And here I thought I was more of a wallflower/geek type

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Why you don't want to be me

Today I am working on a "musical" number for a Cub Scouts "Pack Night" gathering.

One of my fellow den mothers thought it would be cute for our Bear Pack to perform a rewritten version of "The Super Bowl Shuffle," a "rap" "song" released in 1985 to celebrate the Chicago Bears' Super Bowl victory. Or something.

At the time this "song" was released, I didn't live in Chicago. I lived in Boston, epicenter of the fan base of the opposing team, the New England Patriots. I also don't give a rat's ass about football. So I lived in blissful ignorance of Da Bears, and thus was spared hearing this "song."

Unfortunately I now have to listen to it OVER AND OVER while I rewrite lyrics and then retro fit them into the track (click on "shuffle") my brother-in-law produced for me. (He basically erased the "singing," so it will now be like a Karaoke version of "The Super Bowl Shuffle." As if that would actually improve on the original.)

At any rate, if you never read another post to this blog, it's because I died from blood loss due to the way MY EARS are BLEEDING as I listen over and over to this garbage.

"I didn't come to blog any trouble / I just came to blog the Super Bowl shuffle."

--P., a/k/a DJ Den Mama

Television programs I have never seen

Stolen from Blackbird:

The A-Team
Ally McBeal
American Idol
Angel
The Bachelor
Baywatch
Beauty and the Beast
Beverly Hills 90210
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Dawsons Creek
Desperate Housewives
Drew Carey
ER
Everybody Loves Raymond
Family Guy
Frasier
Garry Shandling
Gilmore Girls
Hawaii Five O
Highlander
Home Improvement
The Iron Chef
Judging Amy
Just Shoot Me
King of the Hill
LA Law
Law And Order
Mad About You
Melrose Place
My So-Called Life
NYPD Blue
The O.C.
The Osbornes
Picket Fences
Quantum Leap
Queer As Folk
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
Real World
Red Dwarf
Sabrina
Saved by the Bell
St. Elsewhere
Six Feet Under
Smallville
Sopranos
South Park
Stargate
The Practice
The Tick
The View
The West Wing
This Old House
Touched by an Angel
Twin Peaks
Will and Grace
Wings
The Wonder Years
Xena

No wonder I have time to blog.

Welp--time's a-wasting, folks. I'd better get cracking.

Stolen from Quirky Chick. Her list was much longer than this, but I left out the stuff I actually have done. (My, what a rich full life I appear to have led.)

Still:

I’ve never crashed a friend’s car.
I’ve never been to Japan.
I’ve never had group intercourse.
I never sneaked out of my parent’s house.
I’ve never been arrested.
I’ve never celebrated New Year's Eve in Times Square.
I’ve never celebrated Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
I’ve never cut myself on purpose.
I’ve never been divorced.
I’ve never gotten someone drunk just to have sex with him.
I’ve never killed anyone.
I’ve never received scars from my sex partner.
I’ve never thrown up in a bar.
I’ve never purposely set a part of myself on fire.
I’ve never been snowboarding.

If I start proceedings tomorrow, maybe I can get the divorce thing taken care of by Friday, which would leave the weekend free so I can snowboard--if the weather holds--and then throw up in a bar.

A shout out for Joke

Schizo Brekfus
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Not to gloat or anything. But in yesterday's grocery- shopping expedition, I saw--and therefore simply had to buy--a box of Quisp. And then of course I was compelled to take a photograph and upload it in order to taunt Joke with Quisp's apparent ubiquity in my neck of the woods.

And to demonstrate to the entire internet how completely mental I am, I had the box pose nicely next to one of the big-ass bottles of ORGANIC MILK I buy every week. Because nothing suits a bowl of refined flour and white sugar manufactured by the ruthless capitalists of the Quaker Oats company (a subsidiary of PepsiCo) more than creamy lashings of two percent organic milk coaxed from the willing teats of contented cows while they--I have no doubt--moo in bovine pleasure.

