I don't know whether it was the dress or the party

but New Year's Eve sucked ass this year. The food was OK, but the company was less than enthralling, and the band was lame.

In fact, now that I think of it, New Year's Eve sucks ass every year.

We've been going to this party for years, and the best thing about it was the souvenir champagne glasses. But this year they didn't have any.

Well, no souvenir champagne glasses? Sorry, folks, but we're out of here. So That Stud Muffin I Married and I left the party, and now we're home. In our pajamas, drinks at the ready. And not a noise maker in sight. Unless you count me.

--P.

Midnight minus seven hours.

I'm procrastinating.

I'll be heading out for New Year's Eve in about two hours. I don't want to go out at all, for reasons I have already gone into.

I haven't even figured out which dress I'm going to wear. I do enough black tie events to have a choice of long dresses, so I have to figure out which one I'm wearing. I'm dreading doing this because I'm terrified that everything I like will be too tight, and I'll have to wear my fat dress. Which I tend to refer to as my "Margaret Dumont" dress, because it makes me look matronly, and as if I'll be terribly shocked if someone makes a dirty crack. (When actually, if I were at a reception standing next to Groucho Marx, he'd probably slap my face for making too many fresh remarks.)

But in an attempt to at least look halfway decent--because OK, she was no spring chicken and was a bit on the plump side, but check out that hairdo!--I went over to Bravco and bought: a bottle of Kerastase shampoo, a BaByliss Pro ionic hairdryer, a Mason Pearson hairbrush, a set of Helen of Troy hot rollers, a new mascara, and some Simple Solutions Ultra copper Firming Serum. Also a bottle of contact lens solution so I can wear my contacts.

Then I went to Bloomingdales and bought five pairs of control top hose: control top, firm control top, ultra firm control top, "Lace me tighter, Mammy," and "Your stomach might be flat, but your eyes are going to bulge like crazy."

All I can say is I hope my public appreciates all this.

I'd better go get ready. Happy New Year, everyone!

--P.

It's my obsession.

And I don't really know why.

It's a complete mystery to me.

It combines so many things I don't even like. I mean, I've never liked Coach bags. And I hate logos. And metallic leather? Sucks. And patchwork--I see the term "patchwork" and unless the term is followed immediately by the term "quilt," or "Lilly Pulitzer," I immediately have a vision of those truly ugly retina-destroying enfattening patchwork madras shorts sold by L. L. Bean and worn by grandmothers in Wellesley, Massachusetts.

So--all these fashion trends I don't even like? What could be more perfect and throw-away, over-the-top chic than to combine them into a rich and strange accessory burgoo? Dare I use the term "post-modern?"

Oh GOD, I hate how I'm over-intellectualizing this.

Anyway. I spotted some woman carrying it not long ago. I realized who the maker was right away--duh, it's Coach--and I started searching for it idly one night when I was on line.

Uh oh. It's a limited edition. And? It's SOLD OUT IN STORES.

It will be mine. Oh yes. It will be mine.

--P.

These are a few of our favorite loots

1. That Stud Muffin I Married: I'm not sure, but I think it's the Sudoku booklets Santa tucked into his stocking. Santa is smart, and Santa knows that if Santa hears that something is 1. about numbers and 2. totally addictive, That Stud Muffin Santa Married will looooooove it.

2. Me: I was going to say the boxed set of Wayne's World and Wayne's World II on DVD, but then I remembered that my mother gave me my grandmother's sterling silver tea service. Gorham Fairfax. On a beautiful heavy tray. It's to die for. So that's really number one. I mean, I look at it and I feel "just like Jackie Kennedy."*

But the Wayne's World DVDs come in a close second. For those times when I want to feel just like Tia Carrere. Schwing!

3. Son o' Poppy: Nintendo DS. Duh. It's the only thing he asked Santa for.

4. Popette: Bratz Stylin' Dance Mat. Ditto on the Santa thing, and Santa was having a bitch of a time finding it, since the Bratz Dance Mat apparently had become the Cabbage Patch Kid of the 2000s. Thank Heaven that Stud Muffin Santa Married found it at Wal-Mart on line, thus saving the day, and for all I know, Western Civilization. Because Popette is really NO FUN AT ALL when she's feeling very disappointed. World War III might have ensued.

--P.

*Thanks and a tip of the hat to Alan Sherman.

If only cars ran on cookies, instead of gasoline.

We left New Hampshire at 6:00 a.m. We got to Chicago at 11:00 p.m.

That's seventeen hours in a car. To misappropriate Keats, that is "all ye need to know."

I mean, OK, we made great time even though we hit a bunch of rain in Ohio. And snow in Indiana. But I've spent the entire day in a minivan with my husband and children. And that is all I am capable of writing at the moment, or various small muscles in my face will start twitching uncontrollably. Again. So Happy New Year, and good-bye.

No, wait. I have three more things to say:

1. Harry Potter books on CD totally rock. I've read all the books (except the most recent one) many times. But I still get totally sucked in. The down side of this is getting a speeding ticket in Pennsylvania. I told the state trooper it was Voldemort's fault, but he didn't believe me.

2. My husband is already trying to think of a way to go to New Hampshire from Chicago that doesn't involve 17 hour drives. Like flying to New Hampshire and keeping a car there. What? Did I go through the lengthy energy-draining process
bargaining for a minivan so that we could fly around in airplanes? No way. I want to amortize the time I spent researching cars and dickering with slimey used car salesmen. (Apparently I want to spend all my waking minutes on the highway listening to Harry Potter on CD.)

3. In other news I have to go to a black tie New Year's Eve party and I totally don't want to go, if only because I'm SO FUCKING FAT that nothing I own will fit. On top of which, I'm sick of parties.

Is anyone with me here? Does anyone else out there actually WANT to go on a diet, starting by throwing out all the leftover seasonal fattening foods? Anyone else want to march into the kitchen and throw out all those damned cookies?

Would anyone else like to slap her children back into school, go spend two hours at the gym, and then have a salad and a Diet Coke for lunch?

I'm telling you, right now that sounds great.

I'd be in the kitchen right now tossing out leftover fattening Christmas crappe, except I'm so rotund, I can't move.

--P.

OK, maybe I'm not thinking too clearly

because I really badly need to get into the kitchen and do the dinner dishes, and I'll do anything to avoid that,

including checking out blogs I don't really like all that much,

even ones that used to be in my blogroll but no longer are.

But honestly, between the pictures of her daughter (who, frankly, is no Gerber Baby) the posts about constipation, the post about Lil Pudding Face's favorite book, Once Upon a Potty, and the post about nose-picking ...

I ask you. Is no body orifice sacred?

I guess not.

I'm squicked. And those dishes are actually starting to look good. I think I'll go do them.

Thanks a lot, Dooce.

--P.

Boxing Day.

Last night, in the midst of the madness that is Christmas dinner for 17 people, my younger brother took me aside and asked me to meet him for coffee this morning at 9:00.

I drank coffee after Christmas dinner--very strong and a lot of it. So I woke up this morning at about 2:00 a.m., and didn't get back to sleep for a long time. Then I re-awoke at 8:45. I got dressed in a hurry and rushed out to meet my brother at his hotel.

