A modest proposal

Now that I'm back in the land of the flat, the straight, and the organized-by-the-points-of-the-compass, I will admit to having been positively charmed by New Hampshire's rolling hills, narrow-streets-that-used-to-be-cow-paths, and--apparently--random design. Then there's the heart-warming combination of tourist-attracting trendiness and crotchety frumpiness that is seacoast New England.

Not to mention that I ate quite a bit of seafood (steamuhs, sawdfish, and lobstuh) and drank some wicked good beer and also had some good ice cream--a scoop of coffee Heath Bar at some little ice cream joint in Portsmouth.

Which reminds me--in New England, the per capita consumption of fatty, unhealthy foods is off-the-charts high. This is a little known fact, but it's true. Everyone has this image of corn-fed midwesterners waddling through the fried dough area of the state fair, or southerners sucking down platefuls of sausage biscuits and gravy. But New England is America's junk food dirty secret.

For one thing, premium ice cream stores dot the landscape like mushrooms after a spell of heavy rain. In fact, the whole crucially important concept of mixing CANDY with ICE CREAM was invented in New England (at Steve's Ice Cream in Somerville, MA, to be exact ... not that I used to hang out there a lot or anything.) And leave us not forget that Ben and Jerry--who basically stole the idea of mixing candy with ice cream and marketed it nationwide--live in Vermont.

Then there's the fried seafood situation, which is, frankly, pretty scary. I remember this fish place called The Fish House (oh, those wacky whimsical New Englanders!) where I used to eat lunch when I worked nearby. I bet I ate either fried oysters or fried clams for lunch every day for a couple of years. It's a miracle I lived to see the birth of the blog.

And then literally everywhere you turn around there's another doughnut place. New England has doughnut shops the way the rest of the country has Starbucks. There's one on every corner. Dunkin Donuts is headquartered in New England, and this is a very big deal. Did you know that the professional sports stadium in Providence, RI is Dunkin Donuts Stadium?

So naturally, this has me wondering one thing. When the doughnut eating epicenter of the world is apparently somewhere around Worcester, MA, what the hell is Homer Simpson doing living in Springfield?

Homer should give serious thought to relocating. There are nuclear power plants in New England, so he could get a job no problem. And if people have safety concerns about having Homer working in a nuke factory--and they should--Dunkin Donuts could always hire Homer to eat donuts as a tourist attraction.

--P.

What the world needs now / is eth-a-nol

Stolen from Badger. But apparently Diane and I are much more adept researchers into the field which I've just decided should be called "ethanology."

Bacardi 151 Congratulations! You're 139 proof, with specific scores in beer (80) , wine (150), and liquor (113).

All right. No more messing around. Your knowledge of alcohol is so high that you have drinking and getting plastered down to a science. Sure, you could get wasted drinking beer, but who needs all those trips to the bathroom? You head straight for the bar and pick up that which is most efficient.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 79% on proof You scored higher than 66% on beer index You scored higher than 97% on wine index You scored higher than 89% on liquor index

Link: The Alcohol Knowledge Test written by hoppersplit on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Robert Frost, eat your haht out

There once was a midwestern mobster
Who had quite a craving for lobster;
So in spite of the hassle,
she bought digs in New Castle,
And now dines with the swells and hob-nobsters.

--P.

Back in the wholesome Midwest

Here I am, in Illinois again. ("Hi. We're in Delaware.")*

The real estate closing sorta kinda did finally happen, although it turns out there was a last-minute snafu and the loan didn't actually fund. Or something. So anyway, apparently they'll jigger around with the dates on the documents or some such, and eventually my husband and I will get a title or a deed or some other kind of assurance that we actually own this piece of property.

But you didn't hear anything about jiggery-pokery legal shenanigans from ME. I'm no squealer.

But I've got to say--it's occurring to me that if you were the editor of the law review at Harvard Law School and/or got perfect scores on your LSATs, you probably didn't end up practicing law in New Hampshire.

Not that I'm calling anyone a MORON or anything like that.


--P.

* I can never resist the opportunity to slip in a quotation from Wayne's World. And if you think this dates me, bite me.

You actually CAN get there from here

So here I am in New Hampshire. The closing didn't go smoothly (do they ever?) so I wasn't a property owner in The Granite State until yesterday afternoon at some point or other.

I wasn't actually there; I was frivoling away the afternoon at the Portsmouth Children's Museum, instead. So I don't know precisely when it was that I ceased to be 100 percent Wholesome Midwesterner and became 25 percent tax-allergic penny-pinching Yankee.

I'm hoping that this magical moment occurred when I was purchasing trinkets in the Children's Museum gift shop and not paying sales tax. Wouldn't that be poetic justice?

