Ciao Baby!

Regrets Abound

2011-09-29T00:52:00.002-04:00

I've done some dumb things. I've done liquid diets and blown my savings trying to historically recreate the ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz. I confess that back in my drinkin' days, I got behind the wheel when I had no business doing so. The list could go on for a pretty long time but I'll cut to the chase.

I have tattoos. And out of five, I'm only interested in retaining two. The tacky sun/moon combo on the top of my foot, the eye of Horus (or, also commonly known as B17 on the flash poster) on my ankle and the remnants of a horrible relationship on my shoulder have all overstayed their welcome on my body.

Unfortunately, these new-fangled "lasers" that allegedly remove tattoos no longer welcome are quite pricey and well above my pay grade. I've resorted to using the old timey method of tattoo removal called TCA. Yes, I'm applying acid to my skin to burn away the ink I already suffered for once. It's a little crazy.

The process goes like this: dip a Q-tip in a 30% solution of trichloroacetic acid and rub it vigorously over the offending tattoo. Wait 30 seconds to 3 minutes or until the skin is in such pain that time is of no consequence whatsoever and, hopefully, there is a clear path to an empty bathroom and the water is colder than a witch's nose. (I keep it clean. My mom reads here.) Within a couple of days, mild blistering *may* occur, the skin will dry and peel and the ink will begin to break down. I will have to repeat this cycle another six times to see appreciable fading. It hurts, it's ugly and it's probably yet another really bad decision. But, this is the only option I have right now. Que sera sera.

To my young friends and readers, I suggest piercing. Damn right! Punch holes in everything you got! Go see Stan at Cheap Trx and tell him you want one of everything and two of a couple things. Get jewelry with spikes and dangling crystals on it. Horrify your parents and shock your friends! Get indignant with potential employers about your freedom of expression. Pierce. It. All.

And when you grow tired of everything in that last paragraph, take out the metal, put the barbells and rings in a drawer and go about your business like it never happened. You still want ink? Go down to Art Monster on Cherokee and have them airbrush whatever you want on to a shirt or helmet or some Chuck Taylor All Star hightops.

Meanwhile, I'll be home burning off layers of my skin with toxic chemicals I bought off of Amazon. Not a good look. Not a good look at all.

Your "Comfort" is Making Me Uncomfortable

2010-04-11T13:39:00.003-04:00

If you wear shorts, prepare to be offended. (That's as much of a disclaimer as I'm going to offer.) Shorts being defined as a lower body garment with holes for each leg but any fabric covering the actual legs does not extend below the knee.

By my calculations, only 3 percent of the United States population is capable of wearing shorts properly. I see young women who refuse to admit that they have saddlebags at 19 (blame your genetics, you can't do a thing about it)wearing what amounts to a denim diaper and women who can't pack it into one movie theatre seat proudly strutting out in the spandex version. Grandpas everywhere pull their polyester shorts from Wal-Mart up to their man-boobs and my brothers in the neighborhood sag the plaid and I've more than once thought they were wearing their jammies.

Shorts look cute on the following people: kids at summer camp, soccer players of any age and any person, regardless of how ill-fitting, doing landscaping work in their own back yard. If you do not fall into any of these categories, please do not wear shorts. And, as a gentle reminder, if you violate this prohibition and wear cotton shorts that feel like they *might* be bunching in the crotchal area- they are. And we can all see how hungry your nether regions are because your privates are eating the shorts.

Might I suggest a lovely and cool linen pant? Perhaps a breezy cotton skirt? A flowing summer dress is flattering, quite comfortable and will adequately mask the orange peel residing on the back of your thighs. Men, I will give you a pass for some longer, cargo style shorts but only if there isn't an implied trade between seeing your lower leg AND the crack of your butt. Shorts are equipped with belt loops.

Believe me, when you see the pictures from the barbeque up on facebook, you will thank me.

Gimme the Hope! Gimme the Change!

2010-03-05T22:19:00.001-05:00

I was down for hope. And I was certainly up for change! It was in the spirit of “Yes, We Can” I geared up with voter registration cards and Barrack Obama literature and hit the streets two summers ago. Optimism flowed from my every pore.

But flash forward a year and a half and I feel like the kid at the carnival who throws his hardest pitch at the propped up platter, only to learn after the fact that the plate is made of plastic and he just wasted his five bucks on balls instead of enjoying a sugary funnel cake.

I have a kid running around with no health insurance because she doesn’t qualify for Medicaid, her job doesn’t offer it to part-timers and university plans are still too expensive and offer the equivalent of catastrophic coverage only.

While I am fortunate to have a job, I feel a certain amount of “survivor guilt” because the majority of my highly qualified and certainly educated friends do not.

I stand in line at the grocery store with families who are putting back staple items because they don’t have enough money to cover the final bill. There have been a few times I’ve covered the shortage out of the aforementioned survivor guilt. Call it the Shop N Save Bailout Program.

So, no. I am not pleased with the administration I campaigned for, voted for and trusted to put a cover over me and my fellow man. The promises have remained largely unfulfilled and, while I find President Obama to be a dynamic personality and enjoyable speaker, I can’t proudly slap a “Yes, We Did” bumper sticker on my ride.

But, it’s not too late! If I speak out about my personal hopes and changes someone will hear. If you and I, as citizens and humans, voice our dissatisfaction with current domestic policy and the fact that our military still occupies Iraq, we will be heard.

My voice alone is loud but if we speak together it will be stronger. If ten of us join forces and voices we will be noticed. If one hundred mouths speak the same words we will rattle windows. A thousand yells will prompt action and a million shouts cannot be ignored.

I will not be ignored. ARE YOU WITH ME?

Waste Not, Want Not

2010-02-07T23:16:00.001-05:00

I have cable TV for two reasons. First, it makes my internet cheaper. Second, I do enjoy the Food Network. One of my favorite shows is Chopped. The basic premise is to give 4 chefs/cooks a basket of odd ingredients and see if they can make something edible out of the miscellany within 20 minutes.

Sometimes they freak out and pull an “I can’t WORK with this!” routine. When this happens I cuss the wuss out via my television and tell them to rinse the sand out of their bikini bottoms.

My kids and I have been living at varying degrees of single-parent poverty for a really long time. The mortgage has never been late but there have been many a night when the pantry contained the barest of ingredients and it was the dregs or hunger. We learned to adapt and be creative out of necessity.

After a while, it became almost a game for my oldest kid. I often challenge her. “Chopper, we have garbanzo beans, curry powder, strawberry jam and one dried out portabella mushroom. Can we squeeze dinner out of that?” More often than not, she scoffs and calls me a “weeney” for my lack of vision. In 10 minutes she can make something out of almost nothing that will feed a party of six and does a pretty fine job of it.

Hopefully, I’ve armed them a life skill and an appreciation for (on a good week) fine ingredients and (on a bad one) ingredients at all. My mom’s basic grocery list included eggs, cheese and bread. We always had those things and I learned to use them in a hundred combinations. I’ve passed along to Chopper and Runt a relatively constant supply of jasmine rice, butter and coconut milk. Different list but same philosophy.

To date, none of us have starved to death.

Wrap it Up, I'll Take 'Em Home With Me

2010-01-21T19:05:00.002-05:00

I am a child of the 80's. I had the waterfall hair, the parachute pants, the Jessica McClintock prom dress. My music was largely Duran Duran, Madonna and Culture Club. I drove a red-orange Dodge Omni 024 with a sunroof although my dad will swear on a stack of bibles that it was a Charger. Nancy Reagan was pitching "Just Say No" rhetoric while Ol' Ronnie was involved in much more nefarious deeds than weed and club drugs.

Safe sex was a big deal. AIDS and HIV were our teen aged boogeymen. Suddenly, getting pregnant wasn't the worst case scenario of unwrapped sex- dying was. There was much talk of how to protect oneself against this horrible disease. But the real rub was that nobody actually HAD condoms. Sure, we were supposed to keep them on our person at all times, but nobody every did. They were still hidden behind the counter at the drugstore and we resorted to the dark, dismal free clinic located in a creepy basement to get a very limited supply.

Even if someone got their hands on a rubber (as we called them), there was epic embarrassment in trying to bring up the topic with sexual partners. Most of the time, the latex sat in the glove compartment, the purse or the wallet out of sheer discomfort and nervousness.

Last weekend, a friend was looking for some action. Hey, a consenting adult with no significant and committed partnership is entitled to get some nookie if she/he can find a willing party. Said willing party was located and this exchange occurred between the layer and the layee:

"Do you have condoms?" Yes. Yeah. I think so. Hm, nope.
"Well we have to get some." Yeah. But can you cash a check for me? I need cash to buy them at a gas station or something.
"I have six dollars. Is that enough?" Should be.
"Ok. You can go get them and I'll wait here." Well, I don't have a car. Can you give me a ride to get condoms?
"Yes. Let's go."

And they actually went! And bought gas station condoms! And did it! And by "it" I mean they had sex with gas station condoms purchased with their last collective six dollars after a rubber-run!

I supposed I was sufficiently embarrassed enough for all parties. But let's chalk one up for safety! Yay!!

What to Do About Jesus?

2009-12-11T22:53:00.003-05:00

Some years ago, my kid took a missionary trip to build housing in one of the Mexican towns on the edge of Texas. I asked her to bring me a Jesus on the Cross, similar to the ones I had seen in the tiendas on Cherokee Street in St. Louis.

These crosses are formidable. They are made from very substantial, solid wood and the J.C. figurine is detailed and also quite large. I have seen them the size of a notebook and I have seen them the size of, well, Jesus. Either way, it was no small request to ask her to haul Our Lord and Saviour across the border and back to the Gateway to the West.

But, she did it for me and arrived Stateside with the requested icon. Certainly larger than a breadbox but not so big as to scare off burglars or prompt calls to the police from concerned or frightened neighbors. I hung it on a wall in my bedroom.

His hands were the first to go. I really have no idea what happened, only that, in retrospect, I should have called in a Holy Man of some variety as soon as I noticed his mitts were disintegrating. For lack of a better idea, I "supported" the figurine to the cross using a rubber band from some broccoli. That may not have been the best course, either. The elastic snapped and sent the porcelain form skidding across the bedroom floor. Now I had a Jesus with missing hands and feet that could not be affixed to the wood. Nor did I have any religious advisor to tell me if there was a proper method or protocol for reassembling the piece. A quick glance at my watch told me that lightning was due to strike at any moment.

What does one do with a broken Jesus? Gorilla glue it together? Bury it somewhere? Donate it to St. Vincent DePaul and hope I'm not struck dead for putting it in a Hefty kitchen trash bag with pants that don't fit anymore?

Next time the kid goes to Mexico I'm just going to ask for some poor quality, bootleg DVDs.

Oh the Times, They Are A'Changing

2009-12-11T17:14:00.004-05:00

You may look back a few entries to the one where I proudly proclaim, "I'm back!" Feel free to taunt me with an approriate "Liar, liar. Pants on fire." I deserve it.

But the masses have spoken and demanded my return for real this time. (Thanks, Mom!) So, here is my pre-posting update so y'all can catch up, get hip and just dig it.

Harford Coffee was sold and my close friend gave me a gig leasing residential property. This is an excellent job for me because I do not have to wear pantyhose or any variety of uniform provided by Cintas. It's also a great situation because I get to interact with all walks of life and generally clown all day and get paid to do it.

