Monday, August 30, 2004
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Poppisima, the Opiate of the Masses
OK, so first I have to say what I'm drinking. White wine. Some random plonk my husband opened at dinner time and which is now finally cold enough to be potable. So potable that I think I'll go downstairs and get some more.
Back.
OK, so what did I do today? (Why do I feel like a kid at my parents' dinner table?) Well, mostly I worked on scheduling/organizing the school year, which time frame also coincides with the social season as we know it here in Chicago. In other words, I drug out the calendar and started filling in the dates my kids are out of school, evenings we'll be at the opera/ballet/various parties, etc.
And I came to the conclusion that time does NOT go faster when you get older. It's just that if you ask a six year old "What's on your calendar for February 2005?" he'll answer "hunh?" Whereas if you're a grown-up, there's a decent chance that you'll know something or other that you'll be doing at a point which I like to think of as five months in the future. (Although the jury is still out on that whole space/time continuum thing, so who knows?)
I do know this. This chablis--when I refilled, I checked, and it's chablis--is pretty decent.
Back.
OK, so what did I do today? (Why do I feel like a kid at my parents' dinner table?) Well, mostly I worked on scheduling/organizing the school year, which time frame also coincides with the social season as we know it here in Chicago. In other words, I drug out the calendar and started filling in the dates my kids are out of school, evenings we'll be at the opera/ballet/various parties, etc.
And I came to the conclusion that time does NOT go faster when you get older. It's just that if you ask a six year old "What's on your calendar for February 2005?" he'll answer "hunh?" Whereas if you're a grown-up, there's a decent chance that you'll know something or other that you'll be doing at a point which I like to think of as five months in the future. (Although the jury is still out on that whole space/time continuum thing, so who knows?)
I do know this. This chablis--when I refilled, I checked, and it's chablis--is pretty decent.
Thursday, August 5, 2004
About Poppy
My name is Poppy Buxom. (OK, it's not, really.) I live in Newtopia, IL (which is a suburb on the north shore of Chicago, and yes, that was a pseudonym, too), in a tear-down house that could use some TLC.
I live with That Stud Muffin I Married, our 11-year-old son, our nine-year-old daughter, and my son's Malayan box turtle.
Many people consider me a Stay at Home Mooch, because while I don't work for a living, my husband does.
However, I prefer to think of myself as a housewife. (There. I said the "h" word. How boldly outspoken of me! I'm the Lenny Bruce of mommybloggers!)
But see, I really spend quite a bit of time keeping house. Or more accurately, thinking about keeping house. Once my children are safely at school, I can spend hours obsessing about interior decorating. I have a library of books that allow me to learn about outdated housekeeping practices (if you ever need to learn how to iron a bra, let me know.) I also have a lot of antique cookbooks (if I let it, it could be a real cream-of-mushroom soup-arama around here). Basically, I'm a font of knowledge about things nobody has cared about since your grandmother was in Home Ec class.
Yet I'm no Martha Stewart, or even a wannabe. I don't actually do much Good Housekeeping, I just read about it a lot. (I do manage to do some tidying up. And laundry. Lots of laundry.)
Before I started spending all my time dusting and then vacuuming (never the other way around) I was a graduate student in English Literature. For over a decade. Well over a decade. Being A.B.D. for almost 10 years capped a brilliant career that consisted of every loserish, slacker job ever invented (except maybe Starbucks barrista, because that hadn't been invented yet). I was a waitress, a secretary, I taught English to high school and college students, I temped, I processed dental insurance claims, and, in my best job ever, helped stupid computer users in the Biology department at MIT. Basically, where'er I walked, I flirted with failure.
I live with That Stud Muffin I Married, our 11-year-old son, our nine-year-old daughter, and my son's Malayan box turtle.
Many people consider me a Stay at Home Mooch, because while I don't work for a living, my husband does.
However, I prefer to think of myself as a housewife. (There. I said the "h" word. How boldly outspoken of me! I'm the Lenny Bruce of mommybloggers!)
But see, I really spend quite a bit of time keeping house. Or more accurately, thinking about keeping house. Once my children are safely at school, I can spend hours obsessing about interior decorating. I have a library of books that allow me to learn about outdated housekeeping practices (if you ever need to learn how to iron a bra, let me know.) I also have a lot of antique cookbooks (if I let it, it could be a real cream-of-mushroom soup-arama around here). Basically, I'm a font of knowledge about things nobody has cared about since your grandmother was in Home Ec class.
Yet I'm no Martha Stewart, or even a wannabe. I don't actually do much Good Housekeeping, I just read about it a lot. (I do manage to do some tidying up. And laundry. Lots of laundry.)
Before I started spending all my time dusting and then vacuuming (never the other way around) I was a graduate student in English Literature. For over a decade. Well over a decade. Being A.B.D. for almost 10 years capped a brilliant career that consisted of every loserish, slacker job ever invented (except maybe Starbucks barrista, because that hadn't been invented yet). I was a waitress, a secretary, I taught English to high school and college students, I temped, I processed dental insurance claims, and, in my best job ever, helped stupid computer users in the Biology department at MIT. Basically, where'er I walked, I flirted with failure.
Despite my efforts to persevere in my splendid career, I got promoted. In order to maintain my slacker status, I was forced to quit that job. I moved to Chicago, and while I was at it, robbed the cradle married the cutest MIT alumnus in the world. Then (much later) we had kids. Who are either high-functioning autistic or have Asperger's syndrome. Or something. No one is precisely sure what's going on, but all are agreed that something is off, neurobehaviorally speaking. All I know is that for me, child-rearing involves lots of testing, IEP meetings, therapy, and worry.
So--even if from a certain distance, I look like a soccer mom--I'm not. I don't foresee myself spending much time watching my kids playing soccer.
In this blog, I'm doing my best to portray the humorous side of my world, which is so often overwhelmingly about kids with special needs. (I know what you're thinking; what fun!)
And guess what? My husband and I have both been diagnosed with depression. But I figure you guessed that, already, didn't you? After all, this is a blog. I am a mother. Which means I'm a mommyblogger. It goes without saying that I'm mental--except that since it's my blog, I thought I'd say it anyway.
Also, I just outed my husband. How's that for telling it like it is? Take that, dooce! I can be confessional, too.
I like blogging, MST3K, Hollywood films of the 1930s, British humor, singing, Emily Post, early music, New England, the Patrick O'Brien Aubrey/Maturin novels, disco, Elsie de Wolfe, gardening, E. F. Benson, roses, Groucho Marx, Dorothy Draper, P. G. Wodehouse, engraved stationery, the Episcopal church, Lord Peter Wimsey, the Boston Red Sox, Georgette Heyer, opera, and cocktails. Not necessarily in that order.
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