Chicken And Cheese » Chambana

O Chambana Will You Cry For Me?

Mrs. Chicken — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 14:21:56 +0000

I have an uneasy relationship with the Midwest.

A Northerner by birth, I spent most of my life on the shoreline: first in the Great Lakes industrial city in which I grew up, later along the Thames, when my family lived as expatriates in London, and finally, as a young adult attending college in Boston.

Water is a huge part of my life. The ocean beckons me every summer, to Cape Cod where I’ve spent every July since I was just 8 years old.

When my husband called me from the flatlands of Illinois one February afternoon and told me we would soon be living in a college town two hours south of Chicago, my first reaction was panic.

I’d long since returned to the city of my youth. It was where I wed, buried my father and birthed my first child.

It was home.

My father’s death just a little less than two years earlier caused my roots to grow even more firmly into that hilly ground. I couldn’t bear the idea of being so far from his grave, from the water that gave him so much joy.

I did not want to leave …

Won’t you please come read the rest? I’m guest posting for Midwest Parents today. Many thanks.

Chambana AKA Blogging Capital Of The Midwest

Mrs. Chicken — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 03:47:00 +0000

I sat at our local Little Gym today, nose in my book, deliciously unfettered. The baby was home with the sitter, rare for a Thursday, but The Poo had an appointment after class and I didn’t want him to distract me from focusing on the girl.

I managed to groom myself this morning, a minor miracle considering that this is Day Two of Mr. Chicken’s out-of-town conference, rendering me a single parent from Wednesday to Saturday. I had a nice, new top, actual pants (as opposed to jeans), and my hair was dry.

(My white athletic anklets paired with black snow shoes sort of wrecked the whole thing, but I looked cute from ankle up.)

There I sat, reading and occasionally flashing a leotard-clad Poo a smile and a wave.

One of the other parents in the waiting area walked over and sat down next to me. She smiled, and leaned in a little closer.

“Are you Mrs. Chicken?” she asked.

Turns out she reads here, and has her own blog. She recognized me from the photos I occasionally post here, and “outed” herself to me as Harley Quinn.

(Hi, Amy!)

She was, as all the other local women I’ve met in this way, simply delightful. We chatted for awhile and I was happy to find out she’ll be there again next Thursday.

And as she left, I was grateful for the fact that I took the time to shower this morning.

It is so strange, the notoriety that comes with this online diary of mine. I told a friend this week that I began writing here not long after my father died, and just after becoming a mother.

It was a place, I said, to hear myself talk. Where I could unburden myself, without continuing to burden my loved ones with an outpouring of grief, anger and confusion.

Next month will make the three-year anniversary of this space. My very first post was tentative; timid, even. But as time passed I became more and more empowered, using it to flex muscles long dormant.

This space provided me with friendships that could not have been possible without it. Just tonight I shared dinner, diapers and tears with a woman who welcomed me to Chambana sight unseen, when I reached out to her through her blog just before we moved here.

The birth of this blog coincided almost exactly with our decision to move to the Midwest, to take on tremendous personal and professional risk in pursuit of the brass ring. When we got here, it shocked me to find so many local writers blogging away; surely this small, small city has the highest per-capita number of bloggers of any other locale.

This space continues to open doors for me, both professionally and personally. I’ve been missing it lately, feeling stressed out and over-committed to my paid work. I miss this space, and I know that as we move again in a few short months I will once again be relying on this community to help me make the transition.

There are days when I think blogging is over, at least for me. I feel like this is tired, and done with. I feel like it has served its purpose and that I’ve outgrown it.

That it is no longer a priority.

And then someone like Amy taps me on the shoulder in the library, in the grocery store or at the playground and says, hey, I read your blog. I really, really enjoy it. You are such a good writer.

So thank you, all of you. Thank you, Amy.

And especially you, Chambana.

Frigid

Mrs. Chicken — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 15:22:41 +0000

We woke up this morning to bright sun, but despite the pretty daylight, my weather.com widget claims the temperatures here in Chambana are about 12 below zero.

I’m used to blizzards and wind chill, but the flat topography of the prairie here never fails to make me feel as if winter is interminable, and we will all die a terrible death a la the Donner Party.

It doesn’t help that The Poo has been sick for 10 days, and that I personally hadn’t left the house in four days, until yesterday.