Chopper is 18 and going to college. She could easily be America's Next Top Model only her snark is much more understated than those rookies that Tyra is coaching. For my old HCC pals, you've seen Michaela around town a million times and probably wondered how a young woman with so much sophistication landed in St. Louis.

Val is an outstanding student, a cheerleader, a competitive diver and a careful driver. Alas, she hasn't dragged home any young man who deserves her company yet. I have threatened a few with my Louisville Slugger and a shovel. No, I've threatened ALL of them with the slugger/shovel combo. It's my obligation as her mother to mortify her.

When I'm bored and starved for attention I still perform in community theatre. You know, so I can clown and NOT get paid for it. Volunteer clowning for the amusement of the people. I am also trying to wiggle my way onto the Marine Villa Neighborhood Association board because I feel a call to get my 'hood working together toward a greater good and I'm pretty sure I'm just the man for the job.

Some things are different and some are just the same. But, nothing is as certain as change.

Stay tuned for some stories, some giggles and some social commentary provided by yours truly.

Dying of Thirst

2006-12-23T00:52:00.000-05:00

Three hundred miles away and what do I miss most about St. Louis? Iced tea.

I guess one could say I drink a lot of tea- pretty close to a gallon a day. But I'm an iced tea snob and it can only come from a few sources if it's to be really good iced tea. Hartford Coffee and the south county Hardee's both make a drinkable tea but the supreme iced tea maker, the exhalted beverage dispensing king of them all, is Quick Trip. Any Quick Trip, at that! Extra large cup, filled with crushed ice (you know, because at QT I have the option for crushed or cubes-another bonus)gurgling with unsweetened, freshly brewed tea made with filtered water and seven packets of Splenda. Dayum, I miss that.

In a moment of adventurous weakness, I purchased a diet raspberry flavored Snapple from Walgreens and promptly wretched upon opening the bottle. 'Twas too vile to touch my lips. It smelled like skraight-up vomit.

So, I'm back to my former fave, Diet Coke, until I can get the hell out of the state of Indiana and back to the things I love the most...like QT iced tea.

The Frustration of Tags

2006-12-17T04:53:00.000-05:00

Who doesn't have a bone to pick with the DMV or Department of Revenue? In the ongoing efforts to have my new vehicle titled and plated, I've come up with a few gripes not covered by every stand-up comedian currently working the comedy club circuit.

1. There are no men working at either bureau. No hotties to make the waiting in line a little less monotonous.

2. The women who work there are all morbidly obese with badly bleached hair. And, their clothes look more like they're off to the coin laundry instead of to their goverment protected and well-paying jobs.

3. Their beverages (I seemed to notice a preference for 1 liter bottles of Pepsi) are enormous. They swill these sodas every 12 seconds, you know, because they're so thirsty from the strenuous job of ignoring the line of angry people.

4. There must be some madate requiring that a maximum of two (2) service windows be open at a time, regardless of how many people are sacrificing their lunch breaks to get vehicle plates or driver's licenses. The other DOR/DMV employees just sort of mill around looking smug and superior without actually doing anything.

5. Employees laugh at dejected customers who have waited for an hour or more if they are missing a piece of documentation or paperwork. I witnessed this several times. Nice, huh?

6. They should all wear those t-shirts that say, "I can only please one person a day and today ain't your day. Tomorrow isn't looking too good, either." This should be the motto of the DOR and the Omega Moos on Stools should actually say it when folks approach the infrequent open window. The line should be delivered using the standard smarmy, condescending voice they all use.

7. When they say, "I can help the next person in line." They really mean, "I hate you all and I hate your children. Hope you have two hours to hang around while I waste your time."

I'm already dreading next year's visit.

Jubilation, Appreciation and Promises

2006-10-18T17:50:00.000-04:00

For those readers who may have lost track of the time the kids and I have been alternately couch surfing, homeless, housesitting and living above the cafe, it's been a little over three months. Three months of renovation, screw ups and transient, Bohemian living. This Saturday, it is ovah.

I tried to tease the news to my youngest daughter. "Did you hear about the big excitement?" I asked her. ""Oh my god," she gasped. "You're adopting another kid!" Funny how that thought entered her little stream of consciousness before the possesion of an occupancy permit did.

Thanks to those who let us use their laundry facilities, sleep in their guest rooms, fed us home cooked meals and otherwise let us impose on their lives while we were in transition. Special shout outs (shouts out?) go to my partner and all around road-dog, James and his wife, the lovely and gracious Dr. Stephanie Strand. They generously took in daughter two and provided not only shelter, but family to a kid who wasn't doing well with suitcase living. I will be forever grateful to them. Also, thanks to my mom and dad for their mutli-faceted support and encouragement. Y'all may think you have good parents but none could hold a candle to Mr. and Mrs. McGinn. My older daughter roughed it with me, slept on floors and kept her shower stuff in a contantly mobile tote. Her humor and resiliency are astounding and I don't know how she got to be so cool without me ever noticing. My main man, Carlos, spent more than a few late nights cutting tile and teaching me how to grout. He also kept a watchful eye on the sometimes disreputable individuals doing work on the place.

With this chapter of my life coming to a close, you'll see a return to regular posting here and at 52nd City. Be on the watch for these stories:

Tres Leches cake
Colossus restaurant
Why my love affair with McDonald's is over forever
Teenage girl drama
Shorts, jorts and women who wear them
St. Louis Powerhouse church and ministries
The United Nations of clothes washing

Thanks for hanging in there, folks. I'm back!

Last Wishes

2006-09-23T01:05:00.000-04:00

I'm going to die. You're going to die. Hopefully, we all die with a little dignity and our selfish families abide by the directions we give them (while still alive) about how to handle our deaths.

Not only do I have a living will (I think it's also called an "advanced healthcare directive") but I also have written instruction on my funeral arrangements. Now, you can call me Quasimodo but I got a hunch that my kids aren't made of the stuff necessary to put a pillow over my face should I ever become incapacitated-physically and/or mentally. I've made a solemn pact with my best friend to do the dirty deed for me when the time comes.

Mourning is another matter altogether. All decisions are made by the murky lot known as "next of kin." Chances are, this will mean the girls. My verbal and written wishes are that my useable organs, yup- all of 'em, be donated to live recipients. Farm me out. Take my retinas, skin, kidneys, lungs and heart and give 'em to the next matching person on the transplant waiting list.

Next, I want a quickie cremation and an Irish style wake. Play music, tell stories, drink and eat all in celebration of life. Not necessarily my life, just life. I don't care at all what they do with my ashes. As a teen, I wanted my ashes scattered surreptitiously in a big fountain in the mall. Now, I don't care. Just please don't lay me in a Webber grill and let meat juice drop on my eternal remains. I have these additional requests:

1. Don't cry for me. I'm not in a better place, I ain't with God and I'm not at peace. I'm just gone and everyone will carry on with their lives. This is the way of it.

2. If any of my ex-husbands show up to the wake, be gracious to them and offer them a drink and a chat. Feel free to call them "sons-of-bitches with a lot of nerve" after they've left.

3. Fight over my personal effects. If someone could actually take or give a punch over something that belonged to me-well, that'd be incredible. My life would have meant something.

4. Do not, I repeat, do not, load up into a limousine and ask other folks to follow behind you with their headlights on and drive to some sort of place for a memorial. This is irritating and a misuse of public roads. Limousines, particularly stretch limousines are absoulutely gauche. Nothing says "middle class" like a stretch and I deserve more respect than that. If you loved me at all in life, don't do it.

Yup. I think that's it. The do's and don'ts of death. My requests have been made known. Hold each other responsible, will ya?

Little Mike Gives Advice

2006-08-31T10:15:00.000-04:00

I overheard this lecture being given to a thirty-five year old man by a ten year old boy:

You gotta find a good woman. Here's the things you gotta have. You can't have a fat woman because, when she cooks, she'll eat all the food and not leave any for you. And you can't have a woman who wears much jewelry 'cause she'll just want you to buy her more and more jewelry. She has to have a job, for sure. And here's the important one-she can't love you for your money. She has to love you for the person you are.

I asked the kid, "What if he doesn't have any money? Then do you know she just loves the man?"

All men have money. Except for poor men.

"Dude, did you make this up or someone schooled you?" I pressed him.

I just thought it myself, right now. Nobody told me.

He was serious like a heart attack.

Not sure why I found the whole exhange so remarkable and I wonder what happened in the lad's young life. His assertations smacked of a kid who's parents had a nasty split and, while neither mom nor dad would openly disparage the other, the hurts were communicated, if not directly to-then around the kid, in the form of random musings. Somewhere, someone done somebody wrong in Little Mike's life and he, being an observant and sensitive boy absorbed it, processed it and regurgutated it in the form of relationship advice for a grown man.

Either that or he's just a dope-ass kid with mad, crazy smarts.

I can't wait to hear more wisdom from the fourth grade. Will keep you posted.

Memory Building

2006-08-28T11:31:00.000-04:00

After a few very tense days and another late, sleepless night, this blogger was hungry. Four AM dining options in the city are relatively few and my disdain for eating alone is well known.

I used to be a conscientious parent-putting my kids' wants and needs before my own. My every action was based upon what was in their best interests. Last night? Not so much.

With a few gentle pokes and insistent whispering I woke my younger daughter, totally disgregarding the fact that she was due at school in just under four hours with a social studies test looming shortly thereafter.

"Psssttt....hey! Are you hungry?" Her eyes barely open and most certainly not focused, she looked at me like I'd just asked if she would be willing to axe-murder a small child. "I know where there's a twenty-four hour McDonald's and we can get french fries!" The idea seemed to be catching on. She fumbled for her shoes as I shushed the canines, also roused from sleep by all the activity. We started to laugh, suddenly aware of the absolute absurdity of the scene.

She loved seeing St. Louis at night. Without much traffic, we could roll through the streets with ease and enjoy the lights of post and moon. Alas, the Mickey D's was only "open late" and not round-the-clock. On the way to our backup plan of the Courtesy Diner, we discussed throwing pebbles at the apartment above the Royale and treating SFS to a little sleep interruption of his own and lamented our lack of bathroom tissue, for decorating his purple neon sign seemed like a fun idea as well.

The kid couldn't quite punch in the numbers of the jukebox correctly and instead of listening to thirteen-year-old girl music, we jammed the the shredding guitar solos and raw vocals of some, unknown, eighties rock. The cook, a younger lad with a K-Fed demeanor and look, nodded appreciatively at her music selections.

We giggled and shoveled cheese and eggs into our mouths. We shivered in the meat-locker temps of the Courtesy Diner. We agreed that those wee hours were well-spent, U.S. geography be damned.

Nobody recalls what her birthday present was last year. And those astronomically expensive Nike shoes from a few months ago are kickin' it somewhere at the Goodwill. But, I have to believe, she'll remember for a long while the time her crazy mother took her to a grubby diner in the middle of the night.

Oxygen!

2006-08-13T21:57:00.000-04:00

My idol and friend, Julia Smillie (her link is on the right) frequently offers up a topic in the reader forum called, "Fitness Police." People post their challenges and successes for the week in the areas of responsible eating and exercise. They cheer each other along and absolve the transgressions of big dinners and ice cream.

