drove around town, looking at houses. Any day in which you get to gnaw on half a pound of ham while riding in your formerly-clean vehicle is going to be a good day.

My favorite house, which I'd buy in a heartbeat if we weren't shackled to this Morrissey of a crapshack, has just had its price reduced by $14,000.

It was an easy day. No big, earth-shattering events. Just the kind of things we took for granted before parenthood: being able to spend an hour or two browsing a bookstore in peace, driving around while ham-gnawing, going into little shops with breakable things, drinking a latte without divvying up rations of oversized chocolate chip cookie. Good stuff, all with the confidence that PKB was taking better care of our kid than we do.

PKB's been known to extoll the virtues of having a non-related kid in your life who you absolutely adore. I've had that for years, because I love her two boys as if they were my own. She used to tell me what a great feeling it is to have someone love your kids who isn't obligated out of bloodlines to do so. I get that now. Boy, do I get that.

Clara Jane's lacking in the relatives department. I don't have any siblings, and B.'s only brother isn't exactly in our lives. He lives in Austria, and we haven't seen him in over five years. He's never really acknowledged that he has a niece. Clara Jane's only cousins are second cousins. They're all awesome, but they're not here. Three of them are in my hometown, and The Cuz is way up in Minneapolis. It's not the same as the way I grew up, with all my aunts, uncles and cousins, second cousins, and even third cousins living within spitting distance. Literally. I grew up with cousins living across the street from me. While it sometimes makes me sad that Clara Jane isn't going to have what I had, I console myself with the knowledge that she does have aunts and uncles nearby - ones we've chosen for her.

Aside from visiting my parents on a regular basis, Clara Jane's never spent time away from us. Never had a babysitter, until today. Although "babysitter" is an understatement for PKB. "Worshipful Caretaker Who Thinks This Child Rules the World" is a little more appropriate. I love that Clara Jane has that in her life, and that I can leave her with PKB and not worry about her. At all. Not even a little.

This is to say nothing of the royal treatment my kid receives from PKB's boys, who are seven and almost-17. Something tells me The Little One is going to drive his mother crazy, asking her when Clara Jane's coming back.

Soon, my boy. Soon.

Tonight we're all back home, relaxed from having some time apart to do fun things. PKB described being around Clara Jane to opening the blinds and having the sun stream in. She's right, but you know what happens when you stare into the sun too long, don't you? You get a headache. Got to distribute the sunshine around a bit, which is exactly what we did. And it was good.

In a slightly unrelated note, it was brought to my attention that I have a bit of a following among the adolescent population of Edwardsville, Illinois. This tickles me to no end. Thanks, Kids. You're awesome. This, however, doesn't mean I will consent to buying beer for you. I won't. Don't ask.

Posted by Robin at 08:22 PM | Comments (4)

November 10, 2006

Day Ten - Friday Shuffle - Whatever I Feel Like Saying. Gosh. Edition

I've been writing an entry in my head for about 24 hours. I just can't quite get the balls to do it. I'm all about listening to my gut. If my gut is telling my non-existant balls to stay away, I should probably keep my mouth shut. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. My mouth has been known to overpower my gut and nonexistant balls.

Before I go any further, I do want to thank everyone who sent well-wishes yesterday. I'm doing much, much better, as I stated in my comments last night. In case you didn't read the comments, I'll repeat:

I should mention that I hate posting about depression. I really do, because I hate for people to worry about me. If I'm at the point where I'm writing about being depressed, it usually means the worst is over. For me, writing it down is my way of kicking the depression out. Unfortunately, I suck at conveying this in what I write, and for that I apologize. I put the writing on my blog because I do like getting an extra little validation and love, but also because there are a lot of people suffering from the same thing. I know that I feel better if someone articulates what I'm feeling and I can relate to it. By posting my depression rambles on my blog, there's a chance someone might read it and get it.

