July 17, 2007

The Redneck Jungle Lives!

And you thought the stupid neighbor stories would end once I moved!

This isn't the story, but it relates. A few nights ago I took my first drive past the house we loved and almost bought. First of all, we learned a few weeks ago that the entire block where that house is located is graduallly sliding into an old mine. Bullet? Dodged. But what I saw the other night ... Do you know what those usurpers who bought the house out from under us have hanging in the front window of that beautiful house, next to that beautiful mosaic-tiled fireplace? A goddamn motherfucking Confederate flag.

Part of me feels absolutely sick that some ignorant fuck is defacing that beautiful house, which happens to be located next door to an African-American family. Another part of me feels like it's just another sign that we got the house we're supposed to have. I don't know how that logically connects, but that's what it feels like.

I was also a little bit afraid that some of our former neighbors from Breckenridge Hills had followed us to Prettytown. I was pretty sure that hadn't happened, as I hadn't had any 3 AM dune buggy wake-up calls.

But this isn't about our new neighborhood. I actually have new news from the old neighborhood. Aren't you just dying with glee about that?

One of my favorite things about the old house was the ginormous 100+ year-old maple tree in the front yard. Yeah, after losing two trees in the backyard in a matter of one month last fall, I had a healthy fear of The Behemouth, even though it shit sap all over the house and our truck in the spring and speared our roof with a branch a few months ago.

Okay, so maybe the new owners have the right idea. They're putting the beast out of its misery. Which saddens me. They could have just invested in a good trimming, like we did when we moved in, instead of destroying a huge, otherwise healthy source of shade, oxygen and squirrel-housing. I got the same sick feeling when B. told me about the tree-cutting that I got when I saw that Rebel flag.

How did he find out about the tree being removed? Our old neighbor called us. You know, the one who would call nightly and scream, "Hello?!?! HELLO?!??!" when we'd answered, like she didnt' actually expect anyone to answer her call. Well, I guess that's understandable, too. When we saw her number on the caller i.d. Saturday afternoon, B. and I both scattered and hid like we expected her to climb through the phone.

B. called her last night out of some misplaced sense of social obligation that I don't understand at all. He told me to make sure I was busy when he returned her call so he'd have a legitimate excuse to keep me from having to talk to her. I informed him that I had a legitimate excuse for not talking to her - I completed my social obligation to her the day I moved and therefore have no need to talk to her ever again. GOODBYE?!?!?!?

On her message she said she was calling about a "new neighbor issue". I assumed the issue probably pertained to the skin color of the new residents. Remember, this is the neighbor who recently said, "Might as well move. This neighborhood's only fit for blacks and Mexicans." Well, the new residents fall into one of those categories, so it seemed logical that she would be calling to scream at us about this situation.

No, that's not quite it. Seems that the new owners didn't hire the most experienced of tree surgeons to bring down The Behemouth. In the process, they cracked the massive limb that hangs over the neighbors' house. Tree Surgeon won't continue the job without a huge increase in liability insurance.

Our old house's new owner? Expects our neighbor to pay this insurance.

B.'s dying to go over and see the treem and possibly a fist fight between the new residents and our old neighbors. Me? No way. I know that seeing that tree decimated will break my heart. Besides, today a big limb fell off the tree in my new front yard, and I'm pretty sure it's a warning. Again, not logical, but I'm going to heed it.

Posted by Robin at 02:40 PM | Comments (4)

June 09, 2007

The Last Saturday in the Neighborhood

Posted by Robin at 12:34 PM | Comments (7)

May 19, 2007

Yet More Reasons to Move

We were having a lovely night last night. I wrote that last blog entry while B. and Clara Jane were fetching pizza (pepperoni for them, artichoke, green pepper, black olive and onion with pesto instead of sauce for me, which I'm only telling you because my God, it was good). We ate, then went to the backyard. B. and I sat in our super-cute Adirondack chairs and chatted about the new house while I knitted. Clara Jane chased the dogs, who chased each other, before settling into the sandbox for a good dig.

It was a good night. We've never spent much time in the backyard because of the obnoxious neighbors, swarms of mosquitoes, dirt bike/dune buggy cachophony, and the steady stream of strangers wandering down the dead-end sidestreet, going God knows where to do God knows what. But last night was good. The foot traffic was light, the bugs absent, and although we could hear lots of neigborhood obnoxiousness, we couldn't actually see it from our little alcove.

We also couldn't see our back gate, which is why we didn't notice when someone opened it, releasing our stupid little dog, Murphy and the neighbors' dog. Luckily, Chloe the Basset was hanging out by our chairs, otherwise, she would have been gone, too. Don't get me wrong; I love stupid little Murphy and I don't want anyone fucking with her. Mess with my Chloe, though, and you're going to pay. A lot.

B. located the dogs across the street and two houses down, eating a bag of fast food fries that had been dumped in the front yard. I spent the rest of the night making sure Murphy wasn't showing signs of being poisoned. B. put the padlock back on the gate.

This isn't the first time people have tresspassed on our property, opened the gate, and let out the dogs. That's why there's a padlock, which had only been removed while we were showing the house. All I can say is, the countdown has begun. The best consolation to the anger and fear of having our yard broken into while we were fucking sitting in it in the fucking daylight is knowing that in 27 days, I never have to set foot in this goddamn shithole of a neighborhood ever, ever again.

But there are better reasons for getting out of here, and being oh so very happy that we're 27 days away from the moment when we stand on the front sidewalk of the crapshack and scream a giant, "Fuck you!" to the assholes on this street. Happy reasons. Like today. We had the inspection on the new house. It's awesome, and there are all-new photos. Keep in mind that the current owners are 1) frantically packing, and 2) have two kids under seven and a third on the way. Anyway, it's beautiful. It's in wonderful condition. We'll live there in 27 days. Did I mention that? 27 days.

We also talked at length to the current owner and her sister while Clara Jane played with the current occupants of her new bedroom. I kind of wish this family had bought the house next door, because I really like them. They're going to be all of three blocks away. Phone numbers were exchanged.

Get this - the couple who owns our new house both work in our current neighborhood. They work here, but make the 45-minute one-way commute from Prettytown. That's how much they love it. So much that when it came time to buy a bigger house, they decided the commute was worth staying in the neighborhood. How's that for a testimony?

She loves the house. It's obvious. She noted several times that they wouldn't be moving if it wasn't for kid #3's July arrival. She talked about how much she's going to miss the front porch, which she paints every spring. The orange dining room. The bells of the nearby church.

We learned a bit about our neighbors. Across the sidestreet is a teacher at one of the local high schools. Behind us, the principal of a parochial school. New people have bought the house next door.They haven't moved in, but word is they've been cleaning and working like mad.