After too many days off I leashed up personal security canine extraordinaire, Miles Davis, and hit Tower Grove Park tonight. Before the break, I was able to run most of a half-park trek. Alas, I could do no such thing today.

Not only didn't I run it, I couldn't even walk the damned thing. In a gigantic admission of failure, I cut through the ball fields to shorten the journey back to the Shaw neighborhood. By the time I returned the still spry dog back to his home my shirt was soaking and plastered to my body and, in a flashback to the Presidential Physical Fitness testing of sixth grade, there was a disabling cramp in my side. To round out my humiliation, my face was beet-red from exertion.

I fell into the house and face down onto the floor. A model of poor health and total lack of stamina. Gross.

Hooked on You

2006-08-06T12:09:00.000-04:00

Sleep is elusive these past few weeks and I find myself in the wee hours of the morning punching ridiculous phrases into Google, just to see what pops up. A couple of those I'll cop to include "midgets on bicycles" and "hats made from household materials." Disgusting and pathetic, I know.

Skipping around a bit here..

There is an employee at the cafe, we'll call him "Hal." Hal likes to set his paws on this here computer-any opportunity he gets. On the job, off the job, folks waiting in line, they matter not as Hal needs him some Wi-Fi. As is evidenced by the address toolbar, he frequents My Space, Livejournal and the unknown-to-me, Xanga. Hal is also a frequent You Tube visitor.

Having run out of creatively offensive and potentially embarrassing things to search for, I caved in and paid a visit to You Tube while the rest of you were sleeping soundly.

Oh. My. Heavens.

I laughed and cried. It was better than Cats! Watching a three minute short about the infamous Zidane headbutt was a far superior 4AM experience to learning to make a baseball cap from a plastic milk jug.

It's okay. Hal's bigger than me, but I'm pretty sure I could take him, especially for some You Tube time.

United in Voice

2006-08-01T00:09:00.000-04:00

There was background music, I remember, in the store. I don't recall the tempos, the artists or the lyrics but I'm certain there was music.

Then, as I flipped through rows of denim, the unmistakable sound of Queen's "Somebody to Love" came soaring through the store. It wasn't any louder than its predecessors but something about the song cut through the aisles and wrapped itself around my ankles. I couldn't resist singing along softly.

There was an older, African-American woman across the racks from me, and she was singing, too. As was the kid restocking tried-on-but-refused garments, a young mother pushing two toddlers in a stroller and a heavily tattooed Lemay dweller bearing more ink than teeth. Everyone subtly sang along with Freddy Mercury and all paused respectfully but with appreciation during the arena rock, shredding guitar solo.

How did so many different kinds of people know the words to a 20 year old song? Why did everyone feel so comfortable, singing among strangers while shopping for clothes?

After the tune was over, it was like the whole event had never happened. Silence ensued and folks returned to their regularly scheduled conversations, scoldings and, in the case of Tattoo-deep sniffling/snorting.

I can't get it out of my head, not the song and not the experience.

Shout Out, Quietly

2006-07-23T23:49:00.000-04:00

You know who you are.

Among other things, for the kindness and for the company, I am grateful.

Thank you.

Art, Culture, Music, Life

2006-07-18T23:32:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. The posts are coming fast and furious but, no worries, it won't last long.

My mom "encouraged" me to participate in a variety of activities when I was young. By "encouraged," I mean that she bought two tickets and I'd better get a skirt and tights on 'cause I was going.

Some I really enjoyed. We saw Baryshnikov dance Don Quixote, stalked Andy Warhol in New York city, (really!) and ate Japanese food on authentic tatami mats.

Other events, I played along because I knew they were important to her, but at best I was disinterested. I didn't know who Grant Wood was and was supremely irritated to wait in line for a three-minute viewing of some painting of an old couple and a pitchfork. Juried art shows were also particularly painful for my twelve year old self. Looking back, I see how fortunate I really was to have this exposure.

My girls are pretty cooperative about ethnic eating, exploratory road trips and urban foraging. They're also good sports about attending live theatre shows and even sat through countless hours of recent World Cup soccer.

An evening spent at the Tivoli Theatre watching shorts from the 48 Hour Film Festival yielded uncharacteristic enthusiasm from my former gymnast while writing and artistic collaboration on a 'zine seems to have lit a fire under the teen planning a career in medicine.

Where am I going with this? I don't know. Gratitude to my mom and dad? Hopefulness that my children learn to be true to themselves? Fascination with the never ending opportunities for learning?

Yeah. I still don't know.

It's An Irish Thing

2006-07-18T00:34:00.000-04:00

I have said, frequently, that I am a lucky person.

Last October, an ancient man in a brand new Cadillac Seville t-boned the car I was driving on the passenger side. He was cruising along at about fifty miles per hour and my vehicle, known as Elvis, was decimated. Every day, I deal with the injuries from that accident and they have truly impacted my life, but my kid was totally unharmed.

Tonight, while stopped at the traffic light at Kingshighway and Arsenal, a loopy woman dressed for the club scene plowed into the back of Elvis' successor, breaking the rear axle and knocking the left back tire off completely. She then swerved and hit the two cars in front of me as well. Luckily, I had adequate space between my front bumper and the van next in line, and there was no chain reaction of rear-endings. I walked away, with only a bump on the head and a seatbelt bite on my chest, from another SUV requiring a lift from a flat bed tow truck.

Am I disappointed about yet another car accident? You bet. Is this a really inconvenient time to have to deal with having no ride and insurance companies? Hell, yeah. Will I be sore tomorrow? Absolutely.

But.

Each day I feel immensely grateful to be alive, to be walking and to have two incredible daughters. My parents cherish me. I have a few friends and a couple of bucks. I am loved.

And for all that, I am lucky.

Pardon My French

2006-07-14T16:26:00.000-04:00

I was totally amped up to play trivia tonight for my favorite St. Louis magazine, 52nd City. And even went so far as to assemble an all-star team of assorted professionals and academics. (Okay, they're my rowdy buddies but they're also really smart!)

Little did I know that the jokesters planning the game played on the coincidence of today being Bastille Day. That's right, French themed trivia. My crew won't be able to answer a damn thing unless the topics involve kissing, potato preparations or people who allegedly hate Americans.

You'll see me moping about tomorrow, new print issue in hand, looking embarrassed.

(Check out

52nd City

for the online issue of "Faith." The site will also tell you where to buy the latest 52nd City magazine.)

Too Much Information

2006-07-12T23:58:00.000-04:00

Funny, the things one learns accidentally while staying in another person's home.

Let me state this: I am NOT a snooper. I'm not tempted to peek in other folks' medicine cabinets, I don't care what sort of DVDs they keep in their bedrooms and their U.S. post carries no interest for me. If it's not sitting out in plain view, I ain't lookin' for it.

On the other hand, if I need to put my wet clothes in the dryer and someone else's stuff requires unloading, I can't avoid seeing what's in my hands. Namely, undergarments. I'm too adolescent to handle underwear not belonging to me without a fit of giggles and the occasional "Oh my god!" However, I am proud to say that I resisted the powerful urge to sling-shot the skivvies around the room or at the dog.

Another unavoidable area is the refrigerator. Hey, a girl's gotta eat. I'd like to know why there is a water glass filled with water and whole carrots? And why is there a gigantic pitcher filled with what looks to be juice but is labeled "bird food- do not drink"? The dairy drawer contained no less than seven different kinds of cheeses. Who needs that many cheeses? And finally, why, in the middle of every organic product known to man, is there a giant box of cheap-ass corn dogs?

Curiosity killed the cat... and the housesitter.

Baritone Tonight

2006-06-22T23:00:00.000-04:00

I'm currently rehearsing for a Broadway musical review. The voices that have been cast in this show are amazing. Strong singers, all. I've got to be in top form just to keep from embarrassing myself.

With a full music, singing rehearsal tonight, yours truly slept about three hours last night and then spent the entire day in smoky bars, drinking caffeinated beverages. In retrospect, perhaps Janis Joplin wasn't the best choice of warm-up music on the drive to the theatre, either.

I alternated between croaking and screeching, then gave up altogether and just mouthed the lyrics. It took all of about two minutes to be busted by the muscial director for pulling a Milli Vanilli.

Maybe I could do a piece from the Wizard of Oz? "If I Only Had a Brain" seems applicable.

Equal vs. Splenda

2006-06-17T02:09:00.000-04:00

Entering week three of the sugar fast. Absolutely no refined sugar of any sort. As a matter of self-discipline, I've also elected to cut out honey, fruit, pasta, rice and as much white flour as possible with the exception of a couple Tap Room pretzel sticks.

When people ask me about the fast, their responses could just as well be on continuous loop. "Don't you just feel so much better?" It's an easy answer. No. I do not feel better. I feel like I want to walk into MacArthur's bakery and take a birthday-cake-buying hostage until the entire staff hand feeds me strawberry layer torte with whipped cream.

I'd like to thank the crew at Hartford Coffee (a few readers here, to be sure) for lying straight to my face when I ask how the freshly baked cookies taste. They've become really creative and believable with comments like, "There's a weird aftertaste. Probably too much baking soda."

My appreciation also goes out to my frequent dining partners who, largely without complaint, keep going back to the same restaurants with agreeable menus and willingly eat the same meals I cook for myself. The support is priceless.

My goal is to be sugar free until 1 July.

Beginning 2 July, you may send cards, flowers and balloons directly to my room at Barnes-Jewish hospital. Visiting would be a wasted effort as medical research hasn't conclusively determined the level of awareness in hyperglycemic, comatose patients.

But when I come around, I'll know you were thinking of me. How sweet!

Crusher of Dreams

2006-06-12T22:05:00.000-04:00

Original post deleted by author on 6/12/06. Edited to minimize potential embarrassment of the parties involved and re-posted 6/13/06/.

Before my current career in the food service arts, I worked in social work/nursing/educational settings. I spent years with teenagers. Having filled this role I know, through both clinical and a practical experience, a bit about adolescent development.

So I’m not too freaked out that my kids are starting to develop their fledgling skills with the opposite sex. It’s normal. It’s age-appropriate. It’s even healthy to have interest in relationships.

All this being said, I failed miserably at the first test of my intellectualized parenting techniques.

Sunday evening was to be my younger daughter’s first official “date.” Granted it was only having her new friend over for dinner and a small gathering, but it was a planned meeting with a boy in whom she had more than a friendly interest. She did the inviting and supplied all the necessary information of time and location.

The date preparations began early. Hair up, hair down. Repeat. There were several costume changes and multiple layers of glitter lip-gloss applied. Some minor lamentation over not having earrings that matched the final outfit. Lotion, lots of it and perfume. Between each stage of primping, she’d demand the time.

On this exciting cusp of hopeful embarkation into her first boyfriend relationship, I decided to give her some advice gleaned from my personal experiences of dating.

“Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t show up. In fact, he probably won’t.” Stellar!

Her whole expression sank. She looked away and said softly, “He’ll be here.” but there was a deflated tone just beneath the affirming statement.

“Yeah? I wouldn’t wait by the door all night.” Superb!

Only after she did wait by the door and Prince Charming did arrive (ten minutes late!) did I start to feel like the jerk I really am.

Perhaps tonight I could follow up with some wisdom like, “He won’t stick around long.” or taunt her with “Bet your ‘boyfriend’ didn’t call today, did he?”