When I got there, my older brother was waiting with him. And they told the hostess that our table for two needed to be a table for five. Apparently my sisters were joining us, too.

Finally everyone showed up. Some of us negotiated the buffet; others ordered a la carte. Once everyone was done eating, my sister pulled a big Federal Express envelope out. I thought it was a another last minute Christmas gift that had shown up late. It turned out to be the documents regarding the settlement of my father's estate. The attorneys needed our signatures and banking information. So I listened to the explanation, read through the papers, and signed the documents.

So that was a surprise. Morning coffee turned into a business meeting.

There was another surprise. I found out my brothers and sisters had decided to scatter Daddy's ashes off a bridge into a harbor that leads into the Atlantic ocean. So we got into our coats, and because it had started raining, those of us who had umbrellas got them out. The rest of us huddled under the hoods of our coats.

We walked down to the middle of the bridge. A couple of us tested the direction of the wind. The eldest held the box while the youngest took out a knife and slit off the outer packaging. Inside there was a glossy dark green cardboard box. Inside the green box was a plastic bag of ashes. They were a very light, almost pearly gray color. My brother slit open the bag and my sister got ready to start scattering them.

Someone said "Should we say something?" Someone else suggested the Lord's Prayer. I started reciting it, even though one of us mentioned it wouldn't have meant anything to Daddy. This was probably true; my father would fill in for the organist at church, but as far as I can tell, he was an atheist--one of the rare ones who simply doesn't discuss religion. I suppose I recited the Lord's Prayer for myself.

Then someone suggested we sing something. I knew better than to suggest a hymn. Our family has always been big on gathering around the piano to sing. My father was a gifted musician and was ready to accompany singers at the drop of the hat. We grew up singing Gershwin, Porter--all the standards--as well as the Rogers and Hammerstein musicals and the scores of Gypsy, Fiorello, and Guys and Dolls.

One of the things we always sang--in the increasingly rare occasions where we were all together--was the score to Guys and Dolls. "Adelaide's Lament" was a favorite. Today one of us started singing the "Fugue for Tin Horns." "I got the horse right here, his name is Paul Revere ..." Everyone else joined in. (Fittingly enough, there is a horse named "Epitaph.")

Our singing faltered a bit, and I said "We're missing our accompanist."

My sister started scattering the ashes. The ashes poured out of the bag and caught the wind. Then they took flight, spreading in the breeze like plumes of smoke, swirling down towards the ocean and into the water. We gazed down at the water until the current cleared. Then we each bid farewell to our father. We all hugged each other and walked back to our cars.

When I looked at my siblings' faces, it was impossible to tell where the tears ended and the rain began.

--P.

Christmas Eve.

That Stud Muffin I Married is busy making noodles for the Christmas Eve lasagna. But what am I doing? I'm sitting around in bed blogging and drinking tea (trying to caffeinate myself enough to help the Advil get rid of the headache I had this morning.) Not only is this slothful, it could get me into all kinds of trouble. Yesterday, beginning around 10:00 in the morning, members of my family kept showing up unannounced. First my future brother in law, then my eldest sister, then my mother.

Don't people usually call first? I mean, what if we were out buying last minute stocking stuffers? And anyway, hello? When did my family become the Waltons?

Well, they had to deal with me in the giant oversized t-shirt I slept in, with some jeans slung on, and nothing cleaned up, including my teeth. Morning breath a la Poppy. And it serves them right.

Yesterday after all the relatives had gone away, and I had bathed and put on clean clothes and even some makeup, and yes, brushed my teeth, we went out to the place where we were supposed to be able to cut down a Christmas tree. It was closed. Closed! Even though I checked the hours in their yellow page ad. Fuckers!

So then we tried another spot. Nothing doing. So we ended up at Wal*Mart. Where we scored a Balsam Fir for get this--$13.00. Trees were $26, but marked down half-price because it's so close to Christmas.

So then we decorated the tree-quick and dirty, check out the angles on some of those candles--and went out to Warren's for dinner. Two margaritas and a plate of fried clams and things were really starting to look up.

Until this morning when my husband let me sleep late. I mean, look at the time stamp. And I have last minute uber-frazzling shite to do, plus my in-laws are showing up who knows when, and I still need to get those stocking stuffers.

Yep, we're in full-on frazzle here, and it feels good. Merry Christmas!

--P.

Christmas Eve Eve Eve.

The car is unpacked. Many presents are wrapped. (Many more are not, unfortun- ately.) Tomorrow we will head to a place where we can cut down a real live fresh tree. (I'm hoping this one is so fresh, sassy, and fragrant that Santa Claus will overlook the fake ones back in Illinois.)

But today? Today was about food. Today we sat down and worked out the menus for the next four days. I picked the food, wrote out the grocery list, and then my husband went out, bought it, and schlepped it home.

Honey, have I told you that I love you? Honey?

(Oh well--I guess all that grocery shopping is tiring.)

So. There is a stunning new steel refrigerator in the kitchen. One of those mega-kewl new ones with the armoire-type doors and the freezer on the bottom. And right now it's stuffed to overflowing with the food for the next few days.

We're very eclectic when it comes to Christmas feasting. We are equal-opportunity gluttons. We appropriate from every culture that makes us feel drooly.

For example, although we are very much not Italian, my husband is planning to make lasagna for dinner on Christmas eve. Right down to the home-made pasta. That's because like Polish people, which again, we are not, we like to eat a vegetarian meal on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas we become English by having a standing rib roast and roast potatoes for Christmas dinner. Then it's back to Italy for the green beans cooked and then tossed with butter and grated parmesan. Dessert is from America: peppermint stick ice cream with hot fudge sauce and real whipped cream. After that, it's the United Nations of Ecumenical Yuletide Naughty Calories: Irish truffles, German dark chocolates with brandy centers, Scottish shortbread, stollen, and an English fruitcake.

Mon dieu! if only I had time to make a buche de Noel.

--P.

The Eagle has landed.

We left Chicago at 5:30 this morning. We encountered some snow. Not too much, but Ohio was kind of tricky in spots.

I got pulled over for doing 70 mph in a 55 zone. In the snow. The police officer reminded me that I was driving my children. He gave me a $135 ticket. Thereafter, I'm pleased to say that sanity prevailed.

So I mostly drove at the speed limit. Yes, Virginia; there is a Sanity Clause.

We arrived in New Hampshire at 1:30 a.m. Eastern time.

The car is unpacked and the wine is being drunk.

Life is good!

--P.

This fat dude better give us what we want ...

... or we will zap him with our laser vision until he's totally crispy, man. Then we'll ship him down below to be tormented by our fellow red-eyed demons.

--P.

p.s. Click on the picture and blow it up so you can get the full Demon Spawn effect. My son, in particular, looks much scarier than a 10-year-old has any right to look. I am totally making sure he gets what he asked for.

Christmas shopping can be such a bich.

In my Sunday morning eBay perusals I discovered the perfect Christmas present for my husband to give me. It's Elsa Peretti* gold brooches, each one a letter of the alphabet.