The downside is, it seems like someone always takes what I say the wrong way. I've lost friends over posts like this. Today's post gave me an added bit of stress that I really didn't need, but that's the consequences of leaving ones guts all over the internet, right? I guess it illustrates just how misunderstood depression still is. All the more reason to talk about it publically. A lot.

You see, I've spent many years getting very effective treatment for my depression, both medical and through therapy. Yesterday I could feel myself falling into the disease, and I used the tools I have to nip it as best I can. When I feel depression coming on, I write about it. I throw myself into music that I find soothing, which probably wouldn't be considered soothing by most people. I rest, so that I've got my best physical resources on my side. I reach out to people in my family and friends who have proven records of understanding the condition. I talk to my doctor and pay attention to signs that the depression might be rooted in something physical, since I have a long history of depression and anxiety in conjunction with my periods, as well as an insulin imbalance that can lead to emotional issues. I look at what's going on in my life to see if the depression might be situational. If it is, I turn to the coping skills I learned at one of the top anxiety therapy centers in the country. If that doesn't work, I've got my therapist on speed-dial.

Oh, what the hell. I just found my balls. Here's what I've been wanting to write for the past 24 hours.

How to Talk to a Depressed Person

There's a ton of information out there about how to approach a depressed person who isn't getting treatment, is in denial, or doesn't have a good support system. That's great, because those are the people who really need some intervention. Unfortunately, there's not a lot out there about how to talk to a person who knows she's depressed, acknowledges it, and is working through it in ways that probably aren't obvious from the outside perspective. If you say the same things to Depressed Person #2 that you'd say to Depressed Person #1, no matter how good your intentions are, you're probably making a huge mistake. So, as a service to all those folks who are lucky enough to not have the first-hand experience of living with this disease in themselves or someone in their everyday life, here's a few little pointers.

Life is not a Zoloft commercial. Sometimes, people do have to live like this.

Don't get me wrong - antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs can be lifesavers. They're not, however, magic. For most people with chronic forms depression, it's not as easy as going to the doc for a pill. Most antidepressants take at least two weeks to do any good. It takes time to find the right pill for the patient. People develop tolerances to antidepressants and they can stop working. There are some nasty side effects to consider. It can take years to find a combination that works. Some forms of depression are resistant to drugs. In that case, it doesn't matter how many times one goes to the doctor; it's still going to be there.

Not all depressions are the same. What worked for the friend of a friend might not work for your current friend.

It helps to understand the different kinds of depression before assuming that a depressed person doesn't have to live the way she does.

Learn more here

You are not Dr. Phil. Any version of "How's that's workin' for ya?" is probably not going to be well-received.

If your friend has a support system in place of people who see her daily, it's not your responsibility to question how she's handling her depression. Chances are, the husband who loves her, the mother who talks to her on the phone every day, the friends who see her and talk to her daily have already been on her ass. If you don't see what's going on up front and close on a regular, real-life basis, you don't have the information necessary to decide what is working and what isn't. Insisting on telling the person that you don't think it's working will do nothing but make her feel worse about herself. Depressed people don't need outside opinions about their lack of ability in handling the situation. They do a fine job of beating themselves up for their lack of coping ability all by themselves.

Ass u me. Don't do it.

Just because the depressed person is struggling with the disease, don't assume she's not taking care of herself. Don't assume she's not taking her meds, talking to her doctor, going to therapy unless she tells you she's not. These assumptions demean the depressed person and will make you look like an ass. Case in point, right here.

It's so not about you.

If you have a friend with diabetes, would you complain to her that you sure miss eating cake with her? If you have a friend who's an alcoholic, would you bitch about not being able to have a beer with her? If you have a friend with cancer, would you whine that she can't get together with you because she lacks energy from chemo? No? Then don't complain, bitch, or whine if your depressed friend can't provide you with emotional support during a depressive episode. Doing so will 1) damage your friendship, probably beyond repair, and 2) just make the depressed person feel worse. Again, a depressed person doesn't need to be reminded of her failures. She does plenty of that on her own.