Brilliant!

I Blame Bob Reuter

2006-06-09T18:45:00.000-04:00

Friday afternoons, I’m not myself.

For any readers not familiar with the St. Louis community radio station 88.1 KDHX, I recommend you check it out. Pretty sure you can listen on the web if you’re out of range.

From noon till two on Fridays, there’s a show called Bob’s Scratchy Records. He plays old songs. The kind of songs I heard my parents and grandparents play on LPs back when our record player was housed in an enormous wooden cabinet, larger than the dining table with the leaf in it.

I try to run errands and make deliveries during lunch on Friday, just so I can listen. If the truth be told, some days I just say I have things to do and then park under a huge tree in Tower Grove Park for an hour or more, pretending to be someone else.

My mind wanders, listening to those songs.

I imagine standing at a drive-in, leaning up against an old Chevy and wearing a pencil skirt with ballerina flats. Other times, I’m transported to a small frame church in the south, where I’m a heavy black woman in my best Sunday dress and hat just movin’ to the music. Around I spin to juke joints, to Beale Street, to a sock hop. I feel like I can see 'em all and sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’m part of the scene.

Usually, by two fifteen, I’m back at work. Dazed, exhausted and a little disoriented from my travels through time.

It’s worth it, Daddy-O. Well worth it.

Seriously Mixed Messages

2006-06-01T21:53:00.000-04:00

A close friend travels every year to Mexico with a group of Americans. This group spends several weeks across the border building shelters and facilities for the indigent of whatever town the charity chooses that year.

Admirable. To spend one's free time (or to make free time) in the service of those less fortunate is a valuable gift to both parties. When my daughters asked if they could participate this summer, I applauded their willingness to be sweaty, blistered and generally uncomfortable for the sake of others.

The travel coordinator for this group advises, "There are no laundry facilities. We recommend purchasing multiple inexpensive t-shirts at Wal-Mart to be discarded after wearing."

Let's recap, shall we?

A humanitarian non-profit, committed to bettering the lives of the poor in poverty stricken areas of the world are advocating the patronage of a massive corporation responsible for the closing of countless independent businesses in the U.S. and who routinely contracts with known foreign sweatshops to produce their wearable goods.

Additionally, they suggest throwing away clothing that has been worn one time. One time! Because it's dirty and can't be washed right away! Landfills be damned, let's all put our shirts in the trash! Two kids, times 7 seven days, equals fourteen shirts if I'm not wrong.

Sorry, girls. We might have to tie-dye 'em when you get home, but you will not contribute one single Wal-Mart t-shirt to a Mexican dump. And shame on those who do.

This Little Piggy

2006-05-22T21:03:00.000-04:00

I should probably seek therapeutic help for this little episode. And for those of you who are a bit squeamish,(and you know who you are), I'd suggest you skip this column.

It's been more than a month since I've changed my toenail polish. This is an unusual occurrance as I'm usually a seven day pedicure/twice weekly polish change kind of girl. Sad as it may be, my feet are my best feature and I keep them in excellent to near mint condish. No callouses, no wonky hammer time and most importantly-flawless color on the nails. Vanity, thy name is tootsies.

How many men have lucky shirts? For bowling, for baseball, for babes? They believe the magical shirt brought them good fortune or perhaps, the shirt just reminds them of good times. I know several women who wear an item of jewelry because it holds fond memories for them.

I was wearing the toenail polish in question on a perfect day. It was, quite possibly, the best twenty four hours of my adult life.

When I remove the color, it'll be like taking an acetone swab to the last tangible evidence of complete contentment.

So, I'm torn. A lifelong dedication to impeccable foot hygeine and grooming or holding on to a feeling I'll probably never have again.

Stay tuned to my local flip flops for updates on this story.

Too Sappy for You

2006-05-16T12:19:00.000-04:00

I come from very different parents. My mom, frequently referred to as, "The lovely and gracious Mrs. McGinn" and my father, who is known to most as "That son on a bitch."

As a kid, there was every indication that I'd grow up to be lovely and gracious. My mother was educated and cultured and made every effort to make certain I learned about the finer things in life. For example, I can spot a fake Gucci bag from 200 paces, my French is passable and I've read every Miss Manners edition printed since 1982. I know which fork is for eating fish and I can use it properly. I like the ballet. All these things are directly attributed to my genteel mom.

On the other hand, my dad was, well, crusty. A curmudgeon, if you will. He was a self-employed builder with little patience for people who didn't move fast enough to suit him. No stranger to eating while standing over the sink, the ol' man treated his regular injuries with duct tape and Bounty towels. He taught me a few things as well. I can walk like Redd Foxx in Sanford & Son. I know how to pop out and bondo the dented fender of a '42 Ford. Belching and other bodily functions are hilarious! Also courtesy of my dad; a hot little temper.

To summarize my unique blend of geneaology and personality:
I can cuss like a Teamster but with more fluidity and in better context.
After sizing up the situation, I ain't afraid to fat-mouth anybody.
I'm comfortable chatting up the Captain of the ship or the busboy from Peru.
My closet contains linen slacks and camouflage cargo pants.
Car show or Broadway play are both a fun evening for me.

I'll never be able to say it enough, thanks you guys. And I love you.

It Ain't Stairway to Heaven

2006-04-28T23:14:00.000-04:00

My idol Julia Smillie recently put up a post on her Read Julia forum about the worst songs made. There were some excellent choices such as, You're Having My Baby and You Light Up My Life. I cast votes for Kodachrome and Sky Rockets In Flight.

In a personal effort to be a more positive person, I gave some thought to what I would choose as the best song ever recorded. It took me all of forty-two seconds to come up with the definitive answer. Drum roll, please.

Baby Got Back.

Wasn't it a scandal at the time? A man singing about big butts? Of course, by today's standards the song is positively tame and even the video, which featured enormous sculptures of the female buttocks, freshly baked yeast rolls and one white woman lacking trunk junk, is nothing compared to the currently rampant misogyny of MTVJams.

I like that the lyrics are clear and easy to sing. I like the message of strong curves being more desirable than a skinny, unhealthy body. It's upbeat and energetic. It was recorded by a man called Sir Mix-A-Lot for chrissakes!

If you can rap, "L.A. face with an Oakland booty" without smiling, well, you're a much more sophisticated and cultured person than I am. Oh yeah, and you'd also be a humorless bore.

No Autographs, Please

2006-03-30T17:33:00.000-05:00

Remember in grade school when your mom made you invite the grimy kid with the snotty nose to your birthday party? She forced you include the 3rd grade equivalent of a leper because she wanted you to learn charity.

In that spirit, those hip and happenin' hepcats from 52nd City have graciously invited me to do a little blogging for them. Please visit me there by following the links to your right.

Now. Do it now.

Artful Dodgers

2006-03-26T10:05:00.000-05:00

On a recent Saturday, daughter one and I whiled away the morn at the St. Louis Museum of Art. Although we've made many trips to the museum, this particular visit was one for the books.

At first, I thought she was living out some conspiracy theory as drama kids so often do. "Mom, we're being followed." I dismissed her as I so often do. But my senses were heightened and soon I realized she was right. We were being stalked through the galleries. The boys in blue, museum security, were keeping tight tabs on us complete with whisperings into the walkie-talkies and menacing glares. From Henri Matisse to Chuck Close, they tracked us.

At first I was indignant. How dare these..these..guards intrude on my outing! And the nerve of them to suspect us of any wrongdoing or ill-intent! Our museum behavior is impeccable; soft voices, hands in the pockets, a respectful distance back from the pieces and yet we were indeed still being trailed.

Because I'm my father's daughter I decided to make it a little more interesting for them. Why should security corner the market on causing discomfort? At key moments I began to glance over my shoulder in a manner best described as furtive. I also made several bogus calls on my phone. The kid, wearing a shifty looking fedora as usual, got into the act and on two occasions strode rapidly from one gallery to the next without any purpose. The coup de grace occurred as she stood over the Egyptian sarcophagus and knowingly stage whispered to me, "This is the one." I was so proud.

Our fun played out, we made our getaway after a giggling fit in the armor room and a mighty crappy mushroom sandwich in the cafe. (Also under surveillance, I might add.) We're dangerous women, full of international mystery and intrigue. Remember that.

Blind Item

2006-03-22T19:25:00.000-05:00

Some folks may have wondered if the extended time since the last post may have been due to some sort of technical error. Nope, the blog ain't broke but if it were, I'd sure hope I knew someone who had the capability to repair it. I'd want it fixed ASAP because I know there are people out there who want to see what I have to say, to read what I've been up to and to get a heads up on what's happening around town.

Isn't it frustrating when you repeatedly visit a website or blog that hasn't been updated for months? Then, sometimes, the little photo badges change, teasing activity but ultimately leaving you unsatisfied as it's the same ol' text.

Yup. If my blog wasn't working, I'd rely on a friend with the skills to sort it out. Pronto. STAT. With a serious quickness.

I'm the Before and He's the After

2006-03-07T23:02:00.000-05:00

In two months, I'll see my only sibling for the first time in ten years. We've lived in different states and just missed each other on our respective travels but how in the world did a decade go by since I saw him last?

At forty-two years old, my brother is still a distance bicycle rider. He's worked construction most of his life and has the sinewy build of a man who can't eat enough to keep up with the calories he's burned. He's outdoorsy and tanned. A shrewd and skilled business man, he now runs the family general contracting business and manages single projects that equal the dollars generated by the cafe in a whole year.

How can I compete with that?

I'm five or fifty pounds over weight. My hobbies include lip-synching songs from the eighties in the bathroom and experimenting with funny voices for my dogs. I'm not certain I even own a bike but if I do, the basement has absorbed it wholly. Instead of making hundred thousand dollar deals, I make cookies. I'm pasty... and all that that implies.

Two months. I need Tony Robbins, Tony Little and if those don't work, Tony Soprano.

Brain Waster

2006-02-26T16:46:00.000-05:00

So there I was, at home, alone with almost two hours to kill. Hmmmm...my mind raced frantically as I mentally tallied all the things I could do with the whole house to myself. Crank up the CD player and dance, take an uninterrupted bath, nap (oh, the glorious and coveted nap!) or make spaghetti from scratch? I was manic and decided the best first course of action was to put on some really comfortable clothes. On the way to the laundry room it happened.

At first, the remote control just sort of..well, I thought it winked at me. "pssst. hey you." it whispered. I stopped where I stood and suddenly noticed its sleek lines and alluring buttons as if seeing it for the very first time. My eyes trailed along the couch and up to the mother station-all 52 inches of high definition clarity with two hundred and some channels. The Sony sucked me in completely and it only took about ten minutes to figure out which dots controlled the power, volume and channel direction. Game on! Here's what I watched.

Cher's daughter is really plus sized and on a show about celebrities trying to lose weight. (Kenickie, from Grease, was on as well and had apparently gotten himself into more than a few extra Snickers bars because he was pretty obviously high.)

HGTV made an pathetic effort to redo the bedroom of a grown woman who wanted everything purple, pink and sparkly. Do people have no shame?

I didn't know any of the songs on MTV, MTV Jams or MTV Espanol but I did recognize the dude from Whitesnake on MTV Classic.

Total Recall and Coming To America were the movies I flipped between. Who is the worse actor, Arnold or Eddie? You make the call.