So Joke; how many cases of Quisp did you want me to buy and bring to Walt Disney World when we drive down for spring break?

Remember: we're going to either buy or rent a slothful minivan. With a huge cargo capacity.

--P

Glasses are the new hat

We've all heard variations on the theme of "[blank] is the New Black." Eventually every shade in the spectrum will be called into play because fashion types can't make up their minds: "Brown is the new ... " no, wait ... make that "Pink is the new ..." no wait .... And because all things come to those who stand and wait, eventually, our ears are gladdened by the inevitable ever-so-clever self-referential "Black is the new Black."

Well, whoop de do, fashion types. I have news for you. Glasses are the new black. Or at least, glasses are the new hat.

You see, in old movies--I'm talking movies of the 30s, 40s, and 50s--you know, old--hats were huge. Ladies' hats, that is. Why, in Another Thin Man the witty dialogue was derived from a single source: the repetition of the line "Gee, that's a screwy hat." This peerless jest was delivered by a variety of characters, always in reference to the same hat. It resembled a wide-brimmed off-center unicorn's horn. Yes, it was screwy, but damn, that hat had some serious fun. In a single evening it went to a prize fight and into the jockey's locker room at the local track, and which of us could say the same?

Well, nobody wears hats anymore. Not even Myrna Loy. Oh, maybe we do when it's cold, or when we're pretending to be English, i.e., going to a garden party or an afternoon wedding, or when we want to lie out in the sun with a trashy novel. But basically, hats are not happening.

But remember the hat-centric time when the unhappy housewife would be advised to run out and buy herself a new hat? It seems there was a time, pre-Paxil, when a new hat worked as well or better than a couple of dry martinis as regards preserving the harried housewife's supply of seratonin.

And what does the average housewife got to be depressed about these days? The usual stuff that always bothered us, and one of those things is the ageing process. Which, you will remember, comes accompanied with changes in one's vision. Presbyopia, to be exact.

Well, call me Pollyanna, but why not look at the bright side of going blind? Why not take advantage of this God-given reason to buy yourself some mega-kewl glasses? Skip Lasik, shelve the contact lenses, and have some fun with the fact that you can't read the phone book any more. Take me, for example. I've been having some serious fun with presbyopia ever since I discovered that I couldn't read newspaper headlines, let alone the small print.

My latest pair of glasses, which inspired me to write this in the first place, is purple. And cat's-eyed. On top of that, they're only purple on the outside; the inside of the frames is teal green. Yes, they sound weird, but trust me. They are FABULOUS. The shape flatters my face, the color flatters my complexion, and basically, they're as good as a face lift, except not nearly as expensive and way less painful.

Plus, since along with my new frames I also got a new prescription, I have this dazzling new clarity of vision. It's practically surreal. If you ever sat through the opening sequence of David Lynch's Blue Velvet, you know what life is looking like to me these days.

So back to the subject of hats. Until such time as they come back, glasses are the nearest substitute for something you wear near your face that can give you a whole new look. If you wear glasses and they're over two years' old, they are too old. Go out and buy yourself a new pair right now. Get a pair in a cool shape. Get an emphatic color, too. Gold or silver wire rims are for grannies, baby.

Trust me on this. You take a no-longer-particularly-youthful face and park a pair of cutting edge fashion-forward glasses on its nose, and all of a sudden, things start to happen. Your look now says "I am so not a middle-aged American housewife. I am a European woman of a certain age, cheri." Parking garage attendents and UPS guys will start flirting with you big time.

OK, this might strike some as shallow. But presbyopia is nature's way of letting us know that we're old and wise enough to enjoy a few frivolous pleasures.

"Meme meme meme!" she sang, ignoring the tomatoes

Prompted by pal Badger, I answer the following thoughtful questions:
1. Song that sounds like happy feels
I would pick "Pump It Up" by Elvis Costello or "Got to Get You Into My Life" by the Beatles, except that would be plagiarism, because I got the idea from Badger. So I'll say it's "That's Neat, That's Nice" by NRBQ.