Errands to run late in the afternoon precipitated an early-bird adults-only dinner with my husband at a local bar we hadn’t been to before. We braved the subzero winds for a chance to talk and eat uninterrupted. I sent the babysitter on her way at about 7 p.m., warning her to be careful as she drove home.

Despite the fact that we turned the thermostat up a degree before bed, anticipating a frigid night, the furnace just can’t keep up. When we came downstairs to see the temperature at 63 degrees, Mr. C cranked it up even higher. Still, the house just won’t warm up:

Today we’ll gladly stay home, “a cozy day,” as The Poo says. We’ll run the gas fireplace all day, heat bills be damned. We have on our fuzzy socks and plans to bake chocolate chip cookies are in the works.

I hope you stay warm, where ever you are.

Winter Driving Tips From Mrs. Chicken

Mrs. Chicken — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 17:15:10 +0000

If the weatherman predicts an ice storm for the next day, IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO DRIVE WITH EXTREME CAUTION THE DAY BEFORE THE PREDICTED STORM.
When an ice storm does hit, STAY HOME.
When the posted speed limit is 35 mph, IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO DRIVE AT 30 MPH.
If you are driving under the posted speed limit, DO NOT DRIVE IN THE PASSING LANE.
When a wild-eyed woman in a minivan with two car seats, one of which is occupied by an infant, is tailgating you while frantically negotiating with the pediatrician’s nurse because she is now 15 minutes late for the last appointment she can get before she leaves for a three-state holiday odyssey thanks to the JACKASS DRIVING OF YOU JACKASS MOFOS WHO DON’T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE IN THE WINTER, do both her and you a favor, AND GET THE FUCK OVER.

An Open Letter To The Urbana Free Library

Mrs. Chicken — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 19:20:03 +0000

To The Urbana Free Library:

Why, for the love of Pete, do you persist in re-shelving DVDs that are scratched beyond all salvation?

We checked out three of your children’s DVDs this week, and not one, not two, BUT ALL THREE DVDS COULD NOT BE PLAYED.

Do you know what it sounds like when a sick, tired and hungry 3-year-old girl is told that the DVD she begged for from the library, the DVD she was promised if she just FOR GOOD GOD’S SAKE TOOK A REST ON THE COUCH, does NOT PLAY PROPERLY?

Here’s an idea: take a hyena, burn it with a flaming poker, and then run it over with your car. THAT IS WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE.

I just paid $34 in library fines to your good institution. My fault, I know. But here’s an idea — why don’t you take that cash and BUY SOME NEW MOTHERFUCKING CHILDREN’S DVDS?

Sincerely,

Mrs. Chicken

****

I’m employing much less offensive language at The Full Mommy today, reviewing a toy that is ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY perfect for 3-month-old babies. Not enough incentive to click over? YOU CAN WIN ONE, MY BITCHES.

Peace out.

Halfway Up

Mrs. Chicken — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 05:00:50 +0000

Shaggy and I spent an unusually contented two hours alone together Saturday evening, while Mr. C and The Poo went to Mass.

Normally we go to church, as well, but the boy had a string of bad days and even worse nights. He was finally asleep when it was time to leave for Saturday evening vigil, and I made the executive decision that waking him was NOT A GOOD IDEA.

About 30 minutes after the others left, he woke up.

I gathered him up, pessimistically hopeful that he might be calm. He looked up at me with his father’s eyes and yawned. He stretched, and then cooed.

“Cooooo,” I breathed back at him, smiling despite myself. He makes these noises infrequently; I love the sound of a new baby talking.

We sat and played and discussed the differences between our nose and our toes, our bellies and our faces. I let my hair tickle his cheeks and I kissed him a hundred different ways. My heart, so bruised and tender these days, quickened in my chest as his eyes followed me.

Remembering songs from The Poo’s baby days, I stood with him in my arms and began to sway while singing:

Oh, the grand old duke of york

He had ten thousand men

He marched them up to the top of hill

And he marched them down again

Oh, ’cause when you’re up you’re up

And when you’re down you’re down

And when you’re only halfway up

You’re neither up nor down

I laughed at the baby’s expression, and suddenly felt tears prickle behind my eyes, as happens so often these days. Halfway up, I thought. That’s me.