They would look SO CUTE on a black sweater for the holidays! And of course, buying them on eBay means he wouldn't have to pay retail, so I'd be saving That Stud Muffin I Married some money.

I'll bet Badger would like them, and if only they came in white gold, Joke could get them for That Fabulous Babe he married.Unfortunately, there's a letter missing.

And call me a bitch about spelling, but I believe in dotting the "i"s and crossing the "t"s.

After all, if I'm going to walk around wearing an 18K gold sign from Tiffany's--in a kind of post-modern twist on the whole Laverne and Shirley giant "L" thing, filtered through a ghetto-fabulous blingbling vibe--I think I owe it to my public to spell correctly.

Damn! I guess I'm going to have to find something else for my husband to buy for me.

--P.

* Thanks and a tip of the hat to Blackbird for knowing it was Elsa Peretti and not Paloma Picasso, as previously stated.

Not as frazzled as Badger, but close.

Once in a while I check my blogging stats and I am pleased, flattered, and frankly, heartened by the fact that you all keep stopping by even though these days the updates are non-existent, whiney, or both.

When I actually have time to sit down and play with the internet, I'm mostly reading blogs, not updating mine. I especially like to read Badger's updates on how frazzled she is.

Reading Badger's blog makes me feel a lot better, because she's way more frazzled than I am. Her visitors are already upon her, whereas mine won't arrive until Christmas Eve, and my philosophy is: sufficient unto the day are the frazzling events thereof. So that makes me feel better, as I have a few more days before I have to start thinking about groceries and clean towels and sheets and shite.

Also, Badger's frazz lays the groundwork for mine. She's kind of the John the Baptist of Christmas Frazz, because she's freaking out way in advance of the main event, thus setting the stage for my personal, ultimate, over-the-top Christmas Freak Out. Think about it: if Christmas can do this to a Wiccan, imagine what it will do to a card-carrying Episcopalian. In addition to the visitors and the present-buying and the decorating and the cards and the cooking, I have to add activities like getting the spawn to church a couple of times, with my daughter insisting that dresses aren't cool and wanting to show up dressed like a Bratz doll. So I've got Badger acting as my advance guard, blowing trumpets on her blog getting the blogosphere ready for the Ultimate Christmas Frazz-a-rama, which will be MINE.

So thanks and a tip of the bedraggled Santa hat to Badger, my own private Christmas Elf.

--P.

Too. Many. Parties.

I got home tonight from a benefit--which I suppose qualifies as a party--and discovered that I'd been invited to another party.

This one is on December 26th. This means December 26th can now join December 3rd, 10th, 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 20th, 21st, 29th, and 31st in offering me yet another chance to pay big bucks to a babysitter so I can go out and get hammered.

Honestly. What ever happened to getting hammered at home while my children bicker in the next room? (That's my version of family values. It's not exactly the Waltons, but at least it's cheap.)

And where the hell are all these hospitable people when it's late February in Chicago, and everyone's bored suicidal with take-out food, Netflix, and their spouses? That's when I'd give at least one kidney, maybe two, for the chance to get dressed up in something sparkly and trade witticisms with someone who has 1) never seen me without my makeup on and 2) doesn't strew dirty socks all over my house.

I'm just asking.

--P.

Happy Birthday to Me

Your Birthdate: December 12

You're a dynamic, charismatic person who's possibly headed for fame, probably through your blog. So there, Dooce. You tend to charm strangers easily. And you usually can get what you want from them. Like birthday presents. Or, if they're men, money. Verbally talented, you tend to persuade people with your speaking and writing. If that fails, violence does the trick. You are affectionate and loving, but it's hard for you to commit to any one relationship. You fucking slut. Your strength: Your charm Your weakness: Your extreme greed Your power color: Red, unless we're talking currency, in which case, green. Your power symbol: A jewelry box Your power month: December

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

How to get me to stop reading your blog

I realize I can be really annoying. So I thought I'd let people know how to get rid of me. (That is, in the blogo-sphere. In real life, I stick like glue, and you have to pretend to have to go to the bathroom to get rid of me. And even then, if you're female, I might follow you in, still talking.)

But with blogs, if you do any of the following, I will probably stay far, far away:

1. Make grammatical errors. Anyone who writes "and then Tiffani handed her and I a Crunchy Frog bar" is off my blogroll (even though I am a sucker for Monty Python references.)

2. Make frequent spelling errors. And my spelling is atrocious. My 10 year old son spells 1,000 times better than I do. But for Lord's sake, people, there are spell checkers out there. I am the only sucky speller I allow to get near my computer.

3. What's with the teeny tiny fonts? Next!

4. Here's a biggie: change your blogspot template to get rid of the "Next blog" button. I get really pissed off when I click "next blog" and hit a blog with a dead end. That button is how I discovered some stalwart and worthy members of my blogroll, like the Asian leprechaun and Septuagent, and I resent people who get rid of it.

5. Write a knee-jerk conservative blog. Or a knee-jerk liberal blog. Hey, I read Charles Krauthammer and Molly Ivins. And I prefer Krauthammer, even though I tend to agree more with Ivins's bleeding heart, leftie-bolshie point of view. I like reading well-written, well-reasoned, well-constructed arguments. If all you have to say is "Liberals suck!" or "Conservatives suck!" I will stay far away from your blog. Are you listening, Ann Coulter?

6. As for those iDiOtZ who uze kre8ive spelling or orthography or whatever it's called ... someone should shove a pound sign up their semi-colons.

--P.

Shown and told: Christmas decorations

Blackbird asked, and she hath received, from the abundance that is Poppy's Christmas madness:

The tree is nine-and-a-half feet of solid, made-in-China, muscular, artificial greenery.

I think it's on steroids, too, but I'm not sure.

I do know that it took three days to get all the decorations up.











More artifical greenery, this time with wee little toys bedight.

See, around here, Christmas decorations extend far past the front door and now go on places like the door to the china cupboard.

After all, who really needs to get at the Beatrix Potter china animals?

Their season is Easter.









Did you know that Jesus has a thing for martinis?

You didn't? Well, just keep looking at this picture and he'll turn that martini into wine. Truth.


I need a drink.

--P.

Shown and told

I'm two days late for Blackbird's Show and Tell Friday because I went away for the weekend without my laptop (!!!!!) and anyway, I can't find my camera. Typical.

So anyway, here are my cars: a 2005 Toyota Sienna XLE AWD, very gorgeous if elephantine, replete with the leather upholstery, cup holders, power sliding doors, awesome sound systerm, and a surprisingly small turning radius--I mean, this thing is as nimble as one of the hippopotamus ballerinas in Disney's Fantasia;

and my true love, a 2003 VW Passat wagon, again with the AWD, heated leather seats, cupholders a go go--but also a moon roof, Monsoon sound system, wood trimmed interior, la-dee-dah.

I love them both, but I give the edge to the VW because even though vans and wagons are both (let's face it) mom-mobiles, wagons are much more retro, and I'm all about retro.

In fact, I consider myself a card-carrying retrosexual.