2. Earliest memory
Of pop music--that would be the time a babysitter gave us a copy of Meet the Beatles. I was about six. Or a Ray Charles album my parents had. It was Ray Charles does the Twist, and there were these diagrams on the back cover of feet, showing you how to do the twist. (Yes, I realize it should be Chubby Checker, but it was Ray. And yes, I also realize I'm old.)

3. Last CD you bought
Classical? The Spectacular Voice of Marilyn Horne: Rossini Heroes and Heroines. Pop? I have no idea. Although I have downloaded a few songs from iTunes. But you wanted albums.

4. Reminds you of school
The Saturday Night Fever soundtrack reminds me of college. Thank heavens so does Talking Heads: 77.

5. Total music files on your PC
About 20 gigs' worth, but they're mostly my huzbin's. I have about 4 gigs' worth on my laptop because I just keep listening to the same cheesey crappe over and over. Listen, I invented the iPod mini--I have an iPod and it's nowhere near full and I put it on shuffle and just listen to it. Note to the people at Apple: this is not brain surgery, and it doesn't require a separate piece of hardware.

6. Song for listening to repeatedly when depressed
Cheesey disco crappe from the 1970s and 80s. Rick James, for example, makes even doing dishes kind of fun. He was such a sex maniac--how could I not love him? And I'm such a sex maniac--how could I not be cheered up by stuff that raunchy?

7. Song That Sounds British But Isn't
Anything by the Byrds. Or Buffalo Springfield. (Hey, I already admitted I'm old, 'k?)

8. Song you love, band you hate
"S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night" by the Bay City Rollers. The remake on the So I Married an Axe Murderer soundtrack floats my boat.

9. A favorite song from the past that took ages to track down
"How About You?" by the New Grass Revival. They were only available on vinyl for way too long. Thank heavens for Limewire.

10. Bought the album for one good song
"Keep on Movin'" by Soul 2 Soul. The version on the CD wasn't the same as the one on the video, which pissed me off to no end.

11. Worst song to get stuck in your head
Anything by the Eagles, with a special shout out to "Hotel California."

12. Best song to dump a beer on someone's head to, then storm out of the bar
"Stand By Your Man." Of course, it goes without saying that the beer dumpee needs to be a man with a strong sense of irony.

12. Who should do this next
Joke

Eyes without a face

shar-pei
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

What the hell?

I ask because last night I fell asleep on my daughter's bed at about 9:15. Passed out cold and didn't wake up until 5:00 or so--and that only happened because I was so uncomfortable. She has a twin bed, and she was taking up half of it, her stuffed animals were in another quarter of it, and I was left with only about six inches of mattress. So I had been sleeping on my left side all night in this weird squeezed position, and at 5:00 a.m., my body had finally had enough and woke me up.

When I shuffled into the bathroom to brush my teeth and stuff, this is what I saw in the mirror. The horror! My face was gone--and in its place, some prankster had left ... an accordion!

My mind reeled in dumb shock. And then questions surged forth--questions that I was too thoughtful to ask aloud at five o'clock in the morning, so I'll ask them here. What happened? Who did this to my face? And what am I supposed to do with it now? I don't know how to play the accordion--particularly a sagging, apparently broken one. What am I supposed to do with the damned thing?

Mind you, I do know how to play the piano. So this leaves me with only one question: are Botox shots in order? I hear they do wonders. So maybe, if they're done deftly enough, they can turn an accordion back into a piano.

Frankly, at my age, it's an honor

Waiting for the florist ... or someone like him

So here it is almost 5:00 p.m. on Valentine's Day (kissing cousin to Patrick's Day--ha hahahahahaha Joke!) and the flowers I've been told to expect haven't shown up yet.

Not that I mind, particularly. I like to think I have a realistic outlook, and it has occurred to me that St. Valentine's Day is to florists as December 23rd is to post office employees or, more accurately, New Year's Eve is to bartenders.