Right now is an in-between time. The baby, The Poo, my post-partum body, Mr. C’s insistence that we talk about the job market for his field … all of it. Nothing in our lives – my life – is fully up or down right now.

We will depart Chambana next fall one way or another, one job or another. Our time is up. No more credit hours means no more fellowships and, more critically, no more health insurance. I knew this time was coming, but when we got here two years ago it seemed as though a lifetime would pass before we moved on.

Now we are starting to talk about the jobs, and where they are, and how far from our families we are willing to go …

I didn’t think it would be hard to leave here. But it will be, if for no other reason than I just don’t want to start again, again. New house, new friends, new towns, new schools, new grocery stores and dry cleaners – all of these new starts lay just around the bend.

Just as our house starts to feel like home, I have to remind myself that it is only temporary shelter.

All of this is coming at me with what feels like the speed of light. I am clearly overwhelmed (and have been, if I am honest, for months), but I’m functioning.

There was a time when this neither up nor down state of affairs would have had me on my knees, but now I find I am coping. Yes, I am weepy. Yes, I am fearful and anxious. Yes, some days I wish I could turn back the clock.

But while I may only be halfway up, I am not completely down, and for that I am grateful.

Diagnosis: Homesick

Mrs. Chicken — Tue, 20 May 2008 20:38:18 +0000

Most of you know that I flunked my three-hour glucose test – and rather spectacularly, to quote the midwife – and the likely scenario is insulin for the remainder of my last trimester.

It makes sense – I had a mild case with The Poo, and I’ve felt so very, very crappy this time. I just felt something was off, and I am most sorry I didn’t push the docs to test me earlier. I have a feeling The Diabetus made its appearance quite some time ago.

Meanwhile, I’ve been eating carbs and sugar like mad since Day One of this pregnancy.

When I met with the midwife after my test Friday morning she tossed around terrifying phrases like “fetal death” and “amniocentesis” and “poor organ development.”

She scared the fat pants off me.

I had a few days to get used to the idea of a carb-free lifestyle and I got my glucose meter so I could start testing right away. I’ve been following the one-page example diet they gave me, and it does look like cutting out cake isn’t going to cut it. My numbers are higher than they want them to be.

This is all something I can deal with, something that can be controlled and monitored. It just means more frequent doctor visits, a perinatologist and a dietitian.

I’m OK with that, so that Henry and I are healthy and safe.

What is really bugging me is that I wish with all my might that I had my old OB right now.

The doctor who delivered The Poo had been my OB/GYN since I was 18 years old. She was my mom’s OB. She was a woman and a mother and she knew me, my family and my history, medical and otherwise.

The day my dad died, she was there for me and The Poo, who was still cooking in my belly.

She was there for me afterward, when my abdomen was burning from the c-section and my head was swimming with fatigue and fright over this wee human I had to take care of.

She was there at my six-week post-partum appointment, when she told me that if I felt even just the littlest bit depressed, it was OK to go back on my meds.

I don’t know these people here. These nurses and doctors and midwives and incompetent boobs who schedule me for multiple appointments at the same time in different places. I don’t know the hospital or even have a GP, for that matter.

I don’t trust them.

I want to go home.

Something’s been eating me lately, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Stupid shit is getting under my skin, shit that always seems to be unique to Chambana.

It isn’t that I hate it here anymore; because I don’t. I have friends and a routine and I know where the grocery store is and how to get to the post office.

But I still have to make three shopping runs to three places to get all the groceries I want. I still can’t remember who has the right-of-way at all these four-way stops. I still compare the frozen custard stand to the one back home.

I miss Wegmans and my oldest friends, the ones who knew me when my braces came off. I miss Lake Ontario and good Buffalo wing sauce. I miss the pizza place on the corner, the one that delivered.

Most of all, I miss the people I trust to take care of me, Henry and The Poo. I miss my old pediatrician, the one who always used common sense as his yardstick and told me no call from a worried mom was unwarranted.

Moms know, he would tell me. And he was right.

I’m homesick.

I just wonder sometimes how long it will go on, this ache inside me. The odds of our path bringing us back to our hometown are slim – we have to go where the jobs are. I thought I was OK with that, I thought I was ready to make that break forever.

It turns out that I’m not.

Homesickness isn’t terminal, is it?