I just thought that up! Can you believe how spontaneously witty and clever and shit I can be? Neither can I.

Tomorrow I'll try to find the time to post about how Joke assisted in the purchase of my pretty green wagon, allowing me to totally f*** with the heads of the salesman and his manager ... to the point where I'm afraid to take the car back to the dealership for servicing, because I figure they'll take the opportunity to revenge themselves on us. Well, really me.

--P.

I'm a pundit. Who knew?

Holy shit!

Not long ago I pronounced that I thought the courtroom shenanigans Cindy Sheehan and her followers indulged in recently amounted to nothing other than annoying media manipulation.

Well, the article in The Washington Post that I linked to now has a little box where Technorati informs people which blogs discuss the article. And there I am. Ready to be clicked on.

And my hit counter has picked up.

I have arrived.

Can a job in the halls of power be far behind?

--P.

Poppy the Pokemon

Remember the heights of energy and accomplishment I reached over Thanksgiving break? No?

Well, anyway, yesterday was quite the comedown. (Henh henh ... she said 'come.'")

In fact, you might say that I reverted to total slugdom.

Of course, I have an excuse, people. I had a dentist appointment first thing in the morning, and while I was there, I received three massive shots of novocaine. This deadened all the feeling in my tongue, jaw, and face, and made my lips and tongue swell up, but didn't do all that much to numb the teeth in question.

You Monty Python fans will remember the scene in Holy Grail where they're bringing out their dead and Eric Idle says "I'm not dead yet" and finally John Cleese whacks him over the head. Well, yesterday was like a remake, with my teeth playing the Eric Idle role and Dr. Sadist filling in for John Cleese.

Except it didn't work. The teeth wouldn't die. These were some stubborn nerve endings, people.

Naturally, this really sucked. The easiest way to deal with the torments of extended and insanely expensive dental work is to not feel it going on. At all. As in "This afternoon Poppy's head is being played by a cinder block." As in "You won't feel a thing ... until you get the bill."

But this time I ended up not only feeling certain unpleasant aspects of the work in progress, but also biting my own ginormous tongue while trying--at Dr. Sadist's request--to ascertain whether my jaws were meeting properly when the new, ultra-deluxe and horribly expensive crowns were in place. So then I had to come home and wait for all that novocaine to wear off, wearing, as an extra-kewl fashion statement, a shiny triangular tongue-biting-preventing doohickey.

Hence the illustration of Lickitung, one of the lesser-known Pokemon. This is pretty much what I felt like by the time I got home from John Cleese's I mean Dr. Sadist's office.

So ... what did I do to fill the empty hours while talking, eating, and drinking were pretty much out of the question? Why, shop for Christmas presents, of course!

But because I was an invalid, this year's Christmas shopping involved even less physical effort than usual. And that is saying a lot, as for years I have been the Uncrowned Queen of Internet Shopping.

This is what I did:

1. Grabbed a stack of likely-looking catalogs.
2. Got a pad of Post-It notes.
3. Started paging through catalogs, and when I found something promising, stuck a Post-It note to to the page in question.

Today, my mouth is operational again, so I will start making the calls to order the stuff. (Naturally I've thought about ordering this stuff on-line, but--and I know this will sound heretical--I find that finding it the stuff via a hard copy catalog is faster and easier. It takes less time to flip through a 40 page catalog than to hit different web sites, wait for pages to load, and squint at a tiny picture of the item in question. Also, ordering from a human being can be helpful. Even pleasant. Call me a Luddite, but there you are.)

I expect to be about 80 percent done with my shopping by 9:00 this evening.

Smugly,

--P.

p.s. Anyone who wants to say anything snarky about catalog shopping can just bite his or her tongue. Get it??

And if you don't like it, you can just Eff Off.

Stolen from Septuagent:

Your Blogging Type is Cocksure yet Callous

You've got a wicked high I.Q., and you work it. What a brilliant blog! Both creative and loony, you come up with amazing ideas and insights. Aren't drugs fabulous? If your supply runs too low or imagination palls, there's always an internet quiz. Or the photoblog option. Rock on with the ugly pictures of your kids! Punctuation is a minor deity for you; you find yourself revising and rewriting posts a lot of the time. Your motto is "Let no nit go unpicked." You blog for yourself - and you don't care how popular (or unpopular) your blog is! You fart in the blogosphere's general direction.

What's Your Blogging Personality?

Thanksgiving update, part II

I love Thanksgiving.

Somebody like Joke, who has listened to my many rants about Thanksgiving, might be surprised to hear this. But it's true.

See, the problem with previous Thanksgivings is that I have always been at someone else's house sitting around while someone else cooks. Sometimes the food was execrable (at my mother's) sometimes it was excellent (at my mother-in-law's), but Thanksgiving meant hours sitting around waiting for a meal. And nothing to do, really, except make small talk and read catalogs.

Well, this year, I had plenty to keep me busy.

We:

flew from Chicago to New Hampshire;

upon our arrival, we discovered that the dining room and kitchens were stuffed with living room furniture because the painter was putting the finishing touches on the trim
because the floor refinisher hadn't finished in time;

see the pretty floor?

and we therefore had to uncover everything and move it back into place, and sweep up a lot of dust;








and shop for a tablecloth big enough to fit the table with all its leaves,

and buy a food processor, toaster, and various other things needed to cook the food,

oh, and buy the food;

and the wine;

then set up the dining room table with the leaves and the table pads and the new tablecloth;

and borrow some candlesticks and a card table from my sister;

and wash towels and sheets to make sure people had clean ones.



Then we had to cook--for meat eaters and vegetarians--

1. Turkey, stuffing, and gravy
2. Sauteed green beans with Parmesan cheese
3. Baked acorn squash
4. Mashed potatoes
5. Penne with a spinach/ricotta/Parmesan sauce
5. Salad of Romaine and Boston lettuces with endive, tomatoes, red onion, crumbled blue cheese, pine nuts and croutons, with a dressing of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, mayonnaise, and horseradish
6. Salad of wild rice, toasted pecans, raisins, and green onions, in an olive oil and rice vinegar vinaigrette
7. rolls

also:

8. Two sweet potato pies
9. A Pumpkin pecan bundt cake
10. Whipped cream

My in-laws brought:

11. Apple pie
12. Yellow beet salad
13. Nut loaf
14. Vegetarian gravy

Well. Everything was fabulous.

The furniture store had lost our order for a new sofa (in a shining example of "too little, too late," it showed up today) so there was a very strange assortment of things to sit on in the living room.

The oven, which had done some bizarre things to the cakes and pies on Wednesday, finished morphing into Robo-Oven, and cooked a 12 pound stuffed turkey in two--as opposed to four--hours.

In other appliance excitement, the little rubber hose that connected the dishwasher to the disposal split clear through while a full load of dishes was running and dumped gallons of hot Cascade-scented water under the sink and all over the kitchen floor.

So that when I realized which sink still worked, I was up until past midnight handwashing the dishes.

But:

The food was wonderful.

(They're happy, really. It kind of looks like they're praying. But they're just trying to figure out how many calories are on their plates.)