I asked. There are no dirt bikes or dune buggies.

After the inspection we headed to Art on the Square to meet Beqi, Raquel and Aubrey. How much do I love that I'll be living in a town (In how long? 27 days!) that hosts an art fair on such a big scale? A lot. B. and I had the great idea that once we live in Prettytown, we'll buy one piece of art at the fair every year. Even though we're not quite there yet, today we purchased our first piece, the trio of Michael Mitz photos on the right. By buying them unframed, I saved a tidy $700. I can't take beautiful close-up photos of stunningly colorful roses. I can, however, stick photos in a frame myself. And I will. In about 28 days so they don't get busted in the move.

Posted by Robin at 06:47 PM | Comments (12)

April 15, 2007

Another Depression Valley Sunday

No, I'm not depressed. I'm just sick to death of living in what I'm realizing is a shithole of misery. This neighborhood ... to say I can't wait to get out of here ... I've said it so many times I'm no longer able to express it anymore, aside from standing on my front porch and screaming, "Get me the fuck out of here!"

I guess it started a few days ago when one of my neighbors came running out her front door, screaming, "Get your ass back in this house right now!" to her two-year-old, who had opened the door and walked out.

Gee, here's a hint, Dumbass: if you want your toddler to stay in the house, lock the fucking door. It's a lot more effective than screaming at him in such a manner that he'll want to suffocate you with a pillow while you sleep 14 years from now.

Today we went to an improptu baby shower. An old friend who lives about a mile from us is about to become a grandmother. She's 37. I have a feeling our invite, which came via phone call last night, had more to do with my computer-skilled spouse and their virused laptop than anything else. I heard some things during the party that made it obvious it wasn't as impromptu of a gathering as B. had been told last night. Regardless, we went for a few hours, ate cupcakes, made small talk, hired our friend's youngest son to help with some yardwork, and left before the gifts were opened. Which was fine, since we hadn't brought anything.

There's something about a baby shower for a girl who's due a week after her high school graduation that makes me sad. This is despite the fact that I have a feeling she'll turn out fine. She's got a good support system, and she's got a plan for furthering her education. I hope she's able to do it.

During the party, our move to Prettytown was mentioned. "That's pretty far away," someone I've never met before said. "Why are you moving way out there?"

My friend, the 37-year-old grandmother, beat me to the punch. "Her daughter's too smart to stay in this school district." And she wasn't being fasicious when she said it, either.

After we got home and Clara Jane napped, she wanted to go outside. Not wanting to play in the mudpit that is our backyard, we went to the front so she could ride her trike and draw on the driveway with chalk. I'd planned to stay inside, but since B. took the bubble machine for its inaugural run, I put Chloe on her leash and joined them.

I wish I hadn't.

The people who aren't smart enough to prevent their two-year-old from escaping via an unlocked screen door with a missing window pane are having a cookout. A part of the evening's festivities? Teaching the two-year-old the proper use of the word "fucktard".

B. and Clara Jane just walked in as I was writing the last paragraph. He said, "That business about our kid being too smart for this school district? You better believe there's no way I'm letting her go to school with that [gesturing to the Fucktard house]. Those kids are doomed."

Parenting is hard. I'm the first person to admit that because I've struggled with it. Continue to struggle with it. Will always struggle with it. I lost my temper with Clara Jane on Friday night and felt horrible about it. She was overtired and uncooperative. B. was trying to change her Pull-Up prior to dinner, and she was fighting him every inch of the way. I intervened, and when she fought me I decided that was it. I didn't care that it was only 7 PM and she hadn't eaten dinner; she was going to bed N O W.

I rocked her for 20 minutes. She was asleep within the first five, but I didn't want to put her down. I was afraid that if I put her down, I'd be abandoning her and she'd think I didn't love her. Even though I'd gotten angry, I know I did the right thing. She was tired and needed sleep more than she needed dinner. She slept over 13 hours and has been a delight ever since. I gave her what she needed. I just wish I'd did it a smidge more calmly.

Not once did I hit my child in this. I did raise my voice, but I didn't yell or call her names. I had to do my damnedest - and oh my God it is so fucking hard sometimes - to keep my own frustration and irritation under control and think, "Gee ... my kid's doing something wrong. What can I do to guide her through this situation, since that's my fucking job."

This all sounds so self-righteous. I'm trying to not be self-righteous. Really. About a nanosecond after my anger flared at the neighbor when she screamed at her toddler to get his ass back in the house, I had a pang of empathy. This woman has four kids. The two-year-old isn't the youngest. I've rarely seen her partner without a beer in his hand. He comes home daily around 11 AM with a case of Bud. They fight a lot, often on the front porch with the two littlest kids watching through the screen door. Not that her shitty conditions excuse bad parenting, but it sure as hell doesn't make her job any easier.

While the fucktard language lessons were transpiring tonight, three houses down the block we witnessed one of the finest examples of drunk driving we've seen on this street in, well, probably an hour or so. Another neighbor arrived home, completely plowed. And speaking of plowing, that's exactly what he did to his trash dumpster. Plowed into it. Luckily, his cat, who had taken refuge behind the dumpster, escaped unharmed.

Later, Mr. Plow went to his backyard to build a drunken bonfire, shortly putting it out because no one would come outside and play with him.

I am so goddamn sick of living in a neighborhood where I can't take my daughter outside on a nice evening without her hearing people scream at each other. Or seeing drunks stagger around. Or worry that some loaded jackass is going to careen off the street and kill her in our own driveway.

On Friday the street department finally made it to our block and removed the pile of storm debris that's been outside our house since December, which will hopefully improve our chances of selling. We sealed the deal with the new real estate agent Saturday. He's got until July 14th to unload this shithole. If he can't do it, we're calling one of those places that buys ugly houses and rips off the owners in the process. We no longer care. We just want out.

There are no guarantees that our next neighborhood is going to be any better. We're going by what friends in the area have told us, the school district, and quite honestly, by the way the neighborhood looks. In the 16 years I've lived away from my parents' house, I've never lived in a decent neighborhood. Ever. It's never bothered me much, but now that I have a kid, it bothers me. Although at least where we currently live, I know who's drunk and verbally abusing their kids. Who knows? Maybe the in the "nice" neighborhood, the same shit goes on, but the people perpetrating it have enough shame to keep it in the house.

Posted by Robin at 07:27 PM | Comments (6)

December 16, 2006

Christmas in My Neighborhood

I'm so disappointed.