Blah Blah Blah

Yeah, everyone tells you to be there to talk. Saying "I'm here for you" doesn't do a damn bit of good. Yep, you're there. Not telling me anything I don't know. In my experience, this sentence is said out of obligation. Any attempts at talking tend to be met with blank stares and changed subjects.

Ask specifics. "How are you feeling today?" "Is the depression any better?" "Can I take you to lunch/watch the kid for a few hours/bring you dinner/drop off a latte?" "You've been on my mind." Those are all good things.

If the depressed person doesn't want to talk about it, let her be. After talking about her depression to those closest to her, doctors, therapists, etc., maybe she just wants to talk about shoes or "My Name is Earl". Maybe she'd rather have a laugh with you over Barbie's feces-munching dog, instead of talking about all things dark and ugly. Don't take it personally if she doesn't spill her depressed little guts at your feet.

Be prepared to shuffle

Life with depression is a lot like listening to music on shuffle. You can be going along with a streak of excellent songs and bam! Suddenly, your iPod's blaring I've Never Been to Me and you don't know why because you're sure you ran that program that erases shit music from you iPod, but there it is. Sometimes you can listen to it and laugh because suck is hilarious! Sometimes you hit the forward button and "Born to Run" will come on. Sometimes you hit the forward button, and it's "Achy Breaky Heart" and you just can't handle it or anything else. Sometimes people will commiserate with just how awful that song is. Sometimes they'll sing along to make you laugh. Sometimes they'll lash out because they can't understand why you can't get over it; it's just a damn song. Sometimes you just hope the battery dies and ends it all. Sometimes you can say, "This sucks. This hurts. I'm uncomfortable and afraid but I have ways to deal. They may be sloppy, imperfect ways of dealing. So be it."

1. The Globe - Big Audio Dynamite II
2. Indianapolis - Bottle Rockets
3. Gimme Stitches - Foo Fighters
4. Not Fade Away - Buddy Holly & the Crickets
5. Jimmy the Exploder - White Stripes (a song that always makes me feel better because it's about a monkey jumping on the bed and you just can't go wrong with that.)
6. Little Ghost - White Stripes
7. Family Business - Kanye West
8. Tag-Tag - Q and Not U
9. Tried to be True - Indigo Girls
10. No Child of Mine - PJ Harvey

Posted by Robin at 04:08 PM | Comments (17)

November 09, 2006

Day Nine - Less Than You Think

I'm so accustomed to the onset of depression that I can feel the tiniest first symtoms, the same way I know that a faint, dull occasional throb in the back of my throat will explode into strep, so my current state doesn't surprise me. I knew it was incubating.

Just like I know that, if I'm around sneezing, snotty people, in a few days I'll feel the first signs of my own virus, I know when I'm around the contagious things that can grow into a depressive episode. Stress, sleeplessness, frustration, irritation, not being heard, being undermined are just as dangerous to me as sitting beside someone with a deep, wet chest cough on a train.

The past few weeks have sucked. It all started when that tree radomly collapsed in our backyard, and it's gone downhill from there. I don't want to get into the details. I'm down. I feel like I'm shouldering more than my share and fighting uphill to do the things that are right for my daughter. The irony is, in fighting for what I know she needs, I've exhausted myself to the point of having no patience with her. I can't decide which evil to leave her with: everyone elses permissiveness, or my own anger and exhaustion.

I dropped her off at daycare this morning, and couldn't get there fast enough, not after spending the morning battling the new stalling tactics she's recently acquired. I put her in her carseat, flipped the rearview mirror up so she couldn't see me, and quietly cried all the way from our house to daycare. The one time a sob escaped, she snapped, "No, Mommy!", angry at me for ... what? Not letting her have her way? Not being perfect? Not being capable of handling anything that's thrown at me today? I ignored her and kept driving, crying, pulling myself together just long enough to get her to her classroom, get myself to the truck, and get out of the parking lot before starting again.

I'm falling, and I don't even care. All I want to do is go limp and go with it. That's all I have the energy to do right now.