Everyone got drunk.

We have tons of yummy food left over.

It rocked.

So I guess the answer is--work me hard enough and I'll have a great time.

--P.

Thanksgiving update

I spent most of today cleaning, then cooking a ton of food.

It turns out that the oven here is hotter or more efficient or something, because my sweet potato pies came out kind of toasted-looking. The pumpkin pecan spice cake ended up a bit toasted, too, but also a bit sqashed.

(Who knew that cakes actually fall? I thought that was just in the movies.)

So anyway, it's nine minutes from T-Day, and I'd like to take this opportunity to mention why I'm thankful. I'm thankful that:

1. None of my guests is actually coming here for the food;
2. We are somewhat lacking in furniture, so people won't have anyplace to sit;
3. We stocked up on liquor, adding to an already impressive supply, so with nothing to sit on, I predict that my guests will get falling-down drunk;

and that means they won't remember that I burned the desserts.

--P.

Borrowing Badger's Meme

I'm feeling unimaginative today and I have to pack and get ready to head to New Hampshire for Thanksgiving, where, upon my arrival, I have to start getting ready to feed 14 people Thanksgiving dinner. So I "borrowed" this from Badger.

8 Firsts.

First Best Friend: Debby H., which lasted from kindergarten to fifth grade.

First Kiss: Oh dear, I can't remember his name, and he was my first "boyfriend." I was 12 or 13 and it was at one of those post-dancing school dances where you're supposed to learn how to behave. I'm sure having a 13 year old boy stick his tongue into the mouth of a 13 year old girl WAS NOT AT ALL WHAT THE ORGANIZERS HAD IN MIND, but whatever. For the record, and in case you think I'm some kind of hussy, I didn't enjoy it.

First Screen Name: The first syllable of my real first name. No, not "Pop."

First Pet: Black cat named Winkie who was there my entire life and died when I was 15. Oh, the crying that ensued.

First Piercing: Ears, and I can't remember how old I was. Maybe 13. I did it myself, following the instructions from a chapter of Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins. See? I was always a geek.

First Crush: Matthew P. In fourth grade I paid him a quarter to kiss Debby H., which was how the nine-year-old Poppy expressed devotion. No, I don't understand it either.

First CD: Like Badger, I don't remember. My first vinyl was a Partridge Family single, "I Think I Love You," as sung by David Cassidy. I won it at one of those post-dancing school dances. Probably as a punishment for letting a thirteen year old boy put his tongue in my mouth.

First Car: 1993 Saturn SL2, which, coincidentally enough, is currently sitting in my driveway waiting for the charity to tow its completely dead self away.

7 Lasts.

Last alcoholic beverage: A glass of white wine, last night, which I didn't finish.

Last Car Ride: Yesterday, from Chicago to Winnetka.

Last Kiss: This morning when That Stud Muffin I Married left. Poor thing probably got a mouthful of Elizabeth Arden's Eight Hour Cream. Serves him right for trying to slip me the tongue. If he doesn't watch out, Santa is going to put a David Cassidy album in his stocking.

Last Movie Seen: Capote. And what a repellent specimen of humanity he was.

Last Phone Call: Today, from Fiddledeedee. She was trying to talk me into going to yoga class. Shyeah, right! As frocking if.

Last CD played: Disc number 7 from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

6 Have You Evers.

Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Friends: No.

Have You Ever Broken the Law: Yes.

Have You Ever Been Arrested: No.

Have You Ever Skinny Dipped: Yes.

Have You Ever Been in love: Yes.

5 Things.

5 Things You're Wearing: periwinkle cashmere crewneck, jeans, a bra, a pair of underpants and ... nothing. I'm one-fifth naked. Maybe I really am a hussy.

5 Things You Did Yesterday: drank tea, blogged, packed, drove home, watched Three Stooges.

5 Things You Can't Live Without: tea, laptop, son, daughter, Eclipse peppermint chewing gum. Or do you think I should say That Stud Muffin I Married? Well, I was just kidding about the gum, even though it is magically addictive. So here's the real fifth thing: Diet Coke. (Listen, I'm no voyeur. My private life is my business, except when I'm french-kissing on a dance floor. Anyway, he reads my blog. So this will keep him humble. Right, sweetie?)

5 places You've Been: The Max Factor Museum in Los Angeles, St. Mark's Basilica in Venice, inside the Statue of Liberty, the Chapel of St. Chapelle in Paris, Canterbury Cathedral in England.

3 People You Can Tell *Almost* Anything To (in no particular order).

1. That Stud Muffin I Married

2. Joke

3. Best friend number 3, the one who goes from 7th grade to the present.

2 Choices.

1. Black or White: black (white is for nurses and brides.)

2. Hot or Cold: hot (if we're talking about beverages and kisses.)

--P.

Just say no to Cindy Sheehan.

Sorry, Cindy. I don't need your help. You don't need to add your voice to the chorus of anti-war opinions. You really don't. I'm as much of a leftie-bolshie peacenik bleeding heart Democratic-voting Massachusetts liberal as you can get.* Therefore, as everyone knows, I'm perfectly capable of looking like a fool all by myself.

I mean, can't you just see me--after singing a heart-felt rendition of "Blowing in the Wind" in my Joan Baez-like soprano--out there putting daisies down the barrels of the National Guardsmen's rifles?

So Cindy, you and your crazed fan-girls and boys singing "We Shall Overcome" and speechifying from the witness stand when you're on trial for protesting in front of the White House without a permit? Can just shut up and go away.

This is cold, hard, premeditated media manipulation. It's right up there with the Commander in Chief of the U.S. armed forces donning a flight suit to announce that the United States of America has successfully liberated Iraq. And it pisses me off.

Not to mention that there are probably millions of conservatives out there pointing at the evening news and saying "See? SEE? I told you those liberal dumbasses were full of shit!"

--P.

*Except for the fact that I don't like many of the Kennedys. But don't tell them, OK? They'd be so hurt.

When I finish putting together my Halloween party play list, I'll put the finishing touches on my Nan Kempner costume ...

... and then go whip up some beet sorbet. Then I'll sit in front of the Opiate of the Masses (no, not this blog--a television set) and channel surf looking for Christina Aguilera's butt crack.

And I hope that satisfies all of you who have been hot on my Google trail for the past week.

--P.

I would have gotten "Crotch-grabbing purple-velvet-clad ageing rock vixen Princess," but Madonna already grabbed it.

The Traditional Princess

You are generous, graceful, and practical with both
feet planted firmly on the ground. You tend to
be a little on the old-fashioned side. You
value home, hearth, and family life and love to
be of service to others.

Role Models: Snow White, Maid Marian

You are most likely to: Discover a hidden talent
for spinning straw into gold.


What Kind of Princess are You? - Beautiful Artwork (Original Music is BACK!!!)
brought to you by Quizilla

You can all pretty much stop blogging now.

I mean, if I'm literally going to spend hours on the phone with you, I don't think it's necessary for you to keep up-to-date with your blog entries.

See, yesterday not only did I spend something like an hour on the phone with the lovely and gracious Fiddledeedee, I spent even more time on the phone with the lovely and gracious Joke.