Tonight, we loaded into the family vehicle and drove the sidestreets, trying to find my all-time favorite holiday light display - the "merry KISSmas house. Why did we drive the sidestreets? Because last year, when we discovered the merry KISSmas house, I was so giddy with thoughts of sitting on Gene Simmons' lap and telling him what I want for KISSmas that I didn't note the actual location of the house. I just know that it's over by the butcher shop, which is convenient because after their ritual animal sacrifices, they can have the carcass professionally cut into tasty tenderloins and chops. Or a nice crown roast for KISSmas dinner, if you wish.

Tonight was the second Saturday night in a row we've driven the neighborhood, looking for the house where we can celebrate Jesus' birth by worshipping Satan. Alas, it's not to be. We found the merry KISSmas house, but there is no KISSmas. Just a goddamn wreath.

So, this is what you have to settle for as the Christmas Display of the Year in my neighborhood:

Baby Jesus, protected by Brinks Home Security

At first glance it looks like nothing more than a plastic nativity scene, available at any discount store for under $30. But what's that shiny object above Baby Jesus' head? Is that the star that led the three wisemen to Bethleham? The reflection of the sun off the archangel Michael's halo?

No. It's a "Protected by Brinks Home Security" sign.

Yeah, I know. You can't read the sign. You'll just have to take my word for it. When dealing with Brinks Home Security and Jesus, I'm not exactly keen on doing a drawn-out, high-quality photo shoot. Can you imagine the possible ramifications that could come from any misunderstandings in this situation? Going down in a hail of bullets and eternal damnation. You're lucky I even bothered to slow the truck down when I shot the picture out the window with my zoom lens.

And yet, for all the times I make fun of the people in my neighborhood, every now and then something cool happens here. Today, B. and Clara Jane had gone to the library and to pick up the dogs at the groomers. Around the time I was expecting them to come home, a fire truck roared down my street, lights and sirens blazing. Keep in my mind street is one block long. If there's a firetruck roaring down my street, it means one of two things: 1)there's a one in ten chance my house is on fire, or 2) someone I know is splattered at the blind turn at the bottom of the hill. Since I didn't smell smoke, I went with option #2. And since I'm still adjusting to the increased brain medications, I figured the splatterees were B., Clara Jane, and my dogs.

I grabbed the phone and bolted out the door while I dialed. And what should my panicking eyes should appear, but a fire department SUV and ... well, not eight tiny reindeer, but instead a flatbed trailer carrying a red sleigh with Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

"Get my baby home NOW. Santa just drove down the damn side street!"

And lo, Christmas miracle of miracles, B., Clara Jane and the dogs got home before the Claus' made it to our street. We had time to hustle the kiddo to the corner so she could see their grand entrance.

She was a bit stunned by it all, especially when her father picked her up and flung her over the edge of the sleigh onto Santa's lap. If she'd gotten upset, I would have snatched her away in a heartbeat. I'm not a fan of the forced meet and greets with Santa when the poor kid is absolutely terrified. Luckily, that didn't happen. She just looked ... dazed. I don't think she blinked the entire time, just blindly accepted her little teddy bear and candy cane before oozing off Santa's lap.

The second they were out of sight, she commenced talking about Santa and Mrs. Claus, and how she talked to them, and it was a special holiday meeting of the Algonquin Round Table, where they swapped witty quips over candy canes and absinthe.

That was ten hours ago, and she hasn't stopped. In fact, I think she's in her bed, talking about her enlightened conversation with Santa and Mrs. Claus while she sleeps.

Either that or she's singing "God Gave Rock and Roll to You" in her sleep. Again.

Posted by Robin at 09:53 PM | Comments (7)

December 12, 2006

Assilimation

My neighborhood has two predominent populations: people of Hispanic origin, and rednecks.

My neighborhood also has one of the best thrift stores in the St. Louis area, and it's a great place to see these two neighborhood factions comingling. It's also a great place to find cheap designer purses of questionable origins, amongst other things.

Last weekend, my mom and I paid a visit to the thrift store, and I found the most fabulous 1950s blonde veneer dresser, chest of drawers, and nightstand for $25. Twenty-five dollars! I should have thrown my body across its vintagey retro goodness and refused to move until someone hauled my furniture and me to the truck, but no. I just had to be a tightass. "Tuesday's 25% off everything day. I'll wait and get it then," I told my mom. Because, you know, that $6.25 is going to make/break me.

Went back today, and my lovely furniture - furniture I'd already found locations for in my house - was no longer there.

But this isn't about me, my cheap ways, and furniture I really didn't need in the first place. This is about the culture clash I witnessed while standing in line to pay. Although my furniture was gone, the winter coat my mom was too cheap to pay $15 for was still there, and I got to stand in line to pay for it.

The cashier was Hispanic. The customer in front of me was not. When the cashier finished the transaction, the customer took her bag of purchases, smiled at the cashier, and said, "Hasta la vista, Baby!"

Tomorrow, perhaps I'll post a picture of the nativity scene up the block from my house. You know, the one with the Brinks Home Security sign positioned over Baby Jesus' head.

Posted by Robin at 11:01 PM | Comments (6)

December 01, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Screaming Trees Edition



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 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 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 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 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 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)

April 27, 2006

I Don't Know How to Talk to Kids

Admit it: you love it when I write about my 10-year-old neighbor, Boy.

For the record, the older Boy gets, the more he resembles Weezer's Rivers Cuomo, right down to the Buddy Holly glasses and thin-lipped glumness. It's astounding, to the point where I actually do a double-take sometimes when I see him.

This afternoon, Clara Jane and I took to the backyard with a six-pack of sidewalk chalk and time to spare. We'd just gotten settled in to our chalkin' groove when I caught a glimpse of movement in the yard next door. No. Please don't let him come over here.

It's not that I dislike Boy. Not in the least. Yes, he can be irritating, like all 10-year-olds, but he's not nearly as irritating as he was when he was 8. Any irritation is always counterbalanced by the entertainment factor that's always present when conversing with Boy.

The truth of the matter is, I don't know how to talk to kids. Oh, I know how to talk to my kid, but I don't know how to talk to anyone else's kid. That includes yours. I'm always afraid that I'm going to talk down to them, while also fearing that I'm going to slip into the dreaded Adultspeak. So, if I ever meet you and you happen to have a kid with you, don't be surprised if I start talking to them about neurophysics in babytalk. My kid conversation skills with Boy are even worse, because of that intent stare behind those horn-rimmed specs, and the fact that I keep expecting him to start bellowing about me taking my car to work and him taking his board and how, when I'm out of fuel, he'll still be afloat. Belive me, that wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've heard coming out of Boy's mouth. So, this woman who once gave a commencement address to over a thousand people is often rendered mute and stupid-looking by a 10-year-old rock star lookalike.

Boy, as I figured he would, crawled through the hole in the fence between our yards and said, "Hi Snoopy," to his dog, who was cavorting in my yard.