An afternoon well spent as now I know what I'm missing and it isn't much. I'll just stick with my American Idol obsession, thanksverymuch, and stick to DVDs and books otherwise.

Met My Match

2006-02-22T23:31:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I'm such a pompous ass that I even manage to offend myself.

I lead a charmed life. Things always work out for me, I usually get what I want and I think I'm the luckiest girl around. Stuff just goes my way-what can I say? For this reason, I think I can do anything.

A classic example would be the "spider pants." One summer I decided to make my own clothing. Never you mind that I could barely sew a button on a shirt or hem a pair of pants, I was going to trot right down to Jackman's fabrics and run up some duds on the Singer. For two weeks I was a tracing, cutting, pinning, fitting, sewing fool and you know what? I made some fine garments including a pair of batik drawstring pants with a design similar to spiders. Several persons not known to or paid by me asked where they could get pants like them.

After attending last weekend's fundraiser for SCOSAG known as Wall Ball, sure but didn't I feel the itching to be an artist? Off I went to the art supplies store for charcoal pencils, a sketchbook and a couple of canvases(canvesi?)and hunkered down to create art. I tried to sketch my McDonald's cup, my feet, the dogs, a hand, a road and a tree.

Terrible! Unrecognizable! Fire starters, all of them. Pick a kid, any kid in the 2nd grade at Blades elementary school and he or she could have done better. I'm not fit to clean Cbabi Bayoc's brushes or Charlie Houska's paint dribbled shoe.

I am humbled AND pissed.

Segue

2006-02-21T18:21:00.000-05:00

I know you're wondering, probably at this very moment, what I've been reading. To my right sits the stack of most recent reads and it goes a little something like this:

Teacher Man by Frank McCourt
Running and Growing Your Business by Andrew J. Sherman
The Rise and Fall of the British Nanny by Jonathan Gathorne-Hardy
Age Erasers for Women by Prevention Magazine Health Books and the Rodale Center
Greek Fire-The Story of Maria Callas and Aristotle Onassis by Nicholas Gage
Techniques of Healthy Cooking by the Culinary Institute of America
Yoga Mind & Body by the Sivananda Yoga Vedanta Center

All but the first title (because it's a library book)will be up for grabs at the 52nd City book sale. Go to their site, blog tab at the top, and get the details.

For Making Cheese, Right?

2006-02-05T09:46:00.000-05:00

The girls and I usually go to the Soulard Market on Saturday mornings. We go for the unusual pastas, powdered sugar doughnuts made before our very eyes and because I like fresh flowers in the house. And, of course, the people watching can't be beat. My favorites are the county people who clearly have absolutely no idea how the traffic flows between the stalls. You can identify Ballwin women as they tend to clutch their Kate Spade purses tightly to their sides.

We try to scurry past the butcher-on-the-spot as quickly as humanly possible. The cages of cramped chickens, geese and the occasional rabbit are just too intense for our lazy weekend morning. Yesterday, there were two caged goats in the back of stall.

Now, I ask you this... Who, in downtown St. Louis, needs a whole live goat? Do people eat goats? At the crib, where would someone keep a goat? Backyard? Basement? Guest room? And does the purchaser of the goat just buckle it into the back seat of their Ford Taurus to get it home? Doesn't the city require some sort of permit to slaughter a live goat in your home? How is that sanitary?!

Is there a Goat Whisperer? If so, I'd like him to translate this message. "Use your curvy horn to impale the butcher and make a run for it! There will be a black Honda SUV waiting out on Broadway to take you to a safe farm in Millstadt. The driver will have a disguise that you must wear during the getaway. If you can, grab some mini-doughnuts on the way out. Now go!"

Flashback

2006-01-31T18:13:00.000-05:00

My mom, the lovely and gracious Grace McGinn, is a new reader here at Ciao Baby! When she first asked if she could read my blog, it was clear (because she's articulate) that she was apprehensive about the content.

I know folks who blog and hang their virtual dirty laundry out for all to see. It took a little reassuring to convince my mom this wasn't one of those lines. She asked me, "Do you talk about hating your childhood?" Hmmm...I got to thinkin'.

If my upbringing had been shady, I'd have a lot more comedic material to work with. As it is, I can't poke fun at a drunken step-father or a grandma who forgets to wear pants on a regular basis. Nope, no stories about trying to open a Spaghetti-O's can with a hammer while I was unsupervised after school. (Although, while watching Romper-Room, I DID get a finger caught in a can of Hershey's syrup once.) I never had to duct tape my shoes or defend myself on the mean streets. Bummer.

I was raised in a financially comfortable home with every opportunity available to me. My mom surprised me with gifts and clothes laid out on my bed and bought my lie when she found cigarettes in my room. My family traveled. We went to the ballet and out for Japanese food. My dad moved the heavy mats at my dance recitals and grilled burgers on a Weber grill hung over the side of our pontoon boat.

So, there! It's out, Mom! Years of therapy won't undo the normalcy and stability of my childhood. I hope you and Dad are happy with yourselves.

Sheesh.

A Connoisseur of Sorts

2006-01-16T21:41:00.000-05:00

I offer you my confession...

For 10 years I've been a parent on the sidelines with very few options in the concession stand department as a non hot dog eater. The theme continues in many eating establishments where the menus have 26 different kinds of burger but almost nada in the meatless division. At this stage of the game, I'll order the nachos just for the sake of comparing the dish to representations from other restaurants.

And may I say that nachos aren't just for dining away from home! No sirree, I make 'em at home with freshly shredded cheddar and hand chopped cilantro. At the grocery store I sift through the junk food section for the gold tortilla chips-restaurant style of course, as they have a corn-like flavor and extra crunchy texture. The ultimate in home nacho eating is to locate a tortilla chip with an air pocket, puffing out the triangle into a crispy pillow.

As a former BUILD-St. Louis board member and co-proprietor of a small, family owned business, I'm embarrassed to say that the premier nachos come from Qdoba. (Yes, from the Jack In The Box chain.) It could be because of the coarse salt on the chips, or the guacamole with actual chunks of identifiable avocado in it. Perhaps the allure is in the perfect amount of jalapeno in the queso sauce. I don't know, but damn it, those are some way bueno nachos.

I make this statement in my defense: If I had to choose between eating food from Jack In The Box and chewing on an old pair of corduroys- well, I'd have to give it some serious thought. And should the success of the human race rely on my intimate relations with the guy who puts the gigantic golf ball on his head and pretends to be Jack, I'd most likely take a pass.

If it were the the REAL Jack I'd consider it, but only if he brought Qdoba nachos.

Who Is Sarah Truckey and Why Does She Hate Me?

2006-01-05T15:42:00.000-05:00

It may surprise some of you, but I'm socially impaired. On the rare occasion I attend a party or event, I'm generally uncomfortable enough to plan my departure immmediately upon entry. But, I try.

Last weekend, I struck out to the 52nd City launch and preview party at the Gallery Urbis Orbis with my older daughter. She'd written an article for the magazine and was anxious to attend and of course, I always like to support the fine folks at 52nd City.

Photos cause a lot of anxiety for me but when the esteemed Tom Lampe asked to take a shot of us, I agreed. With some lightning quick angling of the body and a moment to suck in my cheeks-we were off to the races. I didn't hyperventilate or anything and felt fairly confident the picture would embarrass me minimally, should I ever see it.

Imagine my surpise when someone splayed out a copy of a local publication with photos from the event. There was a predictably cute shot of Amanda Doyle, Aaron Belz looking hip, Thomas Crone in a fun pose, Brian Marston in a classic profile shot and some fat broad with dark eye circles and a harried expression. Me, in all my party-going glory with bad hair and an infinity of chins. It was not the aforementioned posed photo, but one taken secretly, clandestinely and with obvious malice.

My original resolutions for 2006 were to be more peaceful and turn off my cell phone after 7:00 PM. Those goals have been replaced by a solemn vow to never leave the house unless absolutely necessary and to find a way to loathe myself slightly less than I do right now.

Happy New Year.

100% True Story

2005-12-28T19:56:00.000-05:00

Somehow, somewhere, planets aligned and I found myself attending a St. Louis Blues hockey game the other night. This is the second time this year I've gone to a game but the first game, I actually watched the hockey. Night before last, I was far too distracted to pay attention to the puck, referees, players or even the general direction of the ice.

Two rows behind me sat a group of women, perhaps 5 of them, in their mid to late thirties. They were all dressed very, ahem..youthfully. Go to any mall and you'll see the get-up. Low-rider denim, sequined belt and midriff baring top. All the kids are wearing that uniform and so were these women. One difference might have been the depth-chart sized beer each held. And drank. And then tottered down the steps in high heeled boots to get said beers refilled.

I have never, ever, in my entire life heard a group of adults sound so stupid. It wasn't just the terrible grammar or the incessant "y'know?"s. It was the endless droning on about guys, shopping, guys, shopping. Then followed squealing laughter and announcements about having to pee.

About the time I was considering shooting myself in the face rather than risking the possibility that I might catch their dumbness, some poor dude rolled up and started spittin' mad game. As a really smooth opening line, this cat asked the pack if they were Dallas fans. Sadly, they were not. (Although one claimed to be married to Mike Modano.) Ol' boy dove right in with the Dallas insults in a desperate and wasted effort to be clever.

One chickadee replied, "Don't be mean about Dallas 'cause its a great state."

Your Honor, the prosecution rests.

Memoirs of Gay-Sha

2005-12-25T11:50:00.000-05:00

I'm absolutely fascinated by geisha and confess to having more than a casual knowledge on the topic. While my expertise on kimono is not as extensive as I'd like, not having ever had the opportunity to handle an authentic piece, the fact does not lessen my enthusiasm or appreciation for not only kimono, but the geisha arts and culture. The protocol, the music of the shamisen and the mysterious dances are really fascinating.

I had such high hopes for the film version of Memoirs of a Geisha. What a chance to educate people about the amazing lives of maiko and geiko and the politics of the Japanese teahouses. The vivid and priceless kimono could be displayed to their full effect with some demonstration of the complex skill required to tie the underrrobes and knots of the obi. It could have truly debunked the common beliefs that geisha were prostitutes instead of highly trained artists and entertainers. I could go on and on about the possibilities in making a film like this, but I'll spare you, the gentle reader.

Thanks to Rob Marshall, his writers and producers of this woefully under shot and under explored film. They managed to make a simple boy-meets-girl movie out of a spectacular subject and excellent work of fiction with historical basis.

Thanks, Big Hollywood, for yet another disappointment.

(I suspect that like most of my rants, this post will be up for a limited time.)

Leave of Absence- Blogstyle

2005-12-13T18:38:00.000-05:00

I've used my powers to shut down the Community Cafes blog. Perhaps, if there is a significant outcry from the readers, I'll fire up another one specifically for Hartford Coffee at a later date. A blog without comments.

I debated this decision all afternoon. Do I keep the business blog and just edit the comments? Do I want people to have a means of communication? The answers are no and yes, respectively.

If people have comments, suggestions or complaints, I still want to hear them. My email address is posted behind the register at Hartford. For the record, my email is shannon@hartfordcoffeecompany.com. My telephone number is 314.771.5282. I am (and have been) at Hartford Coffee Monday through Friday, usually in the morning and early afternoon. I return all customer phone calls.