At the risk of sounding like some melodramatic, morose Morrissey-spouting teenager - which really isn't that far off from what I am; just subsitite Morrissey with Jeff Tweedy and teenager with middle-aged idiot - all I wanted to do was fall and listen to A Ghost is Born. This morning, that seemed like the only thing that might save me when everything else in my life feels like it's killing me, slowly, one piece at a time.

This has never been one of my favorite Wilco albums, and it only seems fair that I retract the complaints I made about my iPod a few weeks ago. Were it not for my iPod, I probably wouldn't have had that album in my truck, and I honestly don't know what would have happened this morning without it. Probably nothing. I probably would have added it to the collection of irritations, stresses, and minor inconveniences that have been adding up to this.

I listened to the album in its entirity while driving around, drinking coffee, and periodically crying behind my sunglasses. No wonder I craved this album so much. I had no idea how well it articulates this fall.

When I sat down on the bed next to you
You started to cry
I said, maybe if I leave, you'll want me
To come back home
Or maybe all you mean, is leave me alone
At least that's what you said

_________________________________________

When the devil came
He was not red
He was chrome and he said

Come with me
You must go
So I went
Where everything was clean
So precise and towering

I was welcomed
With open arms
I received so much help in every way
I felt no fear
I felt no fear

____________________________________

This recent rash of kidsmoke
All these telescopic poems
It's good to be alone

___________________________________

There's a random painted highway
And a muzzle of bees
My sleeves have come unstitched
From climbing your tree
_____________________________________

And the gray fountain spray of the great Milky Way
Would never let him
Die alone
Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird
__________________________________________________________

Felt like a clown
They were translating poorly
I looked like someone
I used to know
And if I ever was myself
I wasn't that night
______________________________

The turntable sizzles
Casting the spells
The pressure devices
Hell in a nutshell
Is any song worth singing
If it doesn't help
___________________________

Hide your soft skin, your sorrow is sunshine
Listen to my eyes
Hide your soft skin, your sorrow is sunshine
Listen to my eyes
__________________________________________________

I'm a wheel
I will
Turn on you
_______________

I'm going away
Where you will look for me
Where I'm going you cannot come

No one's ever gonna take my life from me
I lay it down
A ghost is born
A ghost is born
A ghost is born
__________________________________________

Your mind's a machine
It's deadly and dull
It's never been still and its will
Has never been free

Lightly tapping
A high-pitched drum

As your spine starts to shine
You shiver at your soul
A fist so clear and climbing
Punches a hole
In the sky
So you can see
For yourself
If you don't believe me

There's so much less
To this than you think
_______________________________

The best song will never get sung
The best life never leaves your lungs
So good, you won't ever know
____________________________________

(As I'm currently incapable of managing the simplest HTML coding, you'll have to take yourself to Be My Demon if you want to the source of these lyrics.)

That's the album, in its entirity, in order, with the words that fit my brain at this moment in time. Nevermind the sonic match of the songs. You'll just have to listen to it yourself. The music sounds the way I feel, which makes me sound like I'm wallowing in a little self-pity while I touch up my black eyeliner before chemistry class.

I have resisted the urge to listen to the album more than one time today. When I came to the end my instinct was to start over, but I didn't. I felt somewhat better, and I wanted to keep it that way. In the past, when I've found albums that articulate this disease, I've tended to listen to them so much that they filter out my pain. And later, when I try to revisit the album, no matter how cathartic it once was, all I can hear is the memory of the episode. I don't want to do that to this album.

I know an album won't cure depression. Nothing will. I know I need rest, sleep, a break, and some peace, all things that seem grossly out of reach right now. I can try to cling to them with everything I've got. When I want to fall, I can allow myself to fall in five-minute incriments while listening to "Hell is Chrome", welcomed with open arms by the devil. When the song is over, I will wash my face, change the diaper, read "Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type" again, fight the battle when Clara Jane screams for two hours at bedtime, and bite my tongue bloody when she recites the lyrics to Daddy's Little Girl after I've spent my day, my life, everything in me to do what's right by her. And when I can't do those things anymore, I'll let myself fall for another five minutes.