"Hi Boy," I said.

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to Snoopy," he said.

Well. We're off to a grand start. He sat down in the sandbox and began to dig. Clara Jane said hi to him, then headed for her slide.

"I don't understand why babies are so annoying," he said.

Resist urge to admit that you don't understand why 10-year-olds are so annoying.

As he dug and Clara Jane played, I stayed nearby, listening to him and fielding his questions without daring to start a conversation on my own.

"I know a kid who munched a fly once," he said. "And then another kid munched a fly, and another and another and another. I was the one who told them to do it," he said.

"Really? You didn't munch the fly, too?"

"No! Gross! Hey. You know what Snoopy did?"

"No telling," I said.

"You know what he did?"

"No. What did Snoopy do?"

"He ate a turd and then panted in my mom's face. It was pretty funny."

And so it went. Boy kept peppering me with exclaimations about things that may or may not have happened, and I entertained them.

"Your baby looks more like you than B.," he said.

"Really? Most people say she looks like him."

"You know who she really looks like, a little?"

"Who?"

"I shouldn't tell you. You won't like it."

That's exactly what every mother wants to hear, but oh, the curiosity was far, far too strong to give good sense a fighting chance.

"Go on Boy. Tell me. It's okay."

"If you look at her right, she kinda looks a little like Chucky."

Being the kind of mother I am, I called Clara Jane over and asked her to show Boy Devil Baby:


Boy was impressed. Mightily impressed. Suddenly that baby wasn't nearly as irritating as he first assumed, not when you can get her to look like the Dark Lord on command.

"Hey. Do you know what I saw last night, when I got up in the middle of the night and went into my mom and dad's room?"

Resist the urge to say, "Yep, I have a feeling I know what you saw and nope, I'm not explaining it to you."

Against my better judgement - because I don't know how to talk to kids at all - I said, "I don't know, Boy. What did you see?"

That last sentence there? That's the one that proves that I'm an idiot.

"My mom and dad were doing ... something. I dunno what it was. They were rolling from side to side, all over the bed. They were going up and down and moving all over the place."

"Um ... maybe they were testing the mattress. You know, to make sure it was comfortable."

"No, that's not what they were doing. That mattress is really, really comfortable. What do you think they were doing?"

Now, at this point I'm not sure what's going on, if he's really unaware of that part of life (although he's always more than willing to keep us abreast of when his dog humps our dogs), or if he knows what they were doing and is testing me to see if I know what they're doing. I may not know how to talk to kids, but I'm not completely stupid. I'm not biting this bait, because let me tell you, I don't want to explain the facts of life to this kid. And frankly, the urge to tell him to go listen to Weezer's "Tired of Sex" was a might too strong.

"I don't know what they were doing. Maybe you should ask them."

"Okay."

An hour and a half later, I'm wondering if he's gotten The Talk from his folks yet, and when I should expect the angry knock on my door.

Apparently, my suggestion appeased him. He returned to building a sandcastle for that not-so-irritaing baby, quiet for a few minutes. "Did you know that I have a little sister?" he asked.

"Yep. Your mom told me that."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

"Do you?" I asked.

"Yeah. Adopted." He said the word with the same tone of voice most boys his age reserve for words like "grounded" and "busted" - tough, but filled with resignation and disappointment. I know how the story goes. Boy's parents were very young when he was born. When his sister was born two years later, they knew they didn't have the ability to care for two children. A relative adopted her when she was a few months old.

"Do you ever see her?"

"No. Only once a year." His eyes stayed down and he grew quiet.

Now, if I can't carry on a conversation about fly-eating or dog-humping with this kid, how can I touch this one? I can't, and I don't. I stay quiet, looking at him, hoping to convey that he can keep talking, if he wants. He doesn't, not for a few minutes, just keeps looking at the sand as he moves it around with a little blue plastic trowel.

"I've got a secret," he finally says.

I brace myself. If he willingly divulges about his parents' sex life and his lost sibling, I don't even want to know what he considers secret.

"Is it a secret you want to tell?"

"No. Forget it. I don't want to tell it."

"Are you sure? I mean, you brought it up. Whatever it is, I promise I won't laugh."

"It's stupid. I get teased by kids at school, and it's a Christian school. That's not right."

"No, it's not. It's not right at a Christrian school or any school. But it happens, and it sucks."

"Yeah, it does. You know how people tease you, saying that you love someone?"

"Yep, I know how that happens. That happens to everyone at some point. And it sucks." I can't come up with anything better to say to this kid that doesn't involve the word "suck". "But you know what'll happen?"

"They'll get theirs?"

"Yep. Someday, someone will tease them about being in love with someone, and they'll know how crappy it feels, and they'll never do it again. I'll bet you're never going to tease anyone now, are you?"

"Nope. You wanna know another secret?"

Not really, as I'm getting exhausted, but I nod anyway.

"At my school, they spank kids with a paddle, and it's a Christian school."

"I don't think that's right," I said.

"Me either. Your baby's really smart."

"Thanks. You're right, she is."

"But not as smart as me."

"That's right, too. You've got a few years on her."

"She may never be as smart as me."

I didn't have an answer for that one.

Boy's mom poked her head out the door, calling him to come home so they could run to the store. He ran home without saying goodbye, brushing the sand from his pants.

I don't know why I dread seeing Boy. He always makes me laugh, and he makes me think. I think the dread is rooted in laziness, because it's work to converse with him. But like most things that are hard, it's always worth it. Even if I can't look his parents in the eye anymore.

Posted by Robin at 08:42 PM | Comments (4)

March 28, 2006

Idiots Vomiting in the '80s. In China.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 06, 2006

The Return of Boy

If you've been reading my blog from its inception, perhaps you've wondered what became of Boy, our 10-year-old Clara Jane-admiring neighbor. Oh, he's still around, doing stuff and being 10 and all. I'm just better at avoiding him than I used to be.

Not the case today. He rang the doorbell this afternoon.

"Is B. here?"

"Nope," I said. "But he'll be here in about ten minutes."

He silently waved a booklet at me through the screen door, looking expectant. "Um, yeah. Ten minutes. You ... you got a book there, uh, do you?" He waved it again. "Oh. Cub Scouts fundraiser. Gotcha." I opened the screen and he handed me the booklet.

"You pick two circles, scratch them off, give me that amount of money and take the coupons," he explained. "My dog was humping your dog yesterday."

"I didn't think they taught you about that stuff until Webelos." I handed him $3, which I would have rather used to buy a box of Tagalongs instead of a coupon for a free 6" Blimpie sub. But a Girl Scout probably wouldn't have given me the dog nookie update, so I guess we're even.