Which leaves me wondering why we bother to read each other's blogs, since we already know we talked on the phone.

Therefore, since I'm about to graciously offer my pals the chance to just stop blogging, I might as well extend this kind invitation to the rest of the internet.

I know, I know--I'm too kind. But honestly, it seemed like the right thing to do.

You're welcome,

--P.

Snark!

To quote Lord Byron, "Hail, Muse, etc."

Madge, Madge, Madge. You've got to love someone who seems to exist to be made fun of ... but honestly, honey, I can come up with my own material without so much help from you.

I mean, I appreciate a freebie as much as the next blogger, but when Homer nods, or my muse is taking the night off, there's always an internet quiz to take, or a meme to take on ... so I don't really need another picture of you sporting your "new" Farrah Fawcett hairdo.

Plus what's this I see? More purple? Is this really necessary? I mean, I think you've made your point. "Purple Is The New (or 80s-retro-chic, or subversive, or self-referencing) Black." OK, OK, we GET IT.

And you? Are the new Prince. WHATEVER.

Also--I'm sorry, Artist Formerly Known as Madonna--I know it hurts a lot when you get your pubic hair stuck in your zipper--but do you have to try to fix it on stage during a concert? Couldn't you just wear underpants?

--P.

Friday show & tell: Everything looks better in red

... except states.

--P.

Honestly, the excitement never ends around here.

I don't think I've bothered to mention it yet, but I have been A.B.D. with a doctoral dissertation on film for an embarrassingly large number of years. Like ... as many years as my daughter is old. Well, I withdrew from graduate school a couple of weeks ago. Somehow it started to seem Really Dumb to be paying tuition fees to sit around and avoid writing my dissertation.

Make that "Really Dumb, Ph.D." And that might be the closest I'm ever going to get to being Dr. Poppy.

So now that I've ceased being a card-carrying Intellectual and fully embraced my life as a housewife, what have I been up to? Glad you asked:

1. Become a total fashion plate via the seasonal clothes rotation cha-cha. It finally got cold enough to justify taking the time and energy to haul all of my winter clothes out of storage, get all my winter shoes and boots upstairs, and take the summer clothes and sandals downstairs. I know, it's the middle of November, but honestly, it's been unseasonably warm around here. (It has too, so just stop laughing, Badger and Joke.) Anyway, it turns out I have frightening numbers of shoes and boots. Even more frightening was the fact that I had forgotten buying some of them. Even the very nice and quite expensive ones appeared to make little or no impression on my long-term memory. Even though I got them on sale. So here's a shout-out to my recently unearthed shoe fashion finds. For example: Ralph Lauren, I commend you for the seriously nice boots you make. They are like buttah. I hope you don't mind that I wore them today with a Tarjay leather jacket and a Tarjay Marc Jacobs knock-off bag. (Marc, honey, there is no way I'm paying retail for one of your hopelessly trendy yet ugly bags. The only thing I can say in their favor is that at least those little pockets are useful for stashing a cell phone. But they are ugly.)

2. Became Martha Stewart via the seasonal garden cha-cha. Tonight I brought in the rest of the tender perennials, i.e., plants that will die if left outside in the cold. It got down to 26 degrees tonight, so I brought in the last of the rosemary and some zonal geraniums. When I've bathed them and made them comfortable, they'll go on a sunny spot on my closed front porch. This makes me feel all kinds of thrifty and down-to-earth and country gal-ish. Another plus is that between the thyme, rosemary, and geraniums, it smells a bit like Pears soap out there. And that's ... a Good Thing.

3. Changed my ethnicity. Because I'm not just a housewife. I'm a Japanese housewife. I.e., my job appears to be to oversee mind-numbing amounts of homework as performed by number one son and number one daughter even though I think they were both hit with the ADD stick and consequently, can't sit still and focus on anything for more than 20 seconds at a time and I am NOT exaggerating. So I have to ("Do your homework!") keep sitting ("I mean it, sit down and do your math problems NOW") on their heads. The Whack-a-Mole game at Chuck-E-Cheese's? Now I know why I'm so good at it--I get so much practice during the off-season. So some days it's three straight hours of homework, and then I feed them nourishing meals while my husband works late. Again. Both kids had major projects due yesterday and I had to sit on their heads to get them done. What with the Elmer's glue and construction paper from the diorama and the flashcards for the history of the Age of Exploration test, I was ready to kill myself by 7:00 last night. As it is, I was thatclose to putting on full Cio-Cio-San regalia and belting out "Un Bel Di" as I waited for my husband to come HOME already.

--P.

Flipping the birds

It might not be immediately apparent, due to my fascination with Felix the Cat, Christina Aguilera's butt crack, and Madge "Purple is the new purple" Ritchie's fashion false steps, but I'm something of a culture vulture.

In the last week, I have attended a ladies-who-lunch luncheon cum program, a ladies-who-dine dinner cum program, and a performance of the Lyric Opera of Chicago. In addition, I agreed to serve on the committee for Yet Another Arts Organization's annual benefit.

This was all a lot of fun. Especially the luncheon, where we were treated to a lecture by the wardrobe mistress followed by a fashion show where performers modeled costumes from upcoming productions. Oh my word, they were exquisite. The costumes, I mean--although the performers were also strikingly good looking. But the colors! The drape and swoosh of the silk brocade and velvet! The hand-beading--I'm telling you, a Galliano couture show has nothing on it. I have no idea why the workmanship on these costumes is as good as it is--no one but the other performers ever gets close enough to appreciate them--but now that I've seen a few costumes up close, I want to go on a backstage tour.

Wednesday night was an evening program devoted to the art of the sampler, and very interesting it was, too.

Last night was Manon Lescaut at the Lyric, and what a fabulous production. Karita Mattila was incredible as Manon, which is a terribly difficult role--it makes huge demands on the lead singers. But Mattila sounded fantastic and looked wonderful. (So much easier to believe that the hero falls in love with her at first sight when the singer doesn't have Dame Joan Sutherland's face on top of Jane Eaglen's body. Meow.)

Well. Aren't I just the most la-dee-dah artsy-fartsy chi-chi-poo-poo thing you've ever heard of? I mean, if she hadn't already died, Jackie O would definitely be calling me up looking for tips, you know?

So this morning, as I lay basking in my culture vulture-dom, I decided to balance my checkbook. I wanted to make sure I had the funds to pay for my latest eBay win--something I totally sniped and pretty much stole. This did not involve a lot of money.

Well. I discovered that on Thursday, when I paid the dentist for the torture he'd been inflicting on me, I used the wrong checkbook. So tomorrow I have to make a mad dash to the bank to get a cashier's check and slap it into the other checking account before my dentist sends his leg-breakers to my house to bash my knees--or maybe just pry off the crowns he just installed.

So. While I'm a true Culture Vulture, happily guzzling down all the cultural carrion I encounter, I am also, apparently, a Financial Finch, blithely hopping about from branch to branch and forgetting to ask myself whether the account has sufficient funds before I write the check.