Posted by Robin at 11:23 AM | Comments (12)

November 08, 2006

Day Eight - I Don't Wanna

Clara Jane's on the mend, but I'm sick. Tired. Mostly tired. Yesterday was beyond exhausting, and it ended with me being run out of my own bed by a noisy piece of machinary. My pal PKB spent the day with me, which was fun, but talking all day can wear a tired girl out.

But the election results have me happy.

In lieu of real content, as I'm too tired to think of anything worthwhile to write, I'll leave you with this thought that's been kicking around my brain for a few weeks. It seems appropriate, in light of yesterday.

When I was in Ohio a few weeks ago, I received a lovely gift from Kristina's dad: a large button featuring a smiling Dick Cheney with a morphed George W./Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist's dummy on his knee. I stuck it to my travel toiletries bag, and I'm pleased to report that its presence didn't cause any problems when the FAA opted to dig through my checked luggage on the flight home.

Since I got home, the bag with the button has been perched atop a cabinet in my bathroom, and it makes me giggle every time I see it. Not just because I like it, but because I think about the thank-you note I'd love to send to Kristina's dad:

Dear Mr. Humpamonkey,

Thank you so much for the button. I enjoy looking at it when I poop.

Your friend,
Threat to National Security #49,296

Posted by Robin at 08:26 PM | Comments (4)

November 07, 2006

Day Seven - Election Fever

My first big election was in 1992. I had just turned 20 and was so young, so idealistic, so hellbent on saving the world with my vote.

Except for the fact that I was pretty sure I was dying, possibly of consumption.

I have a long, ugly history of respiratory infections. Hacking, coughing, infections, snot, fevers - I'm got them down to an artform. My childhood was peppered with bouts of strep, tonsilitis, and bronchitis that have carried on into adulthood. Every year in October, I develop a cough that lasts until Christmas. Some years, it's just a petty annoyance. Other years, I feel like it could damn near kill me.

At the time of the '92 election, I was on the damn-near-kill-me end of the spectrum. I can only recall one year in which my coughing bug was worse. That was 1994, when it got so bad that the doctor at the convenience clinic (a really inconvenient place intended for people suffering the inconvenience of not having health insurance) gave me such a powerful cough suppressant that I hallucinated that my jacket was a monster trying to eat me, but I digress. In '92, I was flat-out miserable, but there was no way I was missing my first presidential election. I was sure my phlegm-covered vote would be the one that might prevent George Bush from serving a second term.

Oh ho, how little did we know, but that's a topic too loaded for this fluffy blog.

It was foggy and drizzly that day. One of my roommates drove me to the National Guard armory, as I was too sick to walk the three blocks without my lungs splattering on the sidewalk. We voted, and then she took me to the brand new Cracker Barrell for chicken and dumplings with a quart of Nyquil on the side.

I learned three things in the 1992 election:

1. It's worth voting, even if I'm sure I'm dying.

2. Big victories for everyone I vote for in my first election will give me a false sense of security in every election that follows.

3. Taking a quart of Nyquil will make me think Al Gore is the sexiest man alive and Ross Perot is a comedy genius, shortly before I keel over with severe arrhythmia.

Clara Jane and I have both been fighting a cold for nearly a week. Nothing major - no fevers or bodyaches; just snot and lots of it. Until this morning, when she woke up puking.

This is gross. You've been warned.

I could tell she'd only puked mucous. I recognized this because I do the same thing. I can't handle anything slimy. If I'm congested for any length of time, I can guarantee I'll have a few mornings when I wake up with that feeling in my esophogus. You know the one, that comes with congestion. Don't make me describe it.

For most people, they clear their throats and get on with their day. I don't have that ability because as soon as I feel the slime, I gag. Just thinking about it makes me gag.