Posted by Robin at 06:29 PM | Comments (7)

February 25, 2006

Working for the Weekend Tidbits

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

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

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

In less quease-inducing news ...

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

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

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

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



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



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



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

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

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

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

Obviously, Murphy gets her intelligence from me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


Hog balls.



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



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

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

January 31, 2006

Neighborhood Happenings

My next door neighbor? He has a big saw and is cutting a large hole in the side of his house.

That is all.

Posted by Robin at 03:01 PM | Comments (10)

January 06, 2006

Filet of What?

Every time I've looked out my east-facing living room window today, this is what I've seen:

Why yes, it does say "Shit-Filet" on the windshield. Of course. What else would you expect it to say? Turdling McNugget? Crap en Croute? Poopyshanks with wine sauce?

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

January 01, 2006

Bennie Makes Them Ageless!

To no one's surprise we welcomed 2006 like the hardcore badass motherfuckers we are. We wore pajamas! We ate gumbo! We (okay, me) had a little lay-down! We knitted! We (okay, again, me) drank two - two!! - big-ass mugs of tea! Tazo Passion naturally decaf herbal infusion, Beeyotch! We went to bed at 12:30 in the AmotherfuckingM!

Yeah, I don't do New Year's Eve. I haven't gone to a New Year's Eve party since the year B. and I were dating. Once we were married, we no longer felt the need to partake in the amatuerness of it all. We reserve our public drunken reveling for Sadie Hawkins' Day. New Years Eve is for sitting around in our pajamas, occasioanlly with like-minded codependent friends.

Unfortunately, since we reside in the Redneck Jungle, it's impossible to insulate ourselves from the New Year's Eveness of it all. Most of our neighbors anxiously await December 31st because, really, when else are they going to have the opportunity to shoot any or all of the following: airhorns, bottlerockets, and/or guns randomly into the night sky? It's a magical evening that only happens once a year, and damn if my neighbors were gonna miss it.

If you don't remember my dunebuggy-building neighbors, I highly recommend you take a gander at that link so you know what you're dealing with.

The airhorn-blowing began around 11:30. While annoying, I do expect shit like that on New Year's Eve, so I didn't get too worked up about it (unlike B. and Clara Jane). It's the random weeknights when they're blasting that fucker that really piss me off. For an hour, we were subjected to what sounded like random freight trains blasting down our tiny street.

Now, this is what consistantly gets me about the dunebuggy builders - they're older. They're grandparents, and their infant grandchild lives across the street from them. It's bad enough that my kid gets to hear this shit at all hours. But they're subjecting their younger grandchild, who lives closer to them than we do, to it.

We've lived here for almost seven years, and this behavior has just started in the past year or so. Makes me wonder if the foray into grandparenthood has cause a bit of middle-age-craziness. Perhaps someone's feeling a bit long in the tooth and is grossly trying to overcompensate for the natural passage of time.

That being said ...

When we went to bed around 12:30, the airhorn blasts were becoming fewer and farther between. But as I laid in bed, I could hear thumping bass coming from that general direction. I could feel the vibrations in the wall behind our bed. From two houses and a street away. B. stepped outside to see what the rukus was all about, because sometimes my supersonic hearing fools me into thinking I'm hearing crunked-out basslines from neighbors two blocks away, when I'm really hearing the dog snoring.

Nope, I was right. They had their music cranked up in their massive dunebuggy-building garage. It was so loud that we were hearing it through the closed garage door, even.

Now, before I continue, I think you need to know about how this neighbor has decorated his van. You should know about the NRA trucker hat displayed on the dashboard. And the Calvin-urinating-on-Osama-bin-Laden sticker. And the NRA sticker, in case you missed the hat. And the Confederate flag sticker. And the "Guns kill people just like spoons made Rosie O'Donnell fat" sticker.

Think about those stickers, and imagine what kind of person would want to express these thoughts and ideas to the world.

Now, imagine that person, a grizzled 50+-year-old dunebuggy-building grandfather, locked in a cavernous concrete garage at nearly 1 AM, on New Year's Eve, celebrating by blasting Elton John's "Bennie and the Jets" at a neighborhood-deafening volume.

Honestly, I don't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it, or cry for the angry redneck on the corner who's rocking his shit out to early Elton John in the middle of the night.

Posted by Robin at 12:39 PM | Comments (7)

December 17, 2005

Apres-Partay

Apres means before, right?

This is a first. Whenever I throw a party, I'm usually running like a madwoman until the second the guests arrive. But here I am, an hour and a half before any guests arrive, and I'm done. Fin.

Well, except for the actual cooking. But that just involves throwing food onto heat. Everything else is done.

And getting out of my pajamas. Maybe putting on makeup.

Really, that's less work than it seems.

I could use the time to do something about my neighbors. Remember them? Yeah, they're still around. We've heard nary a peep out of them since last spring, when our friendly township police officers told them that, if they phoned in one more bogus complaint about my dogs, there would be hell to pay.

This afternoon, B. returned from throwing the dogs outside and said, "Guess what the drunk idiot's kids are doing."

I can't even begin to answer that question.

"They're in the backyard, throwing knives at their shed."

Well then. Of course. That was my first guess.

I'm not sure what I should do about this sitution. There will be some strapping young men at tonight's party; I could commission them to help me move. But there's that problem of not having anyplace to move to just yet.

But really, when you think about it, knife-throwing kids with traces of fetal alcohol syndrome, educated by a bad school system, is probably a self-correcting problem.

Posted by Robin at 04:34 PM | Comments (3)

August 01, 2005

Neighborhood Woes, Pt. II: It's All Wendy's Fault

The recent spate of neighbor problems shouldn't surprise me, and Saturday morning I realize what, exactly was causing the problem: my cousin Wendy was coming for a weekend visit. You see, everytime Wendy visits, something happens. I don't know if there's something about her aura that sets my neighborhood into a state of unbalance, or if my neighbors just want to impress her. Either way, when Wendy's here, weird shit follows.

In July, 2000, Wendy's car was robbed during a visit. The thieves got away with 100 fine CDs that included New Kids on the Block, Ricky Martin, and a choice MC Hammer/Vanilla Ice combo greatest hits collection, purchased in a gas station in rural Kansas. But don't worry - the insurance settlement allowed Wendy to obtain another copy of this rare gem.

Last September, Wendy was in for a treat - standing on my front porch, watching the victim of a beer bottle smash to the head being carted away in an ambulence while police aprehended my shirtless (of course) neighbor who, apparently, was wielding the bottle.

This time, the festivites started a few hours before Wendy's Saturday morning arrival.

Friday night, the thumping bass was back, this time audible in the back of our house at 12:30 PM. After several calls to the cops, who did nothing, B. got out of bed, put on some pants, and went to crack some skulls politely ask the neighbors to cut it out.