So I'm feeling pretty good. I managed to get the kids' valentines filled out and sent to school, because God forbid the little tykes sit and fill out 20 cards apiece all by themselves. The fourth grade classroom party is over, ably supervised by me and a few other mothers. The Valentine's loot has been brought home, examined, and/or eaten. (When did all this candy become de rigueur? It's as bad as St. Halloween's Day around here.) At least part of tonight's dinner is cooking, my children have finished their homework, and I appear to have made it through the day in one piece. I really don't have much to whine about.

On the other hand, for Valentine's Day, I'm giving my husband ... a pair of red cashmere socks. Which I bought on sale. With his money. And nothing more. Nary a bite of chocolate will he receive.

So maybe I am feeling just a little bit vindictive.

Do I know how to party or what?

12th Night Rehearsal
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

So here I was feeling all guilty because I hadn't posted to my blog for a while. Yet after a full day and an evening of a not-very-good production of Tosca, I wasn't really up for cranking out a lot of verbiage tonight.

Luckily for me someone forwarded me a ton of pictures from last Friday's party, thus generously providing me with the opportunity to see whether the adage about a picture being worth a thousand words is actually true.

In fact, I would like to add Poppy's Postulate to the above. To wit: if a picture is worth a thousand words, then a picture of a bunch of idiots wearing rented period costumes is worth at least ten thousand. Maybe more.

I'm Dreaming of a White Trash Christmas

Have a White Trash Christmas
Originally uploaded by Poppy.

So this was the photograph I was thisclose to using last year for the obligatory Christmas card photo of all four of us. And my title would have made a catchy greeting, right?

But I ended up using a much more normal looking picture with NO BOOZE in the shot. Because what if I got super-organized and actually sent one of these puppies to someone from my husband's law firm? I know, I know. Highly unlikely. Still, it could have happened.

But I thought for my first Flickr photo use (thanks and a tip of the hat to my pal Badger for leading the way) I would use the first runner up to the official Christmas Card Picture, 2004. You know--the one that had a way better personality; it's just that the winner was prettier.

So anyway, it's me, my huzbin, and our two demon spawn in the back of my sister's camper. We're on the way to Rye Beach in sunny New Hampshire.

Oh, and check it out and you'll see that I wasn't exaggerating when I said I'm "carrying a lot on my balcony," as they say in France. (Actually, in France they say it in French, but I can't remember how. So sue me; I'm American and fairly aged, OK?)

p.s. I'm the one in the white shirt.

They laughed when I bought my web cam ...

All modesty aside--when it comes to wasting time on the internet, I truly excel. For example, last night.

I was catching up on my blog reading. I'm pretty sure it was Little. Yellow. Different. I noticed Ernie included a very cool use of the Google Images search feature. Instead of the cliche Wikipedia definition of "fauxhawk," he sent you to this awesome page of Google images.

Well, once I was in Google images, I figured, gee, what can I do a search for now? Naturally, the only possible answer was "Chesty Morgan."

So I do a search for Chesty Morgan, and the next thing you know, I'm on a website devoted to women with ginormous breasts. As I am the proud possesor of a fairly startling pair of breasts myself, when I say these things were amazing, I'm not exaggerating. Some of them were even real. Of course, the fake ones were even more interesting than the real ones, because how often do you have a chance to gawk at a woman with what looks like two flesh-colored beachballs stapled to her chest? But the natural hooters were interesting, too. Mostly because I kept thinking ew, these weird guys out there actually get all fetishy about this stuff.

Then it occured to me, should my husband ever dump me, I have a career option that I never knew existed. Here I was imagining myself a single mother selling real estate or Mary Kary or some such. When instead, I could become an internet big boob model.

Of course, at this point, I'd have to target the guys with a big boob/middle-aged women fetish. But my cursory internet investigations into the world of male sexual fetishes have convinced me that there are probably a ton of them out there.

Anyway, I'd say this one link and its follow-up was good for about 45 minutes of horrified clicking around. And it was way more interesting than reading What Color is My Parachute?

So you had all better pray that my husband never dumps me.