It seems I have passed this trait along to my child, along with my mysterious tail-scar butt dimple. I'm sorry, Clara Jane. So very sorry. I had barely gotten my own congested morning nausea under control when I heard the gagging and sobbing from her room.

I got her up, changed her clothes, stripped her bed, and gave her a breakfast of plain Cheerios and Pedialyte, which she devoured with gusto. All seemed well. Snotty, but well. I started having images of going to our polling place, then taking my snuffy child to Cracker Barrell for chicken and dumplings and Nyquil. Maybe we'd sing a round of "Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac in the car.

That was before the pink Pedialyte geyser erupted all over my kitchen.

I was finally making my coffee at 10 AM, two hours after I usually have it, when Clara Jane walked into the kitchen with this look on her face. At first I thought she was suddenly fearful of my noisy, steam-driven coffee maker. Either that or she was aghast that I was eating a chocolate animal cracker without sharing. I handed her two crackers shortly before she exploded.

And in a moment of sheer slapstick cruelty, after the first eruption, the poor kid tried to run away in fear, the same way my cat tries to outrun hairballs, when she stepped in her vomit, slipped, landed flat on her butt, and puked down her front.

I sat down on the floor, in a pink puddle, and held her until she was calm enough to eat her chocolate animal crackers.

Vomit total = four

Needless to say, we paid a visit to the pediatrician, who declared her just fine. Just a virus, run its course, blah blah blah. As we were leaving, she told me that she liked the doctor and could we, perhaps, go to Target?

She fell asleep during the drive home, the first time in days that she's fallen asleep without being rocked, bribed, begged, or threatened with eternal groundation. She woke up when we got home, cried for lunch (which she can't have until 4 PM), and cheered when I managed to wrangle a clean mattress pad onto her bed.

I still haven't voted, and I've never wanted chicken and dumplings more than I do right now. Two quarts of Nyquil, please.

Posted by Robin at 03:05 PM | Comments (12)

November 06, 2006

Day Six - 25 Books

I originally figured I'd be making this post at the end of the year, but here it is in early November. This year, I decided to keep track of every book I read to completion. I know I read quite a bit, but at the end of each year, I can't tell you how many books I've read, or which ones they were. Usually, a handful of excellent ones stand out, but a lot of good ones get lost in the shuffle. Bad books get cast aside before they're finished.

Since I never keep track and my book memory is bad, I set the goal to complete 25 books in 2006, mainly because I was keeping track on an Amazon.com Listmania list, and there's only 25 slots. I'm proud to say that, as of Saturday night, I've met my goal. The new goal is to read another five books before the end of the year. I have no idea if this is a lot of books to read in a year, or a small amount of books to read in a year.

Like I said, in the past I used to just pitch bad books aside. Life's too short to read bad crap. The list changed this. All of a sudden, if I'd invested the time to read at least 50 pages of a book, I couldn't put it aside, no matter how bad it was because that would be time taken away from my goal! Because of this, I read three wretchedly horrible books that, before 2006, I would have pitched within the first three chapters. As a public service to you, and in an effort to make my sacrificed reading time to not be in vain, I advise you to avoid these clunkers:

Star Lake Saloon & Housekeeping Cottages by Sara Rath. It had potential except 1) it was a glorified Harlequin bodice-ripper, and 2) one of the most hateful, unsympathetic main characters I've ever encountered. When, after a week of reading, I was less than halfway finished, I knew I was in trouble. I don't think it's a coincidence that my anxiety attacks last summer coincided with the reading of this book. They were fueled by anger that I'd wasted two weeks of my life on this book.

Too Much, Too Late by Marc Spitz. It started out good. So good that I emailed Kristina and declared, "You've gotta read this!" In reply, she directed me to this blog entry she'd written a few months before. My bad book memory had obviously blocked this out, although I'm shocked that I didn't remember her referring to this book as a "steamy shitpile", followed by, "If it weren't a library book, I would wipe Casper's ass with it." And rightfully so. The first half was decent enough, but the last half? Oh my. The author doesn't even have this book listed on the "books" section of his website, which is probably a wise career move.

