Poppy Mom

I’m glad I was stranded at O’Hare for seven hours last week when the news broke about Michael Jackson’s death. There weren’t any TVs in the kid’s area, and I wasn’t willing to pay $7/hour for Wifi, so my friends, several who texted me at the same moment with the news, were my only source of news. Since I’m usually a glassy-eyed news junky, I thought I should be sucking up every tiny bit of news on the subject. I was surprised that I was actually glad to not be sucked in.

Since returning home, I’ve followed the story a little bit. Enough to know that it’s a fucking circus. As Keith Olbermann said on Tuesday night, “This carnival’s gonna be in town for a looooooooooong time.” Ain’t that the truth.

Honestly, I don’t care. I’m irked that CNN’s website looks more like People than, you know, a news website. Finally tonight, they posted a new story about the situation in Iran, which as best as I can tell, came to a grinding halt the second Jackson died.

But I’m 36 years old and was weened on American pop culture. I have to care a little.

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And more importantly, without a bra while wearing a very loose tank top because holy shit. Those sunburn photos I posted the other day? In no way do they illustrate the horror that is happening on my left shoulder blade. The blisters have bred and multiplied and grown and taken over. No more can I sit with my back touching, well, anything. Made for a fun trip home.

But we’re home! And I can relieve my stupidity-induced pain with near-nudity without fear of being photographed. Without fail, the only photos my mother-in-law takes of me happen when I’m fresh out of bed, unbrushed, eye-boogered, with my boobs tucked under my armpits. I think I stopped all of those photos during this visit. Although I did accidentally forget on Monday morning, and while sitting in the living room, braless and half-awake, we had a discussion about how good Brian’s aunts breast reduction looked.

I’m trying to not take it personally.

Anyway, I’m not going to complain. Nor am I going to post photos of the current state of my burn. I’ll just say that it looks a lot like this.

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I don’t even know how to write outside of Wordpress anymore. It’s Saturday night. I’m sitting in Brian’s childhood bedroom, in the mood to write, so I thought I’d write about our vacation so far, even though we don’t have internet access. They have this thing called “dial up”, but I hear it’s slow and will make me feel like I’m partying like it’s 1999, which is overrated. So, I figured I’d open my word processing software, write, and everything would be just fine. Except it’s been so long since I’ve used it I couldn’t remember its name. Not that this mattered, because for the first time in two years my MacBook defied me. It went all sorts of adolescent rebellious and, well, it was just not pleasant.

Anyway, between forgetting how to use software, I’m now convinced that my computer and I cannot operate without being connected to the kind, supportive people on the internet. Even though I always set my chat settings to say I’m antisocial, I’d obviously be nothing without you people.

Is my delirium showing?

As you might recall from my last dispatch, we planned to fly to Chicago, then Green Bay, and then drive a rental car to visit my in-laws in Gladstone, Michigan. Good plan, except out three-hour layover at O’Hare turned into seven hours of mayhem. And by “mayhem” I mean marital discord, boredom, and a strong desire to punch everyone at United Airlines in their necks. Our flight to Green Bay – a 30 minute flight – got moved from time to time and gate to gate. I’m pretty sure the kid Clara Jane met in the play area who was preparing to fly to Poland reached his destination before we did. It might not have been so bad if we didn’t get a different excuse from every United-related person we encountered. Weather, although the rental car agent in Green Bay said it was sunny and 80. Which could be a problem since they might not be used to extreme heat and sun. Mechanical. As in, forgot to turn on the a/c. Crew problems.

As a big fat girl I’ve always wanted an airline seat belt extender so I don’t have to deal with asking for one every flight. After that long-ass layover, you better believe the extender I got for the flight went straight into Clara Jane’s backpack. Yes, I was going to let her take the fall. When you arrive at O’Hare at 1:00 for a 5:00 flight that doesn’t leave until 9:00, you stop caring about the other human beings somewhere around 4:38 PM.

The upsides? Clara Jane got to play with every child in the world who traveled on Thursday, thanks to the great play area, conveniently located near the United gates. Also, we got to Green Bay so late that the lone remaining rental car agent felt bad for us. He gave us an upgrade to a Prius. I am in love. 46 mpg on the highway while on vacation will do that. Pretty little purring car. I just want to smooch its sweet face.