Speaking of poetry, now that I am at least a semi-resident of New Hampshire, before the weekend is up, I expect to write a sonnet about the local wildlife, if any, a la Robert Frost.

But don't worry; I won't post it.

--P.

p.s. Anyone have a rhyme for "lobsters?"

State taxes and the lack thereof

I feel I should warn my reading public (both of you) that I'm flying to Boston tomorrow morning way early. I'm heading to New Hampshire to close on a house and then spend Memorial Day Weekend with my family, no doubt freezing my ass off and being rained on.

However, I expect to drown my sorrows in lots and lots of lobster.

You know what's really, really ridiculous about this? I swear I'm buying this house because if I own a house literally steps from a place with its own lobster pound, etc., Joke will simply have to stop bragging about the freshness of the seafood where he lives. Won't he?

One can at least hope so.

At any rate, I shall return. Speaking fluent chowdah.

--P.

The badger tempted me ... but I resisted

So I head over to Badger's blog to check out the state of things in the state of Texas, and I find that Badger is suffering from a TMI attack. Apparently one of the popular Mommy bloggers has been treating the world at large to an apparently incredibly vivid and detailed description of her baby's poop.

Well, I'm not heading over there. Even though I'll bet twenty bucks that I know exactly which Mommy did it. I'm even sure I have the offending blog in my links list. I'm on record as not being able to handle ugly baby pictures. So I'm so not going over to go find out about the excrement situation.

I just want some assurance. Someone please tell me that the Mommies who post pictures of their ugly babies are not also posting pictures of the contents of their ugly babies' diapers.

--P.

You can't get theah from heah

I sar this in Joke's blog and thought it was wicked funny:

Your Linguistic Profile:

40% Yankee

35% General American English

20% Dixie

5% Upper Midwestern

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

It's all true, except for the "rational" part

Stolen from blackbird:

Your Birthdate: December 12

Being born on the 12th day of the month (3 energy) is likely to add a good bit of vitality to your life. The energy of 3 allows you bounce back rapidly from setbacks, physical or mental. There is a restlessness in your nature, but you seem to be able to portray an easygoing, sometimes "couldn't care less" attitude. You have a natural ability to express yourself in public, and you always make a very good impression. Good with words, you excel in writing, speaking, and possibly singing. You are energetic and always a good conversationalist. You have a keen imagination, but you tend to scatter your energies and become involved with too may superficial matters. Your mind is practical and rational despite this tendency to jump about. You are affectionate and loving - but very sensitive. You are subject to rapid ups and downs.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Envy me

The Face and The Voice
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

... for I have had actual speech with the Badger.

Not only does this bring my number of RL encounters with Internet Types to a new high, it allows me to out Miss Pottymouth as having a cute little girlish soprano speaking voice, and not the dirty-martini-tinged basso profundo you might have expected.

No, in that particular telephone duet, due to my still-recovering-from-last weekend's-reunion status, I was the basso. So Badger, go ahead and tell the world that I sounded way manly--it's cool.

(But because I believe in being scrupulously honest, I will take this opportunity to mention something that Badger really should know; I, who am on record as looking like Julia Roberts, was actually being dubbed by Julia's co-star, Nick Nolte.)

--P.

Stress shopping

Hey, wait a minute. What ever happened to a leisurely stroll through the shops?

Because I swear, I haven't been in a brick-and-mortar store to buy myself anything since I was buying stuff for myself when I should have been Christmas shopping for other people. So that's what--over six months? This sounds wrong, but I can't remember purchasing even a pair of flip flops or a lipgloss since then.

OK, on second thought I have bought a few things on my way home from getting my hair done; there just happen to be a couple of great stores on the same street. And of course, I bought some stuff during our spring break trip to Walt Disney World with the Jokes. Oh, and OK, yeah, at my college reunion last weekend I bought a pair of earrings at the college art museum. And heh heh heh the graduation ring I was too cheap and alienated to buy when I actually graduated.

But really, that's pretty minimal, considering that I consider myself to be someone who sort of likes to shop. Also, you'll notice that this brick-and-mortar shopping only happens when I'm traveling--even if it's only to the next town to get my hair done.

What is not happening is what you might call "destination shopping," where you head out with the express purpose of actually buying yourself something. Mostly I do what everyone else does who is frantically busy--I shop on the web. Which means I end up with stuff that doesn't fit, so I have to make a post office run to return it, thus adding to my overall busyness. The other thing I do is grab extra crappe as I dash through the store getting the thing I'm officially there to buy--the birthday gift or the lightbulbs or whatever.