And lastly, I'd recommend staying far, far away from Drives Like a Dream by Porter Shreve. The book itself was mediocre, not terrible. However, I had the audacity to say so in a review on Amazon, which promptly got slammed with "this review was unhelpful" votes. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the other not-glowing reviews of the book had a similar fate. Don't read this book unless you plan on giving it nothing but raves. Otherwise, they will find you. I hear them knocking on my door right now.

Normally I don't like to bad-mouth someone's hard work without offering some thought-out criticism, but I've got 22 more books to mention. Good books. If you want my reasons for disliking the three above, give me a yell and I'll babble at length.

I read a lot of memoirs this years, mostly because that's what I'm trying to write when I'm not using my manuscript as a footrest in my truck.

Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation and Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman both focused on death-inspired road trips. Vowell drove to the assassination locations of three U.S. presidents, and Chuck drove cross-country, visiting the deathplaces of rock stars. I preferred Sarah's work, and not just because she introduced me to the best nickname ever: Jinxy McDeath.

There were depressed mom memoirs: Marrit Ingman's Inconsolable and Tracey Thompson's The Ghost in the House", which happened to be book #25. Both books left me thinking, "Why in the hell am I writing a book about PPD/maternal depression when these two authors have already nailed it?" Excellent reads that made me cry, made my nod until my neck grew tired, and made me use my manuscript as a footrest in my truck.

I read most of the books written by members of The Memoirists Collective. One of the authors, Maria Dahvana Headley, contacted me on MySpace and made me feel all giddy and special, so I joined. Good reads, all of them: Maria's The Year of Yes chronicles the year in which she went out with every person who asked her. Danielle Trussoni's Falling Through the Earth depicts her life with her father, who suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome after serving as a tunnel rat in the Vietnam War. Josh Kilmer-Purcell's I Am Not Myself These Days focuses on his life as a NYC drag queen with a crack whore boyfriend. Collectively, good reads.

I read Haven Kimmel's She Got Up Off the Couch, because I love everything that comes from Ms. Kimmel's brain. I read The World According to Mimi Smartypants because, even though I'd read all of it on her blog, I felt the need to read it in book form, too.

And finally, I read three of the big, well-known memoirs. The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion broke my heart, as did John Grogan's Marley and Me, although it's unfair to compare the two. Both are memoirs about love, family, and death. Both are excellent reads. But Didion's by far the more accomplished and skilled writer. Besides, "Marley and Me" gave me anxiety attacks about my dogs dying, so it loses cool points for that.

My top pick in the memoirs comes from the beginning of the year. The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer was book perfection, in my world. If it wasn't for the fact that I've saddled myself with this book quota, I would have read it twice.

And that leaves us with ten novels, ranked Casey Kasem/David Letterman style, with a preface that I think all ten are worthwhile reads:

10. What Do You Do All Day? by Amy Scheibe. Decent, but you'd be better off reading the Marrit Ingman and Tracey Thompson non-fiction books I mentioned earlier. Not to be a spoiler, but the final chapter almost landed this book in my "avoid at all costs" list.

9. Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld
8. The Man of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld

I liked both. Really, I did. I was bothered by the fact that "The Man of My Dreams" was basically "Prep Lite". The main characters were virtually the same. They both had some issues in learning their lessons. But both books were engrossing, and Sittenfeld creates rich worlds.

7. Veronica by Mary Gaitskill. I feel like I should like this book more than I did, especially after reading Jodi's adoration of Gaitskill. It's beautifully written, no doubt. I just have problems when I don't like the main character, and I didn't like the main character of this book at all.

6. The Singing and Dancing Daughters of God by Tim Schaffert. I'm a sucker for a book about midwestern or southern eccentrics, and this chronicle of a family of Nebraska weirdos qualifies. Bonus points to Schaffert for offering a mix CD through his web site to accompany the book.