I am easy to reach and dare I say, easy to talk to. I am not anonymous. And I will no longer accept "anonymous" criticism.

PSA

2005-12-12T23:28:00.000-05:00

I'm studying up for a restaurant safety exam I'm required to take and learned a few fun facts such as...

Rodents urinate approximately 3,000 times per day.

Microwaving your food with plastic wrap over it emits 10 million times the FDA rating for safety.

Recent surveys indicate that approximately 50% of the population does not wash their hands after using the toilet.

Bacteria double in number (by splitting) every 20 minutes.

The hits keep on comin' but I'm going to leave it at that. Waaaay scarier than the boogie man, man. I don't know about you, but a couple of those tidbits make me want to immerse myself in a beer barrel of bleach!

Just thought you'd like to know.

Short List

2005-12-06T19:15:00.000-05:00

My future friend and current idol, Julia Smillie posed a question on her forum recently. "What do you really want for Christmas?" I paraphrase, of course.

I thought about this for a long time. And this is where I arrived...

A few years ago I gutted my bathroom. It was 1970's disgusting and had a bathtub lacking slanting sides. So, if a person were to want to recline in the bath, she would have her head resting at a 180 angle. Not really resting then, is it? Out went the grotty old tub and in came a shiny new Jacuzzi whirlpool with built in heater and directional jets. It was magnificent. Funny enough, it's still quite magnificent because I rarely get to use it and I can never enjoy it properly.

That's what I'd like for Christmas. I'd like two hours alone. And by alone I mean the kids and the dogs gone or sedated, the telephones turned off and the doors locked. I want the water heater cranked up to high, matches easily accessible and my soaps, lotions and powders unmoved. I want a stack of People magazines and Norah Jones crooning on the CD player. If the stars were so aligned, I would also prefer a brand new (but washed) bath sheet. For the final touch, a frosty Diet Coke over store-bought, crushed iced in a plastic cup. Okay...now I've gone too far.

While I dream, I'll continue taking Speedy Gonzales showers faster than you can whistle Jingle Bells.

Green With Envy

2005-11-26T15:48:00.000-05:00

I always think there's enough time. For this reason, I tend to leave things to the last minute and procrasinate. What can I say? It just always seems to work out okay for me.

But this time, my luck has apparently run out.

Months ago, I promised the girls that we'd see Wicked at the Fox while it was in town. They can sing every song from the cast recording and the older one has read the book (with my editing, of course) several times. It is a realtively long run and I felt no need to wait on the phone, in line or online to procure tickets. Soon after opening, I heard little whispers here and there about the show being totally sold out. I dismissed those rumors with the rationalization that the whole affair was to build hype and, in fact, there were probably ample tickes remaining.

Very quitely, the girls suggested all along that "Today might be a good day to go to the box office" and "I'll wait on hold with Metrotix if you don't want to." Smart little things...

Well, after trying all morning, I'm here to announce that there are no tickets remaining to see Wicked at the Fox in St. Louis. Not on craigslist, not on eBay and not through Metrotix, not for any performance. Not even if one of us sits in orchestra, one sits in the upper balcony and one waits in the ladies room.

To make me feel even more like a disappointment, they've been gracious and understanding about my failure. Certainly, I'd feel better with a little fit-throwing or sulking but no, they are both so nice about it.

Thanks girls, for being really great kids.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

2005-11-23T22:38:00.000-05:00

Our household now has three dogs. Scratch that. We have two dogs and the devil himself wearing fur and whiskers.

In early October, my eldest daughter and I drove to Jackson, Mississippi to meet a volunteer from Southeast Pug Rescue. We'd agreed to adopt a fostered Chihuahua/Pug mix that had been evacuated from New Orleans. Already having two Pugs, we felt prepared, no! honored to add one homeless puppy to the family.

Some of this little sweetie's antics thus far include; occasionally crapping on my younger child's bed, peeing on my stomach as I slept, chewing my brand new dance shoes, compulsive circling, incessant barking at nothing, rocking her crate for hours in protest of being confined, eating her poops and terrorizing my loving Pug, Lil.

The coup de grace occurred last weekend. A mountain of freshly laundered clothes was piled upon the couch, waiting to be folded. The terror jumped up on the laundry and took a walking wiz across the whole sha-bang.

My theory is that she was not actually displaced by the hurricane but that some wise family took advantage of the situation and threw her out as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Perhaps they saw one of those canine paddy wagons trawlin' down the street and decided to act fast. "Take that collar and ID tags off! Rub some mud on 'er! Quick, pull those shades and put that damn dog on the front stoop!"

Yup, pretty sure that's how it happened.

Cain't Get a Man With a Gun

2005-11-15T14:10:00.000-05:00

A few of you are familiar with my flirtation with musical theatre. I do love singing, dancing and generally embarrassing myself in front of hundreds of people. Alas, for my most recent venture, I was too old (egads!) to audition. Youth theatre is so persnickety in that they always want children in the cast.

So, I guess I was lucky to be involved at all with the Shrewsbury Young People's Theatre production of Annie, Get Your Gun-opening this Thursday at the Shrewsbury City Center. Those fab costumes you'll be seeing were all me, baby. All me.

Okay, mostly me.

The real story here is my kid who, after doing hard time in the chorus and supporting roles in multiple other productions, finally landed a leading role. And as much as I enjoy jabbing her, she is truly amazing in the rehearsals I've seen. If I had half her vocal talent, the producers of Annie Get Your Gun may have made an exception and cast my middle aged self, in sheer awe of my amazing skill.

Again, that's the Shrewsbury City Center, this Thursday, Friday and Saturday at 7:30. There will also be a matinee on Sunday at 2:00 PM. Tickets are 6.00.

Pass the Crayolas

2005-11-12T02:31:00.000-05:00

I'll never be hip because I don't "get" art.

Original post was deleted by the author on 11/12/05 at 11:05 PM.

Please excuse the 2:30 AM rants while I try to get a grip on my too frequent use of sleep inducing pharmaceuticals.

I'm working on it, y'all. I'm working on it.

Optional Custom Pinstriping

2005-11-06T15:29:00.000-05:00

I'd rather have dinner with my last ex-husband than go car shopping. Really, its that horrible for me.

Car salesmen are so amazingly cheesy. And not in a Fred Hessel-cheesy-campy-tongue-in-cheek kind of way. What with their white Oxfords, slick hair, scripted lines and misogynistic approach. I hate them and their children.

My car shopping experiences have, thus far, not been unlike a sitcom skit where the female customer asks about the rollover rating and the salesmen skirts the issue and demonstrates the lighted, vanity mirror. Questions about curtain airbags are met with explanations about side impact-absorbing beams in the doors. Crumple zones? Why worry about that when this little baby comes with XM stereo?

Perhaps I should pretend I'm a deaf/mute. Not all the time, (though some of you may like the idea a little too much) just when I go to purchase the car. I'll hand the salesman a note that says, "I need a 2005, automatic transmission with air conditioning, front and side airbags and ABS. It must have a 5 star crash rating and keys. Thank you." Really, who wants to spend a whole bunch of extra time with a deaf/mute?

Hmmm....I might be on to something here.

Speaking of Rip-Offs...

2005-10-25T00:38:00.000-04:00

Please note the new link to your right. It touts The St. Louis Community Cafe News. Please bookmark that site and visit it often.

I was inspired to begin a work-related blog by the fine folks over at 52nd City. (Note and visit their link, please.) The slight differences between the two blogs being as follows:

1. 52nd City is written by hipsters while I merely have generous hips.

2. 52nd City addresses what's hot and happening around the metro St. Louis area whereas the ComCaf News will address how flippin' hot it is in the kitchens.

3. 52nd City will ultimately become THE publication to read in St. Louis but the best I can realistically hope for would be that maybe my mom will check the ComCaf blog on a monthly basis. (If I send her reminders.)

4. 52nd City is produced by well-known, published writers and artists. My literary 15 minutes of fame took place in Ms. Klepper's fourth grade class when I received a 100% on my book report of A Candle in the Mist by Florence Crannell Means.

Other than that, they're alot alike.

Original Sounds Version 5.0

2005-10-23T19:34:00.000-04:00

When it comes to radio stations, I have absolutely no loyalty. Of course I listen to KDHX but I also enjoy the oldies button. I confess that I also listen to corporate pop, hits from the 80's whenever I can find them and faux hip-hop.

This evening I caught the classic Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf. That, my friends, is music. Can you remember the last time you heard a contemporary song that rocked you like Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody or Rush's Tom Sawyer? (Reader michael m. set me straight on the artist of this song.) And though the Cowboy Junkies did an adequate cover of Sweet Jane, wouldn't you much rather hear Lou Reed do it original style? Can anyone ever come close to Phil's "wall of sound" style? Rhetorical questions, all.

Oh, right...my point. Today's singers are nothing more than tweaked regurgitations of yesterday's has-beens. Sometimes the tweaking is bypassed altogether. One top 40 station in town plays a group called the Gorillaz. Lemme tell ya, the Gorillaz are a 100% rip off of a little group you may know as Cake. And the currenly popular Pussycat Dolls? Slap a slight Leeds accent on those birds and you're listening to the smooth sounds of the Spice Girls. And that damned Mariah Carey? Well, she sounds just like...uh..Mariah Carey from 15 years ago but before that she copied Whitney Houston.

I know there are not really any new ideas. And even dudes like Eminem, Jay-Z and Outkast are stealing someone else's sound. I guess I just wish it were a little less obvious.

No Cheering in Gymnastics

2005-10-18T03:29:00.000-04:00

Prior to this year's soccer season, I made a solemn oath to myself that I would refrain from "soccer parent" behavior. This hasn't worked out exactly as I'd hoped.

Now, in my defense, the parents of the 7th grade girls Mary Mother of the Church team are a united group. Our kids have played together since first grade. We all scream. Some pace along the sidelines and a few have really big, carrying voices. I fall into every category, making me A) a pain in the neck to the other team, and B) a bossy know it all. It also makes me a master ventriloquist as I've never been busted by the referee for such helpful comments like, "Drag your foot on the throw in", "Watch your offsides," and "HANDBALL!!!." Does that constitute parent coaching from the fan side of the field? Well, I certainly don't think so.

On the flip side, I don't care, even a little, if the kids win their games. Nor do I wear team colors or second guess the officials. Okay... that last one I do very quietly. Did I mention never wearing team colors?

Luckily, two players have parents in the medical profession, so when the day comes that I actually have a stroke while screaming at the keeper to charge the lone, breakaway forward, they can provide care until EMS arrives.

Oh hell, I'll try again next year.

Who Is Old Tasty?

2005-10-11T14:26:00.000-04:00

On the small chance that someone reading this does NOT know Kurt Groetsch, well, I just feel sorry for you.

Kurt, you are missed in St. Louis.

You Gonna Eat That?

2005-09-28T21:56:00.000-04:00

Americans are so strange about food. We pretend to diet while sneaking Hallowe'en candy from our kids and we say we're full when we're not. In St. Louis, we order toasted ravioli because the meat filled pasta pillow isn't enough. No, we gotta fry them bad boys to boot.

I come from a family of eaters. We are not the slacks and sweater people who gather together, shake hands over pre-dinner cocktails and then dine politely, sort. No sir, my family is all asses and elbows at the serving line, wearing sweatpants for more expansion room. We don't take the activity lightly. Belching? Yup. Napping immediately after the meal, splayed out on the floor? Absolutely. How about picking at the communal leftovers like fleeced scavenger birds? You betcha.