Much to his surprise, the noise wasn't coming from The Suicide House. This time, it was coming from The Dunebuggy House.

The Dunebuggy House sits at the end of our street. The owners, who are grandparents, have a large garage where dunebuggies are built 24 hours a day/7 days a week, so important is the dune buggy to modern life in a midwestern duneless city. I'm not sure how the owner manages his hectic, all-night dunebuggy-building schedule. I think it's by consuming a steady diet of Aldi's store-brand cola and methamphetamine.

When the owner saw B. approaching the garage, where the music - described by B. as simply, "metal" - he knew what the problem was. And he informed B. that we would have to take it up with the local cops because, as he put it, as long as he can here the football games from the high school one mile up the road, he's legally allowed to play his music as loud as he wants, as late as he wants.

I know. I don't follow that logic, either. All I know is, that's the most assholish logic I have ever heard in my life.

I got five blissfully restorative hours of sleep, because we all know the sleep of the enraged is the most restful of all sleep. Wait, no, it isn't. It's about the same as getting no damn sleep at all. Especially when I awoke at 8 AM the following morning with yet more music blasting outside my house.

I guess my next-door neighbor is feeling a bit left out. The neighbors across the street have the sweet ride with a speakerbox that can shake houses halfway down the block, and his neighbors to the west are legally allowed to blast their Molly Hatchet into the wee hours from their rockin' stereo system. But it's just sad to see him, in his driveway with the doors flung open on his tiny blue Cavalier, local radio ads blasting but not quite loud enough to cover the ding-ding-ding of the open car doors.

But just because it's a little sad doesn't mean I don't want to park my truck in the area of the street that connects these three houses and blast a little (or a lot of) Sex Pistols at, oh, five AM. I'm sure that's within my legal rights, right?

With all the neighbor misbehavior, I was a smidge worried about having company on Saturday night. Then I remembered that the company was Kara, Angie and Holley, who enjoy spectacle just as much as Wendy, B. and me.

While we were consuming our nachos - and I must say, they were really good nachos, as the lone toilet in my house has overflowed twice today - Angie happened to look out the living room window. "You're neighbor, she's wearing these really tight ... jodhpurs ... or something. My God! These are the tightest pants I've ever seen!"

And with that we all crowded around the window and saw this staring back at us:


It's a damn good thing none of the neighbors had their music cranked up, because the seismic waves would have blown those stressed-out pants - are they even pants, or are they possibly Underalls with a shirt tucked into them? - right off her body, so pushed to the breaking point was this fabric.

My neighbor didn't notice the crowd of six faces mashed against the window, nor did she hear the howels of hysterical laughter coming from our open front door. If she did, it didn't deter her from continuing her yardwork. Here, she organizes her carport:


And here she really tests the strength and durability of her tight, tight pants:


It takes a courageous woman to wear pants so tight that they create not one, not two, but three - three cameltoes in public. But to wear those pants and BEND OVER??? Sweet Jesus, this is a new level of bravery, one that I will hopefully never, ever know personally. Because really, I don't want a bunch of nacho-eaters to know my genitals that personally.

The photos are of poor quality, I know. For one, Wendy was trying to be stealthy while she took them, lest my neighbor become enraged and bust out of those pants, Incredible Hulk-style. But also because, well, it's really hard to take a decent photo when you're laughing so hard you can't stand.

Since these pants left absolutely nothing to the imagination - not the shape and terrain of buttocks, external genitalia, or equally abuse wedgied underpants, we have dubbed this look the 360-Degree Cameltoe.

When we move - and oh, we will be moving - Wendy is not invited to our new house. Ever.

Posted by Robin at 12:14 AM | Comments (10)

July 29, 2005

The Door Can't Hit You On the Ass on Your Way Out if You Don't Shut it in the First Place (and other tales of neighbor woe)

Let me tell you about my Wednesday, and why it solidified my belief that we need to get the hell out of here. In fact, my exact words to B. were, "Fuck this! I'm to the point where I'm ready to sell our house to a slumlord for three dollars and fifty cents!"

Incident #1 brings us back to one neighbor's quest for a new roof. She called at dinnertime to inform us that the branch from our tree didn't damage their roof enough for their insurance to buy them a new one, but they did find hail damage from a storm several years ago. My court date for their insurance fraud case should be arriving shortly.

Incident #2 is partially my fault because, for the past two years, I've allowed our neighbors to roll back a section of the fence between our yards so that their dog and our dogs have full run of two yards and can spend their days romping and frolicking and humping together. Unfortunately, I think this arrangement is going to come to an end because my neighbor has a learning disability called Minor Entry/Exit Memory Retardation. The primary symptom of this condition is an inability to close a motherfucking gate, even though you opened the motherfucking gate all of five minutes earlier and surely your beer-addled, pot-fogged brain isn't so decayed that you can't remember to close something you opened five minutes before!

As a sidenote, I really don't understand this inability to close things. B. has it, too, as does my father. Gates, cabinets, the door to my computer tower, zippers - it's really tragic how neglected these things become in the throes of Minor Entry/Exit Memory Retardation. I think I'm going to start a fund to help these victims pull their heads out of their asses.

Anyway, my dogs got lose, which always puts me on edge. B. managed to capture poor stupid little Murphy before she reached the busy street two blocks from our house. Chloe, in an unprecidented display of intelligence, found her way into the back yard on her own accord and requested to be let in. Chloe is officially smarter than all of my neighbors, because I don't think any of them are capable of finding their way home.

Incident #3 involved the house catty-corner from us, or as we call it The Suicide House. There was an unfortunate event two years ago in which to bitter, mean old man who lived in that house blew his brains out in the driveway. The house is now a rental, and well, you can guess what kind of people it attracts.

The current residents are a young family. Daddy's a street-fighting man. Seriously. I've seen him fighting in the middle of our street and have even summoned the authorities because while that's one of my favorite Rolling Stones songs, I don't care to see it re-enacted in front of my daughter's bedroom window. But that's another story entirely.

The street-fighting man has a friend who drives a large - bigger than the Suicide House large - SUV. And he's one of those assholes who equates the the volume of his bass with the size of his penis. He woke Clara Jane up from her morning nap. Then, at 10:30 p.m. while making cobbler to take to Angie's, I noticed that, hey, my house is shaking. And not in that we-live-near-the-New-Madrid-faultline way. No, this was the hey-there's-an-overcompensating-penis-deficient-car-stereo-owner-nearby.

B. is anything but a street-fightin' man. In fact, I can think of two different occasions when we were out in public and I had to defend my own honor while he stood by, slack-jawed and confused. Chivalry is dead at this house, just like the SUV owner was going to be if he woke my kid a second time in one day. B. gathered his cajones and headed outside to have a talk with them.