5. Plain Heathen Mischief by Martin Clark. I normally don't like mystery/thriller-types, but this one had enough humor and truly surprising turns to keep me hooked. One minute I'd be laughing, and the next minute I'd feel sick for the main character. Bonus points to Clark for commenting on my blog, even though he poked fun at me because Alan Jackson makes me sob.

4. The Ha-Ha by David King. Wonderfully written with a twist that had me mesmerized: a main character who can barely communicate. Such a unique, original, challenging perspective for an author to attempt. Beautiful story to boot.

3. Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson. I love Jackson's modern take on Southern Gothic. Add another character with communication issues (a blind and deaf mother), and I'm hooked.

2. Which Brings Me to You by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggot. Remember Vox by Nicholson Baker, the smutty early-1990s novel that's nothing but the transcript of a conversation between two people on one of those 1-900 "party" phone lines? "Which Brings Me to You" is like that, only smarter, more heartfelt, and lovely. The book is nothing but letters exchanged between two people who nearly have a tryst after meeting at a wedding. The letters confess everything they've done wrong in relationships. This damn book almost derailed my entire quota, because when I finished, I immediately turned back to the beginning and would have happily read the book over and over for the rest of the year.

1. The Whole World Over by Julia Glass. No surprise, as Glass' Three Junes is one of my favorite novels. Her storytelling style is so gentle and beautiful. In this one, she manages to write about the least gentle and beautiful event in recent history - the 9/11 attacks - with gentle beauty. And I swear, I'm not going to say "gentle" and "beautiful" one more time, so I'm just going to shut up. Perfect.

Posted by Robin at 02:57 PM | Comments (11)

November 05, 2006

Day 5 - Her Perogative

Day five of NaBloPoMo, and I'm resorting to mommyblogging.

While dining on calzones, prompted by VH1's 100 Greatest Songs of the '80s, I mentioned to B. how healthy Whitney Houston is looking since she ditched Bobby Brown. When B. referred to Mr. Brown as an assmunch, Clara Jane admonished him for his language. Not that this is surprising, as she always admonishes us for our language these days. Must be the influence of that Methodist daycare, but I digress.

A few minutes later, Clara Jane starts demanding, "I want more Bobby Brown! More Bobby Brown!" Now, I can guarantee that Clara Jane has never had one iota of Bobby Brown in her entire life. Not one single episode of "Being Bobby Brown". No New Edition. Not one single note of New Jack. She hasn't even seen Kristina do that dance Mr. Brown used to do, where he grabs his ankle and kicks behind him like a crack-fueled mule.

But here she is, distraught because she doesn't have enough Bobby Brown in her life.

We did what any parents would do: we systematically showed her every item in eyeshot and asked, "Is this fork Bobby Brown? What about this plate? Is the plate Bobby Brown? Is the dog Bobby Brown? Marinara sauce! Is marinara sauce Bobby Brown?"

Turns out that marinara sauce is, indeed, Bobby Brown. The child needed more Bobby Brown on her calzone. B. spooned it up, and Bobby Brown has since been devoured.

Today Clara Jane pushed our cat Romi, whose name Clara Jane has changed to Gnocchi because she obviously has some confusion regarding Italian food, around the house in a clothes basket. Gnocchi was not amused, but maybe you will be.

Taking Romi for a ride.

Posted by Robin at 06:34 PM | Comments (15)

November 04, 2006

Day Four - With Dots

Day four? Is it day four? I'm starting to lose track already.

Posted by Robin at 05:30 PM | Comments (3)

November 03, 2006

Day Three - Friday Shuffle - The Call a Spade a Spade Edition

Have I mentioned lately how much I love thrift stores?

I love thrift stores.

Since I'm a fan of vintagey kitsch, most of my house is decorated with thrift store finds. Clothes, I usually don't have much luck in the thrift stores, as I'm plus-size, and most plus-size gals wear their clothes to death when they find something that fits right. Every now and then, I'll get lucky on the accessories front.