We arrived at the in-laws’ house around 2 a.m., their time. They live approximately six feet into the eastern time zone, which means it finally got dark about 20 minutes after we got here.

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Where has that lazy-ass Robin, who claims to be a writer, been for the past week?

Writing my damn ass off, that’s where!

Brian, Clara Jane and I are leaving for vacation later this week. A real vacation. Sort of. We’re visiting my in-laws in the wilderness, instead of doing our usual break-neck cram-as-much-into-24-hour concert trips. We haven’t been on a trip longer than a long weekend since our honeymoon nearly ten years ago.

So weird, because as a kid my family went on vacation damn near every year. I guess it’s because we usually did it on the cheap - we camped. Which means that as an adult, I don’t camp. We went to Disney World twice - once when I was in kindergarten and again when I was in second grade. We went in the off-season (January and March) and stayed in our pop-up camper (tornados). This was pre-Epcot Disney, so I’m sure it had to be cheaper. Gatorland looks a hell of a lot fancier now than it did back then. Back then, I think Gatorland was just the reptile-infested streets of Kissimmee, Florida.

Actually, we didn’t go to Gatorland. We just pulled off the road and looked at gators when we happened to see them.

During the second trip in 1981 - shortly before child safety became a concern - I rode the whole trip in the bed of our truck, with a camper shell. My dad even built a pallett so I wouldn’t have to sit on the ridged metal floor. If I needed anything, I just knocked on the window between the cab and bed. If they were so inclined, my parents would slide the window open.

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Two years ago tonight, my family spent our first night in Prettytown. That’s Belleville, Illinois, in case you weren’t aware.

Lots of you probably remember my demented obsession with the move, which covered a couple of years of my life. If you don’t remember that, you’re lucky. Seriously, I was losing my shit back in our old neighborhood.  Check out that website! It didn’t exist two years ago. The fact that it looks like it was made on 1996 speaks volumes. Considering that over 17% of the town’s population is below the povery line, perhaps they shouldn’t be investing in 13-year-old technology.

Living amongst poor people didn’t bother me. Living in a community that didn’t give a shit about its people did. Living in a community in which no one really seemed to give a shit about anyone else was ruining any faith I had in humanity.

So, has Belleville lived up to my exaggerated expectations? Damn straight

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If you’ve been reading this blog for a number of years, you might recall that I have a long, colorful history of panic and anxiety disorders. The first year or so of my blog (I’m too lazy to repost the archives) are filled with postpartum panic attacks and a delightful journey into the world of cognitive behavioral therapy to teach me how to stay at home alone without having a stroke. Three years ago, I went through another bout in which I learned that Wellbutrin makes some people borderline psychotic.

Since the move to Prettytown two years ago (this weekend, actually … I’ll write about that in a few days), I haven’t had one single panic attack. Some generalized anxiety, yes, but nothing that couldn’t be tamed with the tricks I learned in therapy. I’m sure a big part of this is because living here is much less stressful than our old neighborhood.

Until a week ago today. The day started well, even though I’d been pretty stressed. Last week was a tough one; my post from last Thursday was the tiny little tip-top of an iceberg made entirely of fecal matter. Nothing major, though. Just lots of little stressors, combined with still coping with the loss of a family friend, Clara Jane’s erratic moods, and trying to learn how to balance my new workload with SAHMomdom.

My pets have always been my panic trigger. If I’m doing fine, I can handle anything the idiot hounds hork my way. The gauge of my stress levels lies in my response to anything critter-related.

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What a whirlwind few days it’s been! On Monday, my dear friend Sally made her first trip to St. Louis. She lives in London, and visits her sister in Detroit once a year. Usually I go to Detroit to visit her. This year, I convinced her to come see me on my home turf.

A whirlwind trip merits a whirlwind post, don’t you think? Here’s how I indoctrinated a Londoner into the ways of St. Louis in 30 hours.

Monday

1 p.m. - Sally arrived at the airport. Clara Jane and I whisked her away, taking the scenic route to show her Forest Park and downtown on our way to lunch at Iron Barley.  Nothing says “welcome to St. Louis!” like springing a fried sandwich of American cheese, peanut butter, fried banana, strawberry jam, bacon, and red pepper flakes on an unsuspecting Brit.