Turns out the street-fightin' man and his friend haven't realized that B. is totally non-confrontational, because when they saw him walk out of the house, they immediately turned down the stereo and shut the SUV's doors.

Anyone wanna buy a house? Cheap?

Posted by Robin at 06:28 PM | Comments (9)

June 12, 2005

early

I'd like to think that if my neighbors realized how close I am to motherfucking snapping, and how thin the thread holding my mental health together really is, they wouldn't leave their dog outside all night, where he barks his goddamn head off until we let him into our house, since they're not home, where he will keep me awake until 2:30 a.m. with all his motherfucking pacing, whiny and attempts to eat my cat. After all, if he's going to keep me awake all motherfucking night, I'd rather he do it in my house, instead of in my yard where my other motherfucking neighbor can and will all the cops on us for having a noisy motherfucking dog who's not even ours.

I'd also like to think that if my daughter realized how close I am to motherfucking snapping she wouldn't wake up at 6 a.m. on the morning after Neighbor's Dog-Wrangling Night.

I called the neighbor repeatedly last night, leaving messages for them to call as soon as they got home so they could take their motherfucking dog home. They didn't. So when Clara Jane woke us up at the asscrack of dawn and the motherfucking neighbor's dog was still in my house, I thought, "The neighbor's car better not be parked in front of their house, and they better be motherfucking bleeding on the side of a motherfucking road somewhere." Not that I was wishing this on them, just that that is the only excuse for their negligent dog and Robin behavior that I was willing to accept. Not the case. Car's home.

Bet the motherfuckers are sleeping. Bet the motherfuckers, who's son spends every weekend with his grandma, had a motherfucking good time last night doing grown-up things, while I spent my motherfucking Saturday night having dinner out with a shrieking child, followed by a trip to the mall where we could walk around and see other young parents with shrieking children, parents looking dazed and like they could use a motherfucking drink because shit, when did walking around the mall with a stroller become a big, fun way to spend a motherfucking Saturday night?

And my motherfucking neighbors, without a care in the goddamn world because they know we don't have a social life, that we'll just be sitting at home anyway with our child, so we'll take care of the motherfucking dog they didn't bother to put in their house, where he would be dry and fed, because we always take care of their motherfucking dog without being asked, are sleeping it off all snug in their motherfucking bed in a room without a pacing motherfucking dog and a shrieking child. Why? Because we're good people, and good people are easy to take advantage of.

Apparently, being a good person doesn't entitle one to a motherfucking night's sleep that lasts more than four motherfucking hours.

I'm so motherfucking sick of being good people, but I'm too motherfucking tired right now to be bad people.

Posted by Robin at 06:53 AM | Comments (10)

May 29, 2005

A message to the scavengers

Dear Scavengers:

When people leave a huge pile of garbage on the curb the day after a rummage sale, you are not required to ring my motherfucking doorbell and ask if you can take my trash.

If you could read, you would understand the big "Free" sign that's attached to said garbage.

It's on the curb. I don't leave things I want on my curb.

Thank you for waking me up not once, but twice on this lovely Sunday - once in the wee morning hours, and again when I was trying to take a nap after waking up in the wee morning hours. Thanks, also, for waking up my child one hour into a hard-fought nap.

I hope you get stuck by a pin as you dig through my garbage. That'll teach you to ask for permission, you stupid dumpster divers.

Posted by Robin at 12:56 PM | Comments (2)

May 18, 2005

The Mother Jones Playgroup and Liberal Terrorist Cell

Last year's election was the first time I decided to offer my political opinion to anyone who might be stuck behind me in traffic. There's a Kerry-Edwards sticker and a Mothers Opposing Bush one on the back of my truck. Along with my political beliefs, anyone stuck behind me in traffic is also privvy to my favorite Nascar drivers.

I'll admit, I'm a bit lazy when it comes to some things. Like, the bumper stickers on my truck. In the past I've always complained when I see others who, long after the election, still have their campaign stickers. What the hell? You're either bitter because your candidate lost, or gloating because your candidate won. But now I see a third option: lazy. I fall into category three. There's also the lesser category #4 - I leave the stickers on my truck so my friends will recognize it in parking lots.

I guess the point I'm trying to make: I still have two dated political bumper stickers on my car.

Today, Clara "Power to the People" Jane had her 15-month check-up. As I was turning into the hospital's parking lot, I noticed a car in the lane beside me driving very slowly. The driver was holding an 8.5" x 11" piece of white paper against the passenger side window - the window closest to me. There was a rather frantic-looking message, scrawled in thick black marker:

John Kerry: Supported by Socialists, Terrorist, and Some Democrats.

Dude.

What the fuck?

Now, my first reaction was pure, blinding anger. I mean, one of the stickers proclaims that I'm a mother - a mother who happens to be turning her car into the parking lot of a hospital that treats a lot of sick, sick children. Thank God Socialist-approved higher being my child was just going for a routine checkup, but holy fuck. I can just imagine what it would feel like to be a mother with a sick child, in the process of trying to get help for said child, only to have some wing-nut (which, apparently, is Poppy's Word of the Week) tell her she's a terrorist.

Now, I hate to wish ill on anyone. I really do. I honestly believe in my bleeding little heart that all humans are inherantly good. Misguided and deluded, but good. But I've got to say, I really hope the driver of that car was on his way to the proctology wing of the hospital for a round of anal scoping. Not just because he has it coming, but because anyone who feels the need to admonish my political beliefs in such a manner obviously has something wedged in the rectal area that needs removing, stat!

Seriously. Such behavior must have been caused by something very painful and humiliating, like anal fissures.

If you've been reading this blog since it started, you might recall that, during those early months of Clara Jane's life, when my hormones were really out of whack, I used to talk about my strong desire to keep some of her shitty diapers in my truck for the sole purpose of flinging them at drivers who pissed me off. I haven't had that urge in a long time, but by God Heathen Idol, it was there today!

Wouldn't that be a hoot? All the socialist terrorist Democrat mommies like me, flinging poppy diapers at drivers whose politics displease us.

And further, Dude - Kerry lost! I'm over it. You should be, too. Let the anger go. It's just going to make the fissures worse.

Yeah, I know, John Kerry still holds public office, but he's representing people in "Tax"achusettes. We live in Missourah and we're represented by Lee Greenwood and Toby Keith. You can sleep easy at night, knowing that our state is protected from the big, bad liberals by Bluntman and his sidekick Bunny.

I must say, I do hope that the next time he holds up that sign while driving, that his fissures get extra-itchy, distracting him further so he rams that car of his into a tree. I just hope it's not a tree that me or any of my Mother Jones Playgroup and Liberal Terrorist Cell friends happen to be hugging at the time.