Not-So-Tiny Earthquakes

Mrs. Chicken — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 13:36:58 +0000

Last night I held on to the bed during an earthquake – and not a metaphorical one.

It was a very rough night. The Poo fell asleep face-down on the hardwood floor at just about 6 p.m., and woke me at midnight complaining that it wasn’t morning yet.

She won’t have anything to do with her father when she is unwell, and so it was up to me to get her back down, unless I wanted to listen to her shriek when she saw her dad show up to tuck her back in.

I sat in her room for about an hour, engaged in exhausted negotiations over going back to sleep. I swear, that kid is going to be a union contract negotiator when she grows up.

Finally we fell asleep together, uneasily, around 3 a.m. in the guest room.

Sometime in the four o’ clock hour, I heard hail. And then The Poo started to jump around in bed, shaking me into wakefulness.

Only it wasn’t hail. And it wasn’t a restless Poo.

IT WAS AN EARTHQUAKE.

It was brief, but it was definitely an earthquake. Of course, I immediately decided it was an approaching tornado and leapt from the bed to stand near the window and look for the funnel.

I know, right? I’m a genius. By the window!

Anyway, the noise was the shutters banging against the siding and I couldn’t get my balance because, oh, the floor was moving!

It was over in less than five minutes, but wow.

My sister sent me an email from Cape Cod this morning asking if we felt the now-famous Midwestern quake, so I called the house there.

My mom answered and told me, “You need to get out of there!”

I replied that the only reason there was an earthquake in Chambana is because I brought my terrible mojo with me when I moved here.

What I didn’t tell her was that Mr. C was encouraged to apply for a position at the University of Southern California next year, by some big shot from the school’s music education department. I, of course, put the nix on that right away – too far from the East.

And now I have an even better reason – I’ve experienced a small earthquake, and no way do I ever want to experience a large one.

The Plot Thickens

Mrs. Chicken — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 21:19:28 +0000

Remember yesterday when someone put a GIANT FILTHY DILDO on my trash can?

So disturbed by this development was Mr. Chicken that he decided to come home early. I heard the key in the lock around 4:15, and he came in looking glum and concerned.

Earlier, after I called him about the whole sordid incident, he took the name and number of the rival refuse company and gave them a call.

The owner answered, he told me, and was very nice about the whole thing. Turns out he had also been on the truck yesterday, with one other employee and his grandson. He hadn’t seen anything like that, he assured my husband, but he would investigate nonetheless.

He told Mr. C he didn’t stand for monkey business, and apologized in advance of even asking his guys about the whole dildo thing.

We milled around the house for a bit, nonplussed. As he always does when he’s upset, Mr. C turned to his closet for solace. He rummaged around his rainbow of ties and shirts, making new outfit combinations.

(No, he isn’t gay. But he is a dandy.)

After another half-hour of going over the whole GIANT FILTHY DILDO situation, I told him that I felt safer when we lived in a city where someone was being killed every 15 minutes about a mile from our home.

Here, I said, I felt much more exposed. The open field in back, the glass in the back door …

“One of these days we’re going to wind up like the Clutter family,” I said, peeking out the bedroom window to see the offending trash can mocking me from the drive.

“Yeah,” my husband replied morosely, standing there in his boxers and undershirt. He scratched one pit and sniffed. “Why do I stink today?”

That remark did me in and I insisted we go out for dinner. Dildos on trash cans sap me of my dinner-making energies.

We walked out to the car and Mr. C strolled to the end of the driveway. Hands on hips, he shook his head.

“We have to get rid of this thing,” he said. “It is so embarrassing.”

I directed him to a roll of trash bags on a shelf and he proceeded to remove the GIANT FILTHY DILDO. He opened the lid of the can to toss it in and revealed …

Our garbage. Still in the can.

We just looked at each other.

What the FUCK?

So our garbage guys pointed the finger at another company, a very specific person. They told us they had been there, and that the GIANT FILTHY DILDO wasn’t there when they showed up to take our trash away yesterday.

BUT OUR TRASH WAS STILL IN THE CAN.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “What the hell is going on here?”

This morning I called our company and spoke to the owner’s son again. He had an “ah-ha” moment in which he suddenly remembered that oh, yeah, our can wasn’t out when they came by.