The good news is that my daughter told me this morning that she likes her music LOUD. And she's now ensconced in her bedroom singing along--LOUDLY--to some cheesey Kids Pop CD--covers of songs that should never have been recorded in the first place. I mean--"Car Wash," forsooth.

I don't mean to get all metaphysical here, but HOW can so much bad taste reside in something so small?

My hope is that since she clearly is Nowheresville--at least as regards the arts--she will probably end up the next Suze Orman. At the very least, she'll be a financial whiz, even if she isn't a best-selling author.

And maybe she'll be able to teach me to balance my checkbook.

--P.

Christina's Butt Crack

You know, I go through a lot to keep my readers happy.

So when I realized that so many of my readers are deeply interested in Christina Aguilera's butt crack--and that they actually found my blog by doing Google searches for "Christina butt crack slobber slobber slobber,"--I decided I might as well throw them a sop.

Hence my title.

But now I'm going to talk about the dentist. A very talented Chicago blogger--whom you really should be reading--named Tequila Red recently waxed eloquent on the subject of cruel dentists. Far be it from me to even attempt to compete. So I'll just say that I had a bridge replaced today, which meant I had two crowns removed. Now this isn't pulling teeth. But it isn't cleaning them, either.

So there was the sticking with the needles and the drilling and the stuffing of my mouth with all the necessary accoutrements and the prrrrryyyyyyyyyying off of the old crowns that really didn't want to leave and the impressions and the seemingly endless fine-tuning of the temporary crowns. After two hours I was finally allowed to leave, sporting some groovy new choppers.

So that's good, right?

But now that the four shots of novocaine are wearing off, it feels as though a large, heavy animal mistook my mouth for the cave that it no doubt resembles--or perhaps a trampoline--and decided to hibernate on the right side of my lower jaw, after jumping up and down on it for a couple of hours. In other words, ow, the soreness. At this point I can't really open my mouth particularly wide. Eating and pretty much every other enjoyable oral activity are going to be sharply curtailed for a while.

Isn't it lucky that I've got my fingers to do the talking. Especially for Christina Aguilera's Australian fan boys.

So here I am, sitting at home. If you can't open your mouth more than an inch, it's pretty much impossible to sing opera. So the weekly voice lesson is out.

Free time! Woo hoo! Albeit in pain.

Big plans for today now include knocking a few things off the "To Do" list I finally started when I realized that I either have confetti for brains or ADD. Because generally I start to do one task, and I'm doing fine. But if I get interrupted, even by a thought springing up unbidden in my own brain--well, you know those moving toys that move along nicely, but if they hit a table leg or a bump in the carpet they just stay put, grinding along but not really going anywhere? Yeah, like that.

So lists. That's the answer. Lists.

Now I'm off to go find mine. And make myself a pot of tea so I can dribble it down my front.

--P.

p.s. For the Australian fan boys out there--here ya go, mite!

Snark!

Dear Mrs. Ritchie,

It has come to my attention that you appear to think you're above the law--that for you, the rules don't apply. This could not be further from the truth.

"What law?" you ask in your fake English accent. Well, if you'll put down the crack pipe, I'll tell you. It's the old adage--if you remember it from the first time it was around, you're too old to wear it now.

I'm sorry to inform you that you are old enough to remember Farrah Fawcett in her heyday. You are also old enough to remember Members Only jackets. As well as the color purple splashed with irrational exuberance over things that in more rational times are colored black or brown--things like shoes, bags, and coats.

I don't care how many brain cells you've killed since then. You, Madonna, are not allowed to wear feathered hair, Members Only jackets, or purple coats.

Also, please do us all a favor and buy some pants.

Yours, etc.

--P.

House Remodeling Alert: Red

House Remodeling Alert: Red
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Hee! Aren't flickr toys fun?

This is a mosaic made of the mess that is my vacation home. Where we like to go to hang around like slugs and eat lobstuh.

This is also the place that an as-yet undetermined number of the members of our families will be spending Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Gulp.

And I don't even have any pictures of the upstairs bathroom. I assure you, it's a beaut.

Isn't remodeling fun?

--P.

Snark!

This is at a movie premiere. Can you imagine the credits?



Hair ... Camilla Parker Bowles
Knickers ... Adam Ant
General Color Scheme ... Prince
Daughter's Eyebrows ... Frida Kahlo

(No mutant caterpillars were harmed in the filming of this production. So there, PETA.)

--P.

Believe it or not, in real life, I'm even more of an attention hog.

So if you only know me through this blog, THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS.

Yeah, yeah, yeah--I know it says "lively center of attention." But I think that quiz is just trying to be nice. It was probably too tactful to come right out and call me a big fat show off.

--P.

How to lose weight.

What follows is my time-tested infallible method for losing weight. I guarantee if you do this, you will drop at least one dress size.

No, it's not dieting.

No, it's not exercising.

This is what you do:

Go drop a significant wad of cash of new clothes. You have to really like them and look good in them. They must be stylish and fit beautifully.

In one month--maybe two--you will have shrunk and they will no longer fit. I know this for a fact because it has happened to me twice in the past five years.

Yesterday, feeling a bit pudgy, I decided that the two hour walks, yoga classes, and visits to the gym with Fiddledeedee were not cutting it. Drastic measures were called for.

Drastic measures = two pairs of jeans, two pairs of black pants, one pair of brown pants, one purple silk cardigan with coordinating camisole, and one brown cardigan with beaded trim with coordinating camisole.

I predict that in a month this stuff will be hanging off me. Unless the magic doesn't work because everything was marked down 40 percent.

--P.

Why is it ...

... that in my almost daily perusals of Go Fug Yourself, I--almost invariably--have never heard of the parties in question--except through internet snarkage?

I clearly do not watch enough television and need to get off my LAZY BLOGGING ASS and watch some NOW.

Because Jessica Simpson? Alanis Morrisette? Bai Ling? Sienna Miller? Anyone from the cast of Lost/Survivor/Desperate Housewives/Le Hot Show du Jour? PARIS HILTON? I've never seen them in action doing whatever it is they supposedly do. I've only seen them on my laptop.

(Actually, it just occurred to me that a large part of Paris Hilton's fan base has probably learned all it needs to know about her from their laptops, too.)

But I mean, even the clean stuff, people. The commercial where a bikini-clad Paris Hilton ate a huge hamburger while hosing down a car? I saw it--a postage-stamp-sized version--via QuickTime or Real Player--on my laptop.

And mind you, this is not reverse snobbery. I do not embrace my identity as Out-of-It Housewife. I do find it vaguely embarrassing that I basically have no idea who these people are. I mean, for years I was a card-carrying intelLECTual, man--and I was studying mass culture. I was a serious film scholar. I attended lectures by people like Jacques Derrida. And not at gun-point.

So I'm thinking ... if I tore myself away from the internet (and my cookbooks, my collection of etiquette books, my gardening books, my books on how to look 10 pounds lighter and ten years younger, yada yada yada) and took the time to watch these women making an attempt to entertain the public (deliberately, I mean, instead of accidentally) not only would I be less out of it,

I'm sure I'd enjoy the snarkage even more.