She kept saying, “This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever tasted, but it’s so good!”

4 pm - After a long, gut-busting lunch we headed to my house so Sally can see how we live and meet my dogs. They did the the only trick they’re trained to do: howled like they were being killed when I told them to talk about their bellies. For that, Sally crossed the Atlantic.

Then we had another sort of howling - Sally experienced her first tornado warning. Welcome to the lower midwest! Hold on to your ass!

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Maybe it’s the constant whining and arguing I’m living with in the form of a 5-year-old who’s been acting like a 12-year-old since school ended. Or the fact that I’m on that dreaded fourth week of the no-baby pills. Perhaps it’s the shift into summer, as I always seem to go a little batshit at the beginning of June. Whatever it is, my patience is gone this week, perhaps for the entire summer. My teeth hurt from clenching my jaw, which I do when I’m trying to not verbally assault the fellow humans. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

The sad thing is? I’ve witnessed enough meanness on the parts of other people this week that dammit, I’ve caught it. Chronic viral douchehattery. Why douchehattery? Becacuse I’m sick to death of the words “asshat” and “douchbag”, that’s why.

See? I’m delightful today. I’ve become everything I have loathed this week, and I’m now going to subject you to the kind of jackass antics that have worn me down.

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Clara Jane returned home on Sunday and she still hasn’t adjusted to summer break. Latest fear: aliens are going to take Brian hostage at work, eat him, and we’ll be an all-girl family. I blame my friend Stacey for this. Back when Clara Jane was a day old, Stacey told a story about being afraid aliens would attack while she was having oral surgery in a Chicago high-rise. I’m pretty sure Clara Jane overheard. This is how deep-seeded irrational fears begin.

It has not been a fun week. There have been fun moments, like spending an afternoon at Children’s Museum, aside from getting drenched in one of Edwardsville’s current crop of monsoonanados.  They were kind enough to let us come and play, even though we looked a little like sewer rats.

Other than that,the rest of the week consisted of Clara Jane crying about missing her dad, wanting me to go to work full-time, designing a money-making machine so that Brian no longer has to go to work, and requesting to move to my parents’ house … the usual forms of five-year-old angst.

I wish I was exaggerating in that last paragraph. I’m not.

What has kept me from eating my young this week? A steady diet of live rock and roll. We started a week ago Saturday, while the alien-phobe was still at her real home with my parents. Brian and I took advantage of all the amenities of The Deluxe, which might be my new favorite place ever. Diner food. A DJ who spins the likes of Sonic Youth and the White Stripes. $7 pitchers of PBR. Live music from three of my favorite local bands (The 75’s, The Nevermores, and Left Arm) on a really fantastic sound system.

I’m campaigning to get any and/or all of these bands to play the next St. Louis Rock n’ Romp. Pester them about it, okay?

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There’s a reason I haven’t written for so long. Writing makes me think about things I don’t necessarily want to consider.

Last Thursday, my family lost a dear friend. Not just a friend, but an honorary member of our brood.

My parents and I met Flo and her husband Rudy in 1988, when my parents bought the house where they still live. Flo and Rudy were one of their few neighbors. We knew of them from the previous residents - my aunt’s inlaws - who had told us that the retired couple were nice, but a little odd. Kept to themselves for the most part, but never failed to smile and wave during their daily walks. We’d lived there for a few months before I met them. I was walking home from the abandoned elementary school, where I often went to hit tennis balls against a brick wall, and fell into stride with them during one of their walks. Since they had a reputation for being stand-offish, I was surprised when they didn’t hesitate to ask me about tennis. Did I take lessons? Play on the high school team? Hitting balls at Jefferson School? What a great idea! Even Chrissy Evert had to start somewhere.

I don’t know when their relationship with my family shifted, but over the years Flo and Rudy became fixtures in our lives. They loved children and pets, but chose to not have either. This didn’t stop them from taking an interest in me and, later, Clara Jane. Almost daily, they’d come visit my parents’ menagerie.

Two years ago Flo and Rudy decided they were tired of maintaining a house. Having entered their 80s, they took their beloved retirement a step further by moving into a luxury retirement complex. Beautiful gardens without the lawn work. Meals without the cooking. Housekeeping service. All the good stuff they deserved. Still, it was hard to think that they wouldn’t be next door to my parents anymore.

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