As for Clara Jane's appointment, she's astounding. Twenty-seven pounds, 29" tall, and with verbal skills in the 2 - 2.5 year-old range. "Just wait," my mom told me. "She's taking after you. Don't be surprised when she's five years old and you catch her sitting on the curb during a parade, arguing politics with a decrepit little old woman, the way you did."

I'd say she's well on her way.

Posted by Robin at 04:26 PM | Comments (4)

May 17, 2005

Funny thing overheard in my house today

From B.:

"Quick! Where's the camera? '80s Lady is in her backyard! We've got a perfect shot!"

Bad timing, since we have to wait a couple of weeks before we have one of these.

But once we have our digital camera binoculars, I promise you'll be seeing the full spectacle that is '80s Lady.

Thank God our house, with lots of windows, sits at the top of the hill and overlooks the backyards of everyone else on the block. Thank God, indeed.

Posted by Robin at 05:06 PM | Comments (1)

May 12, 2005

Where the tall grass grows and the rednecks roam

Ok, so I'm not much into landscaping. I'm completely inept when it comes to gardening. I love flowers, which is why I don't plant them; it makes me sad to bring pain to things I love.

The inside of my house? Cute as a button. B. and I have worked hard to make a lovely little cozy retreat for ourselves, full of comfy furniture, tasteful mid-century furnishings, hardwood floors, and all that crap you see from Martha.

Not so much when it comes to the yard. Our postage stamp front yard sits on a hill. Mercifully, one half of it is covered by English ivy. I love it, but I do sometimes worry about it growing over our house as we sleep, forever trapping us in our house, where we will die horrible deaths with only our Pottery Barn slipcovers to comfort us.

The other half of the yard isn't quite as tasteful. When we first moved in, before I realized that DIY tubal ligations are more fun than gardening, I spent hours trying to make something of the hard-packed clay soil on that hill. I tore out the sod (which was mostly crabgrass), worked in new soil, and filled the hill with bulbs - daffodils, irises, hyacinths, muscari, lilly of the valley. I envisioned a springtime blanket of Easter egg colored flowers in which I would frolic while wearing a sundress and a fancy bonnet with the sun on my face.

I neglected several obvious truths in this plan:

1. I burst into flames when the sun touches me.

2. My exposed arm flab would provide too much shade, thus killing my flowers.

3. Frolic is impossible on a 4' x 5' hill.

4. Spring bulbs only stay in bloom for a short time - in spring. The rest of the time, they look sort of like wild weeds.

5. Bags of soil often contain weed seeds. In fact, they should just lable them "Big Bag of Weed Seeds with a Little Bit of Dirt".

For a week or two every spring, I have a few pretty flowers. The rest of the time, I have a patch of foliage that is not only ugly, but whose only use is providing shelter for wild racoons.

The backyard ... oh, the backyard. The dogs do a good job of keeping the perimeter of the yard free of grass and living things (except dogs). The middle of the yard tends to grow a bit wild, but B. never gives much consideration to my suggestions that a couple of pet goats would do a fine job of keeping it under control.

We could just mow the yard, but B. killed our lawn mower last year. It died from neglect.

So, I wasn't terribly surprised yesterday when I found a yellow ticket taped to our front door from our town's Code Enforcement Officer. The police cars in my township have the motto "Too Much Free Time and Not Enough Crime" painted on their doors. To keep them occupied and out of trouble, one officer spends his days driving through the township, looking for things like too-tall grass. Sometimes he sits in his car and waits for license plates to expire so he can write tickets.

Three years ago I got a ticket for having a derelict vehicle because my soon-to-be-donated l990 Cavalier was sitting in my driveway with expired tags. In my driveway, People! The one we paid for. I could see writing the ticket if we had the derelict vehicle in question parked on the street, or perhaps the sidewalk. But I thought my rights as a homeowner indicated that I could park damn near anything in my driveway. Where else are we going to keep the goat herd in the winter?

And for the record, have they given my neighbor a ticket for having a derelict toilet or for her derelict February Christmas display? I highly doubt it.

Yes, I know. Code Enforcement Officers exist so we can all live in a nice neighborhood. But the thing is, it's a hellhole! Our lawn isn't even the worst one on the block. Hell, it's not even the worst in a four-house radius.

The ticket's no big deal. It's just a warning. As long as we mow by May 16th, all's cool.

You'd think.

Last night, B. and I were eating dinner when the phone rang. When I saw the name on caller i.d., I didn't answer; I just handed the phone directly to B. It was one of our neighbors, the one who rambles at length about every disease known to medical science (she has all of them) and whose house is often on the verge of foreclosure. Talking to her makes my brain hurt, so I always just give her to B., who's much better at smiling, nodding, and not listening to a word she says.

I could tell from B.'s end of the conversation that they, too, had gotten a yellow mow-your-damn-yard-you-hillbilly slip. I could also tell that she was on a full tear about it. "Just mow your damn yard!", I kept thinking. No need to get outraged. We're not being fined. We're not being ousted from society. It's certainly not worth interrupting my dinner so you can rant.

B. eventually hung up. In his glazed-over non-listening, he somehow intuited when the conversation had ended and he could return to his dinner.

Apparently, it wasn't just the yellow slip that has my neighbor up in arms. Seems that there was an incident with the police on Mother's Day.

But isn't there always an incident with the police on Mother's Day? Nothing says "I loves you, Maw!" quite like liquor, guns and ammo.

My neighbor's version: The people who live at the end of the block, the ones with the 24 hour a day emergency dune bug building shop, own the house across the street, which they're renting to their son and his girlfriend, who was due to deliver their child on Mother's Day.

It seems that their Mother's Day festivities were interrupted by "some drunk with a gun". While Baby Daddy confronted the drunken gunslinger, Maw called 911. The cops came, but did nothing about the drunken gunslinger. Instead, they made Baby Daddy and Maw lie down on their bellies with their hands behind their heads in the front yard, while the drunken gunslinger ran wild!

My first thought, "Yeah, with our police force, I can see that happening."

But, considering my neighbor's knack for exaggeration and omission, I do think there's much to the Mother's Day Shoot-Out I don't know about. My neighbor once came to our house at 11:30 p.m., up in arms because Baby Daddy had gotten the shit beat out of him for no reason! But upon doing a little digging, we learned that he had gotten the shit beat out of him for being a little racist thug, which seems like a perfectly good reason to beat the shit out of him, if you ask me.

Regardless, I'm sure that whatever Mother's Day crime spree transpired, the local police will have it under control, just as soon as they make sure we all have our lawns mowed.

Posted by Robin at 11:53 AM | Comments (4)