Oh, yes, yes it was.

Whatever. I was done. I crisply told him I didn’t care any longer but that he sure as shit was coming back today to get my trash. And that I expected to never have a conversation like this with him again AS LONG AS I LIVED.

I suspect the whole incident was a kind of April Fool’s prank gone bad between these two companies, and we were the unwitting victims. I’m guesing that no one wanted to ‘fess up to leaving a GIANT FILTHY DILDO in a paying customer’s garbage can.

I also suspect that when the time comes for Mr. Chicken to look for his next job, that I will strongly suggest to him that we live in a city that offers municipal trash disposal. Government employees are way too uptight to use GIANT FILTHY DILDOS, or at the very least they are discreet enough to dispose of them privately.

My Dirty Garbage Day, Or This Could Only Happen To Me

Mrs. Chicken — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 19:36:35 +0000

Here in the great state of Illinois, in the small city of Chambana, we do not have municipal refuse collection. I had no idea there were places where you had to pay for your own garbage collection – especially here, considering that our tax bill would indicate that we live in a palace on an acre of land composed entirely of solid gold.

For that great big honkin’ property tax bill, we get exactly ZERO services. Oh, wait. We get snow removal.

*cackles hysterically*

Anywhoo, when we set up housekeeping here in our beautiful suburban ~~cracker box~~ tract house, I called the city government offices to set up garbage collection.

“Hi!” I chirped. “I’d like to know how to set up my garbage collection!”

“Uh, you look in the phone book,” snarled some petty civil servant.

Then she hung up on me.

Welcome to Chambana, Chicken Family!

Oy.

So I dutifully set up private refuse removal, and read the list of rules about how much, when and what we could and could not dispose of. My husband shook his head when I showed him the postcard that arrived in April, announcing that we needed to spend additional dough to get stickers for grass removal.

We had to buy the stickers and the paper bags upon which to affix the stickers, within which we could place our grass clippings. And no more than two bags at a time, suckas.

“Christ!” Mr. C. exclaimed. “In Rochester we could have put a human head in the trash and no one would have given a shit.”

Every Tuesday for 17 months we’ve put the trash out and it has been picked up without incident.

Until today.

Today?

Today I found this on my trash can:

Why, yes! That IS a giant, filthy plastic dildo of some sort!

Oh my fucking God.

I pulled into the driveway post preschool pickup and squinted at the can. “Whathefuuuu…” I mutter under my breath.

I had packages galore in the front seat, not to mention a take-out lunch for The Poo and a ~~chocolate malt~~ calcium-based beverage for me. I handed The Poo her lunch and told her to stay in the garage.

I walked to the end of drive to inspect the can.

Is it … could it be …

ACK! THAT IS A GIANT FILTHY PLASTIC PENIS WITH A FUCKING SCREW CAP ON THE END!*

Hyperventilating with rage and disgust, I rushed my daughter into the house and punched in the number for the garbage company.

“Hello,” I practically screamed. “I think one of your crew left a GIANT DILDO on my garbage can!”

“Oh,” said the woman who answered. “Oh. My.”

“IT WASN’T THERE WHEN I LEFT AND NOW IT IS THERE AND NOW I HAVE TO REMOVE AND WHO PUT IT THERE CAN YOU HELP ME FIND OUT?”

She assured me someone would call me back.

Someone did call, the son of the company’s owner. He explained that it wasn’t his crew – he was on the truck this morning – but that an employee of a rival refuse company was shouting obscenities and making dirty gestures at one of his men this morning, just about the time they were picking up my garbage.

He gave me the guy’s name and the name of the company.

“I’m almost positive it was him,” he said. “And I’m awful sorry. That’s pretty sick.”

Sick? Sick?? I have to go outside and EXTRACT A DILDO FROM MY GARBAGE CAN.

I left a message at the rival company, but to what end I’m not sure. What, like he’s gonna come back and remove the GIANT FILTHY DILDO for me? No, thank you. I do not want this man anywhere near my house.

There are days, people. There are days when living in Chambana seems like the best thing that ever happened to us.

And then there are the days when I paid for my garbage to be taken to a nice landfill, only to find a GIANT FILTHY DILDO wedged in the handle of my trashcan.

* Welcome, Google perverts!

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O Chambana Will You Cry For Me?

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