Show and Tell Friday: My Addiction(s)

My addictions?

They are Legion.

I think.

But I guess it depends upon how you define "addiction." For example ... are we talking real physical addiction, like chemical substances? Because then you can't say I'm addicted to say, toile. Even though the evidence would lead one to suppose that that would be the case.

But ... chemical dependence? No problem ... voilà ... the Cupboard de Caffeine.


Not to mention Le Drawer des Teas:



Alternatively, I could define "addiction" as those things I accumulate--apparently mindlessly--in completely insane amounts. For example, perfume



or scarves



Or by "addiction" do I mean those things that, if I dreamed of doing without them, I would wake up screaming? Because then elements of my skincare regimen would surely qualify:



I suppose it all boils down to whether I can give the item up without going through painful withdrawl. I believe that leaves out perfume, scarves, and even toile. I think I can do without them. No seriously--I can quit any time.

But. I do think that I'm addicted to:

1. PG Tips tea (without which life is not worth living)



















2. High-speed wireless internet access (ditto)

3. and blogging. Not my own--yours. Post something, will you?

--P.

p.s. I'm also addicted to Windex--the original bright blue formula with the original scent, and not a cheap knock-off.

FEED ... ME ...

All of you people in my blogroll--what the hell is going on out there? Do you live to frustrate me or something? Why this dearth of new posts? OK, so I'm a wee bit obsessed with blogging at the moment, because HALLOWEEN IS OVER and I'm not decorating, cooking, and providing costumes for the entire known world.

So get a grip, people. It's November 3rd. Can we move on? You've carved the pumpkins, taken the pictures, and eaten the candy--or if you haven't, you can email me and I'll tell you where to send the CARE package.

So come on. Give. me. something. new. to. read. NOW.

I ask you. Why is badger still going on about Halloween? It's November now. How drunk could she possibly have gotten that she hasn't posted anything since October 31st?

C'mon, Badger. At the very least, post a hilariously funny entry about your crippling hangover.

--P.

So ... you're saying I shouldn't tell people that they suck?

Your Personality Is

Rational (NT) You are both logical and creative. You are full of ideas. You are so rational that you analyze everything. This drives people a little crazy! Intelligence is important to you. You always like to be around smart people. In fact, you're often a little short with people who don't impress you mentally. You seem distant to some - but it's usually because you're deep in thought. Those who understand you best are fellow Rationals. In love, you tend to approach things with logic. You seek a compatible mate - who is also very intelligent. At work, you tend to gravitate toward idea building careers - like programming, medicine, or academia. With others, you are very honest and direct. People often can't take your criticism well. As far as your looks go, you're coasting on what you were born with. You think fashion is silly. On weekends, you spend most of your time thinking, experimenting with new ideas, or learning new things.

The Three Question Personality Test

Is that all there is ... to Halloween?

OK, we're wrapping up Halloween around here, because my kids get tired of Trick or Treating really early. They give it about an hour and then want to get home and start eating their candy.

Why is it that the idea of staying out late and filling huge shopping bags full of candy doesn't appeal to my kids? When I was a kid I lived for Halloween. I wasn't going to get another significant supply of candy until Easter. There was some candy in my Christmas stocking, but nothing to get excited about. No, Halloween was pretty much it. Everyone knew where the really good houses were. Like this guy, Mr. Burns, who lived across the street. He always had full-sized candy bars. We thought of him as the demi-god of confectionery.

My kids are such lightweights.

And my brother and sister thought I was a total wuss about Trick or Treating. They would go out for four or five hours and literally go for miles, coming home around 9:30 or 10:00 with two shopping bags of candy. They would faint dead away if they saw my kids in action.

I must be spoiling my kids. Candy isn't special enough. This must stop. My children are being robbed of their childhoods. First they come up with a chicken pox vaccination, then they start giving kids candy every time they turn around. It's in goodie bags at birthday parties, class parties, supermarkets, at the speech therapist's office--whatever.

I think That Stud Muffin I Married and I need to move to a crummy shack somewhere and make our parents sleep in the same bed. And my husband needs to lose his job, and I need to make watery cabbage soup for dinner. And our kids should get one candy bar a year--on their birthdays.

Yeah, that's the ticket. Then they'd appreciate a piece of candy.




Plus maybe I'd get to meet Johnny Depp.

--P

Woo hoo! I'm not Homer!

OK, if you've been reading this blog, you might remember that I was freaking out over my kids' Halloween costumes. They wanted to go out as Bart and Lisa Simpson. The problem was that Bart and Lisa are not the trendiest characters at the moment, so store-bought costumes were out of the question.

Did anyone else out there see the Simpsons episode where Marge develops a gambling problem and spend all day long playing the slot machines at the new casino--meanwhile Homer is stuck trying to do stuff at home--like make Lisa a State of Florida costume for a school pageant?

Let me tell you something. I could wake up screaming for far less.

So I started with the easier of the two costumes: Bart. Bart wasn't going to be too much of a challenge, right? I could manage shorts and a t-shirt. I managed to score some yellow makeup, as well as the hair gel and yellow spray-on hair stuff for Bart's 'do.

Then I figured that applying yellow makeup to their arms and legs would have to suck, plus be really messy, so I had a brain storm. Their "skin" could be clothes. So I bought tights and long-sleeved t-shirts to be their arms and legs. And Rit dye to make them yellow.

I even bought a skateboard so my son could get into character.

So, Bart was OK. But I was terrified I was going to have to sew a Lisa Simpson dress for my daughter.

So, confession time. I'm not like you crafty bitches. I don't know how to knit. I can't crochet. I hate needlepoint. I refuse to make scrapbooks. I just say no to beaded jewelry. And most important of all: I can't sew. And I thought I was going to have to make a red sleeveless dress.

But thanks to Target, it turns out I didn't have to sew it. My daughter's costume consisted of:

One white long-sleeved t-shirt, dyed yellow
One pair white tights, dyed yellow
One elastic-waist red skirt pulled up to her armpits to be a sleeveless dress
One pair red shoes
One necklace of big white beads (Playdough on a shoe lace)

The wig was by far the most challenging part of it. I mean, the boy could just spike his hair up with gel and I could spray it yellow--with shiny enamel paint manufactured for painting furniture and filing cabinets, if I couldn't find any Manic Panic.

But think about Lisa Simpson's hair. It's kind of like the Statue of Liberty, except it keeps going. So ... lots of yellow triangles.

Yesterday afternoon at 4:00 I went to the hardware store, desperate to find something to make Lisa Simpson's hair. And there it was: a yellow swim float/noodle thingie to cut into triangles and tape--with yellow painter's tape--onto a microfiber fleece hat dyed yellow. (I also bought a can of yellow spray paint, just in case.)

So--do the math: two t-shirts, two pairs of tights, a pair of red shoes, some Play-Dough, hair gel, a skateboard, a can of hair paint, two tubes of theatrical yellow make-up, a red skirt, a yellow swim noodle, a roll of yellow painter's tape, a can of yellow enamel spray paint, and two pairs of yellow gloves = about $60.00.



One satisfied diva (and her big brother): priceless.

--P.