I've known women who "forget to eat." They flutter their thin fingers with a harried expression and do de-clare that there was just so much going on that eating completely slipped their minds. Now, I've forgotten where I parked my car and I can't consistently remember my social security number or my current spouse's name. One time, I left 50 total percent of my children at the soccer field after a game. But I have never, ever forgotten to eat.

So, don't be embarrassed to do what we must to survive. We have to eat. The fact that what we eat is buttery, sugary and salty is just a bonus.

Viva la Blockbuster Rewards

2005-09-18T23:34:00.000-04:00

Generally speaking, I don't go to the movie theatre. My reasons are not the usual, it's too expensive-I can't get a babysitter, sort. I do, however, have reasons. Good ones.

The Restroom- Ewww...theatre restrooms are disgusting. Some day I'm going to hang out in one and take a count of how many butts land on one seat in an hour. No can do. And what good is a movie without the depth-chart sized Diet Coke?

Children- No, not mine. I don't want to sit in the dark, engrossed in a story and hear a child talking, whining, crying or otherwise making it's presence known in any way. Worse yet, is when the movie is adult in nature and people bring their kids. I spend the whole evening being pissed about poor parenting instead of watching the show.

Girls- On the few occasions I've attended a movie with my significant other, he spends the majority of our "date" watching the teenage girls in tight jeans go by. He is so blatant and offensive that my night is invariably ruined. I do somewhat enjoy fantasizing about poisoning his butterlike popcorn topping, so maybe that one is a wash.

Seating- I don't enjoy sitting in one place for an hour and a half or more. It makes me hostile. Seriously.

Did I see XYZ movie? Nope, but I'll certainly give you a review when I can rent the DVD, watch it in my family room alone and use the toilet I just cleaned.

Ode to the Chickpea

2005-09-16T03:38:00.000-04:00

Years ago, while doing menu development for the first cafe, James and I came to an impasse. It happens infrequently but this one was a doozie.

Hunkered down after hours in our then place of employment, he stated "We gotta have hummus." I'm pretty certain my brief response contained the F word and a question mark. James explained that hummus was a middle eastern dip of olive oil, salt, mashed garbanzo beans, garlic, lemon juice and ground sesame seed paste. "You must be joking!" was my reply, "Nobody eats that shit but you." He lobbied fiercely and at the end of the night I caved in with one concession. We agreed that hummus would go on the menu for two weeks and if it was a poor mover, we'd take it off and I would win full bragging rights.

The night before opening, he demonstrated what's known in the business as "mad skills" in the hummus making department. All the while, I provided back up by making snotty comments about the texture (and it's similarity to vomit) and contorting my face as much as possible to show my disdain for the whole affair. James wore the smug expression of a sure winner.

On day four of operations, he called me out to the front of the house and had me take a look around. Dag! It was like a hummus eating competition! Folks were wolfing it down with purpose and rapture. I asked for a side of hummus myself, you know, to eat with my crow.

Almost two years later, it remains our second most popular item. Right behind falafel.

A Man of Letters

2005-09-12T21:06:00.000-04:00

I've just returned from a 1700 mile journey with my father. Over the weekend, we drove a trailer packed with supplies to the Salvation Army in Biloxi, Mississippi. I never, ever want to hear Elvis, Waylon Jennings, Jimmy Buffet or Willie Nelson again.
Long after dark on Saturday night, as we made our way south on I-65, we got lost to a place called Purvis, MS. (It isn't difficult to get lost as there aren't a lot of road signs remaining down there.) There weren't many places open but we found a little, white restaurant with "The Catfish Shack" painted across the front. A couple of folks were out front, hosing off mats on the dirt parking lot when we approached.

The brief stop for directions turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip. The owner was an older, retired man with no shortage of gab. He talked about the area, he talked about the hurricane, he talked about New Orleans. He asked if we ever had Mississippi catfish, and having been informed that neither of us had eaten catfish from anywhere, promptly had some fried up and served with sweet tea. I offered to pay, but he waved me off and smiled. "I'm Southern," was his explanation. We all had a good ol' visit outside on a picnic table under the stars.

So, if you're ever in Mississippi, please go see Mr. W.J. Dees at the Catfish Shack.

Remember Amityville Horror?

2005-09-10T02:45:00.000-04:00

I've been a princess, a ghost and a football player, among countless others. My Halloween costumes were always homemade and came from the crap in someone's closet. If I was particularly planful my mom and I would traipse to the Goodwill for costume ideas and components.

While discussing Halloween costumes with the girls the other day, my youngest informed me that this year, she wants to be "a slut." Sweet Mother Of Gawd, my head whipped around so fast I thought I'd need a personal injury attorney. Yup, she confirmed her first statement. "I want to be a slut."

After much sputtering (on my part), graphic explaining (also me) and pursuant embarrassment (that was her bit), we managed to rule out the mini-skirt, tube top and high heels as a costume choice. I countered with the idea of being a nun. Not just for Halloween, mind you.

Teasers of Thoughts Long Gone

2005-08-31T20:43:00.000-04:00

Over the past few days I've started (and scrapped) multiple blog entries. My mind has been racing with just about a ba-zillion thoughts. Here are the Cliff's Notes from deleted entries:

I just finished a great biography about Howard Hughes.
Last Wednesday I appeared as "Guest Chef" of the City TV 10 show, Best of the STL.
Labor unions smack of Communism to me on many levels. I'm not judging Communism.
In my next life, I want Julia Smillie's sense of humor.
The gas grill in my back yard damned near blew my face off due to operator(my)error.
Will Ferrell is a comic genius.

Not riveting, not inspiring. Perhaps I'll get back to a few of those and expound some day.

Work Aesthetic Ethic

2005-08-25T16:39:00.000-04:00

When I was a teenager, my first job was at a chain restaurant called Baker's Square as a seating hostess. I was terribly excited to get out into the working world at sixteen and felt so grown up to be employed.

I took on as many extra tasks as my shift supervisor would give me. I was determined to prove myself indispensible and if that meant I had to portion butter cups, dammit I was gonna do it. After one month of uniform wearing, employee meal pricing and grunt work, it was time for my "formal review."

The shift supervisor and general manager sat me in a booth as I beamed with pride, ready to receive my accolades. The manager spoke directly to my supervisor. "What do you think of Shannon's appearance?" What? Her reply was, "Well, her hair needs to be tied back tighter and sometimes her shirt is untucked." I was instructed to pay more attention to my grooming and dress...and that was all. End of meeting. My first job and the lesson learned was that being cute was more important that being competent.

So I'd like to give a shout out to those two catty, rude, insensitive wenches, wherever they are. I remember you, twenty years later. I remember you making me feel stupid, worthless and ugly. I remember you ignoring my effort. Hopefully, you're languishing in unappreciated positions and you've gained fifty or more pounds.
And finally, f you.

Really Minimalist Living

2005-08-21T02:56:00.000-04:00

For years I've hated my living room furniture. It was passed along from someone else who also hated it. (Read: used.) Although it provided adequate seating, it was a hideous, teal/peach/pink, 1980's Florida hotel-type, plaid affair. Over the three years I had custody of it,despite vacuumming, the loveseat and couch accumulated more total pet hair than is actually on both of my dogs.

A couple of weeks ago, my significant other learned of a newly divorced person who desperately needed a couch. With mixed feelings, I sent both pieces off to their new home, accompanied by my lone coffee table. Now, we have no furniture. Not one place to sit down in the living room. I did manage to keep an old end table for my keys and sunglasses, but that is all.

In retrospect, I realize that this was, shall we say, a little hasty. Why? Because St. Louis does not have an IKEA store. And IKEA is truly the only place where I loved the furniture lines unconditionally. So now we must live, sans sofa, until I can accumulate not only enough green to purchase all new furniture but also enough to rent a huge truck, drive to Chicago, spend the day shopping, crash for some sleep and get it all home safely.

Boys and girls, this is what is known as "poor planning."

No Granny Panties

2005-08-17T16:02:00.000-04:00

I've been going to the YMCA. I figure as a middle-aged, overweight smoker, I should make some, miniscule effort to live past 40. There are a lot of different people at the SoCo Y. All shapes and sizes and I admire anyone who actually gets off their big hump and hauls it to the pool or gym once in a while.

A few days ago, I was working on a machine located behind the steppers. An older, but very fit woman trotted up and on to the step machine directly in front of me. We've all seen women like this; heels dug in as they approach a certain age, bleached hair circa 1991, platinum membership at the Tan Company. They generally wear excessive jewelry and emulate their college aged daughters' fashion leanings.

This particular woman was wearing a tank top and coordinating shorts. Bright orange shorts. Shorts that, at first glance appeared to have been airbrushed on. I found it only a little pathetic until I noticed her thong underwear visible through and above the shorts. Butt floss! On that old woman! At the gym! It was really gross. Then, of course, I felt like some sort of creep for actually looking at her butt at all. But, I did and there it was. A Golden Ager sporting a t-bar.

There are some things I just don't want to know. Old lady underwear (particularly if they are wearing g-strings) is one of them. Anyone else's underwear is the other.

Crime, No Punishment

2005-08-12T20:02:00.000-04:00

Original post deleted on 8/15/05 at 12:05 AM.

Changed my mind on this one, I did. Blogger's regret. It's kind of like buyer's remorse, only not.

I'll have something lighter spirited up soon.

Vanilla Mice Mice, Baby

2005-08-05T01:33:00.000-04:00

My daughter, the champion of all lost causes, found three orphaned mice the other day. Said mice are no longer than my pinkie finger from nose to end of tail and have neither opened eyes or ears, yet. She has made these mice her mission in life.

Bless the world wide web, we know to feed them KMR (that's kitten milk replacement, to you) every two hours. Yes. That is correct. She feeds them every two hours with an eye dropper. We also know to stimulate their elimination by gently rubbing their little mousy genitals-as disturbing as that may be. Two nights ago, I was awakened by a burning, chemical smell. I learned in the morning that my dear daughter attempted at 2:30 AM to create a warming incubator by placing the mouse home (a plastic bucket) over her reading lamp. It warmed, all right. Warmed to burning a hole through the blasted thing. Note to PETA and ASPCA: No mice were injured during this event.

Sadly, they are not thriving. The littlest mouse died today and I'm brushing up on hymns for the other two. If my kid doesn't get some sleep and eat pretty soon, I suspect she'll be next. That is, if the Hanta virus doesn't get my entire family first.

Loss is hard, especially for kids, so I'm somewhat sad about the whole situation. And...they're cute little, disease carrying vectors.

Good Times, Good Times

2005-07-31T02:50:00.000-04:00

Due to the recent, alarming increase in customer service complaint calls and emails I've received about one of the cafe locations, we'll be hiring several positions immediately. I'll be cleaning house as soon as we get promising candidates on board.

Rather than list necessary qualifications, I'd rather go into who need not apply. (Long haired freaky people are okay.)

1. If you have an out of area phone number. You're out.
2. Band members. Your "gigs" come first, I understand. No.
3. Anyone leaving for school at the end of August. You must be joking.
4. People looking to start in mid-September. Then only on Tuesday mornings and on
Sunday between 10:30 AM and 2:00 PM.
5. Organizational nuts, whiners, blamers, flakes, crackheads and drifters.

Perhaps you know someone looking for a solid, fun job. Perhaps that person has vowed to never again wear a tie and/or pantyhose. Please give them my address at shannon@hartfordcoffeecompany.com.

Tower Grove South thanks you, as do I.

I Can Talk About It, Now

2005-07-24T22:51:00.000-04:00

Finally, after many tears, I am ready to tell the story.

I live in a four family affair with two townhomes topped by two condominiums. My family resides in the former. Several months ago, our neighbors above moved out. These are the same folks who had an entire chest freezer of meat go rancid after said freezer crapped out and nobody noticed until I made some pointed threats about the horrific smell. But I digress...

The neighbors moved out and the condo sat unsold for months. I began to see critters in my kitchen on occasion. Yup, a real, live roach every few days. Clearly, the hoosiers upstairs had bugs and now that their food source was gone, the lousy little things decided to camp out in my kitchen. I didn't like it, but at least I knew it wasn't really my problem. Famous last words.

Fast forward a month and the damned things had fully taken over my kitchen. Primarily, the dishwasher. Every time I opened it, one or two of 'em would scamper around until I unleashed my full fury and squashed them into paste with a leg here and there. I went to Home Depot and purchased every "pest" product available. The kitchen was a NO-GO zone due to all the poison about. Unfortunately, there was very little improvement until we made a drastic decision.

After some very deep breathing and arming ourselves with towels, poison, 9mm spray, an internet print out identifying different types of roaches and their...eww..egg sacs, we dismantled the entire dishwasher. We had found the Roach Mecca. Deafening screeching ensued, as did serious bruising of the side of my fist and several accidental poisonous over-sprays.

I no longer have a functioning dishwasher. The damage caused by our Shock and Awe campaign rendered it useless and impossible to reassemble. The silver lining is that we no longer have a roach problem, either.

Exit Strategy

2005-07-05T01:48:00.000-04:00

If I am suddenly, inexplicably missing one of two things has occurred.

Scenario Uno: One of my multiple ex-husbands has made good on his promise to "get me." This is the far more unlikely possibility.

Scenario Dos: I've dropped out of society, Unabomber style, and am stumbling around Beale Street in Memphis. Most probably, I will be mumbling to myself and have unintentionally developed dreadlocks. I will not be "stalking" him in the literal/legal sense, but I may believe that I am dating Jonny Lang.

Please try to keep a five-spot in your pocket if you come looking for me. I'm gonna need a couple of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a menthol cigarette.

Just, you know, in case this ever happens.

As Good As It Gets

2005-07-04T02:43:00.000-04:00

It's pretty commonly known that I have some germ issues. Most of them relate to food or items having a relationship to food like dishes, glasses and silverware.

I like to prepare my own food. My hands are immaculately clean, my workspace is spotless and I don't scratch my head or pick my nose while I'm cooking. At home I use disposable utensils, plates and cups. Paper towels are stocked and antibacterial soap is at the ready. Yes, I know I'm killing the earth.

Communal dining is also a major problem. Nothing makes my skin crawl like the phrase, "Here, try mine." There are only a few people permitted to trade foods with me. You know who you are. To take a bite from your fork, share a dessert or stick my hand into your box of cheese doodles, I must be incredibly comfortable with you.

I like to use plastic or paper at the cafe. I eat at places where I can see the kitchen from my seat. I go out with people who don't give me a hard time about my quirks. Eat-Rite or don't eat at all? I'll pass, thanks.

So You Wanna Be A Hip Hop Impresario...

2005-06-25T15:50:00.000-04:00

I'd heard of Scott Storch before. I knew he is a big time music writer and producer and works wit' the biggest names in the mainstream music business. Some of those names include; Dr. Dre, Beyonce, Snoop Dogg and Sean Paul. I knew that he ranked right up there with The Neptunes in the "hit making" department.

Today, I had a rare opportunity to watch television with cable. There was an E! show about Christina Aguilera that caught my attention. (Please, don't judge me for this small transgression.) Lo and behold, Ms. Dirrrty also credits Scott Storch with some of her success. He was interviewed on camera-the first time I'd ever actually seen him.

He's a big, doofus, white guy! I love it! I love that my stereotypes were annihilated by this one dude with suburban, heavily gelled hair and a jacked up grill. To his credit, he was wearing very smooth shades. I was gloriously wrong in my expectations.

Thanks, Scott Storch. And thanks, E! Entertainment.

Snide and Prejudice

2005-06-18T18:28:00.000-04:00

Education snobs. I despise them. Their elitist, better-than-everybody-else attitude makes me want to vomit on their multiple degrees and GPAs. Years ago, while working in a special education school, I witnesed the following story.

The Director of Education (aka Principal) was assigned a supervisor with lesser education than she. The supervisor did have extensive experience in the residential treatment field and was hired because of his far-reaching contacts in the industry. On the day of the announcement, Principal High N. Mighty stormed past me in the hall and demanded, of no one in particular, "How can they do this? I can't believe I have to report to someone with a Bachelor's degree!"

Recently, a D.W. (Degree Whore) asked what the minimum education requirements were to apply for a job at the cafe. I was appalled. First of all, none of your business unless you need some extra money and are inquiring on your own behalf. Second, the answer is none.

Does that Master's, PhD, GED or BA guarantee honesty? What about dependability? Are scholars more considerate of their fellow man? Are they better citizens of the world than the man or woman who cleans hotel rooms, farms the land or makes sandwiches for a living?

The Scarecrow had brains. He was intelligent, kind and creative. He was a loyal friend. And even after he received his diploma from the Wizard, he was far happier for his companions' achievements than for himself.

Let's all be a little more Scarecrow, shall we?

Shameless Self Promotion

2005-06-15T15:27:00.000-04:00

Upon threat of being branded a hypocrite, I auditioned for a community theater production of Fiddler On The Roof. I figured that as a blue-eyed Irish lass with a nose ring, my destiny would, at very best, land me in the back of the chorus, waving my skirt around and singing with the men. Wrong.

See me as Golde at the Mable Stage Theatre (located in the Shrewsbury City Center) on July 14, 15 and 16 at 7:00 p.m. A special matinee will be offered on Sunday, July 17 at 2:00 p.m. Tickets are 10.00 and may be purchased in advance at the Hartford Coffee Company (www.hartfordcoffeecompany.com for directions)or you can chance it at the door before the perfomance.

2:30 AM Dreaming...

2005-06-11T05:14:00.000-04:00

What would you do if you won the lottery?

Isn't that a frequently posed question? I've been asked several times by different people and I've even asked it a time or two. After years of thought, here goes:

I'd take the lump sum payout and pay The Man whatever I owe. I hate that part.

I'd set aside some as inheritence for anyone who is still in my good graces and hasn't irritated me by asking if they are, "in the will." If that person winks or tells me they are just kidding-that's it. They're out.

A house would be my first priority. It doesn't have to be big, it just has to be mine and paid for. A fence would be really nice. I'd also buy a Toyota product so I could drive it for like, 200,000 miles. Next I would pay off as many debts as I could for my family and my dearest friend. Full coverage insurance, including dental and vision should be on the menu and Pug Rescue would get a hefty donation.

The rest I would bank with the excecption of always having a hundred bucks in my pocket. That would be wealth.

Uh, thanks?

2005-06-06T23:35:00.000-04:00

Tonight at rehearsal, a young woman of 17 or 18 approached me with a somewhat awkward manner about her. She stammered, "I just wanted to tell you that you have such a look of confidence and you don't even wear any make up." And then, she drove the knife into my chest. "You are just really a beautiful older woman."

I don't know why she felt compelled to share her opinion of me as we'd never spoken before, other than a brief greeting. And I do think she meant to compliment me.

Perhaps she was going to follow up with, "Those are super-cute jeans for being plus sized!" Or something like, "Your home haircut is really adorable." I don't know, I didn't give her the chance.

Nor did I call her a "whippersnapper" or hit her with my cane.

You're Invited!

2005-06-02T00:42:00.000-04:00

'Tis the season for parties and gift giving. It seems like every weekend, someone is getting engaged, getting married, having a baby, anniversay or birthday. Late spring and summer downright embarrass December in the present obligation department.

Fortunately, the brides, parents-to-be and even the old couples who no longer speak to each other are considerate enough to register someplace. They take all the guesswork (and creativity and thoughtfulness) out of the whole gift giving extravaganza. Most party invitations will even direct you to the store(s) of the recipient's choice. How handy!

I'm really good about sending gifts. I shop at Target, Babies R Us and Williams Sonoma. I'll go to the brick and mortar or online. I dial 1 800 FLOWERS. Hell, I even had one gift sent directly from NYC in a Robin's egg blue Tiffany's box. I've wrapped them by hand and paid big money to have it "professionally" done.

I love sending gifts. Why? Because attached to said present is a small card. On it I extend my sincerest regrets that I didn't/can't/won't make the party.

Small price to pay, in my honest opinion.

Excuse me, please.

2005-05-30T20:05:00.000-04:00

When did rudeness and bad behavior become acceptable? Why is some measure of personal reserve considered uppity? What makes people openly burp at restaurants, divulge private information to strangers and criticize on a whim?

It isn't really difficult to be gracious. You smile and nod. You listen and ask simple, non-prying questions. You offer assistance if appropriate. Don't offer advice or eagerly await your chance to tell your own story, trying to outdo the other person's happiness or misery. Smile and nod. Possibly touch someone's sleeve if they need some support but do not assault them with a full-frontal hug unless that person is your child or significant other. In that case, ask first.

You have gas? Go outside. Really bad gas? Go home.

Don't spit. Carry a tissue, handkercheif or go to the restroom. Reaquaint yourself with the words, "thank you." Don't be condescending to a someone's face or embarrass them intentionally. Be the bigger person.

Practice several different ways of smiling and nodding and make up some new combnation smile/nods. There, you have just become more polite and pleasant to be around.

Thank you.

Oompa Loompa Syndrome

2005-05-29T11:37:00.000-04:00

We have scientific proof of the damaging effects of the sun to our skin and eyes and those of you/us with any sense will decrease our sun exposure.

But, pasty ain't cute and I'm too old to cultivate a Goth look.

Self-tanner has rescued me from glow-in-the-dark whiteness, inherent to my Irish heritage. Application can be a little dicey and if you are at all reckless about it, you'll develop a horrid, orange streaking that no amount of acetone nail polish remover or bleach will undo. Tan palms? Unless you're using latex exam gloves, they go with the territory.

I confess. I didn't do a great job last night. I was the very definition of reckless. But bronze stripes can be hot, right?

Right?

Keeping Up With the Neighbors

2005-05-28T22:36:00.000-04:00

I know several people who blog. Yup, they do it right out there in the open-for everyone to see. And being a borderline voyeur, I read them frequently.

It should be noted here that the majority of these bloggers are interesting, educated, witty, computer literate people. Some are even local celebrities, which pretty much guarantees readership. They are happening hipsters, writers and men about town. I envision the masses, racing home from work to see what the Those People posted whilst the grey and dreary plugged away from 8-4.

In the words of an infamous, Vice Presidential candidate, "What am I doing here, why am I here?"

I'm blogging, 'cause I can.