Take Friday. I had to run into Walgreen's to buy some stationery supplies so I could finish up a mailing I needed to get done--oh--two weeks ago? And I had 10 minutes to find everything I need, buy it, and get back to school to pick my kids up. In that ten minutes I managed to find and buy $55 worth of crappe:

the necessary office supplies: padded envelopes, Sharpees, labels, and Pilot pens

and

a bottle of shampoo, six packs of sugarless gum, two lip glosses, a powder foundation, an InStyle magazine, and a bottle of The Bath Lounge Classic Margarita body wash.

Talk about stress shopping. It was like binge eating, except I was buying stuff. It was all dash/grab/throw in the basket/pay. I mean, no price checking, cursory color and scent checking--JUST FUCKING BUY IT, WOMAN was the subtext at work because WHO KNOWS WHEN YOU'LL BE IN A WALGREEN'S AGAIN. And I was actually proud of myself because I made it to pick up my kids in plenty of time. Mission accomplished! Yay me!

But I'm surprised I didn't pop open the Margarita body wash and guzzle some down right there in Walgreen's. If they had packaged it in a brown paper bag, I swear I'd have been helping myself in front of the school while I waited for my kids to emerge.

< Homer Simpson > "Mmmmmmmmm ... sodium laurel sulfate." < /Homer Simpson >

Wouldn't that have given the local housewives some interesting gossip material? ("Don't look now, Kristen, but I think the fat one over there is drinking body wash.")

So I think the thing to do is give myself permission to go shopping. You know, carve out a chunk of time. Say, three hours. And then figure out what I actually need. And then [gasp!] go out and buy it.

Before I end up in a 12-step program for bodywash addicts.

--P.

Geeks they are.

Just as I was all patting myself on the back for being the biggest geek east of the Mississippi, I ran through my favorite blogs and discovered that in Hollywood, a large number of crazed Star Wars fanatics is lining up in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater (or whatever they're calling it these days) even though the film isn't actually going to be screened there.

Which is humbling in a way. I mean, I take pride in my geekiness, but these people could mop up the floor with the likes of me.

Let the geeks be with you.

--P.

Defacto lingo est igpay atinlay

OK, call me simple-minded, but this snippet (from the blog templates area of the blogger.com site) cracks me up.

For those of you who aren't students of typography and/or the art of the book, allow me to wax informative for a moment. Samples of type faces and page layouts are often produced using Latin. The idea being, I suppose, that the Roman alphabet was designed for Latin, so it's the perfect showcase for type designs. (As opposed to, say, German, where Nouns are capitalized, and many Consonants are heaped together in big, visually-unattractive Chunks only lightly relieved by Vowels.)

Also, since so few people can actually understand Latin anymore, a person can get a good idea of the design without being sidetracked by the meaning of the text.

Except the gibberish I quoted as my title basically translates to "The default language is Pig Latin." Now, again--I'm simple-minded--but this is amusing. What's next in typography, Ubba Dubba?

Also, so much for the design trumping the meaning of the text. I mean, as a serious proponent of Wasting Time Frivolously (WTF) I can foresee a whole new area of time-wasting--heading over to blog template sites and reading the gibberish to find various hidden jokes and other idiocies, then posting about them in my blog. I'm beginning to understand how stout Cortez felt when he gazed at the Pacific with all his men.

Although why I should waste precious time-wasting time looking for hidden idiocies when I'm constantly surrounded by big fat obvious idiocies eludes me. Although I supposed figuring out that minor conundrum is good for a bit of time wasting, as well.

Of course, this is the sort of thing that is best handled by a professional, like me. I've seen amateurs attempt it, and the results aren't pretty. Don't try this at home, kids. You need to be A.B.D. in a doctoral degree in the Humanities to even begin to do justice to this level of time-wasting.

Thank goodness I'm qualified for the asktay atay andhay.

--P.

Beauty

Lorina and Alice Liddell
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

I continue to completely abuse my flickr account by grabbing images from where ever the hell I want and uploading them.

Today I was feeling inspired from a visit I made to Tania's blog. She has a little place over on the right side, under links and archives and such for displaying images. At the time it was Beardsley's The Peacock Skirt from Oscar Wilde's Salomé.

So because I copy all the great ideas I come across (isn't that what the internet is for? At least in part?) I figured I'd look for an image to upload. Because we all need more beauty in our lives.

So I decided to upload a Lewis Carroll photograph for a bunch of reasons:

1. Carroll's photographs are beautiful. Last fall I went to an exhibit of them at the Art Institute of Chicago, and they're incredible.
2. They're technically amazing--creating albumen prints was arduous. Even posing for them was difficult.
3. They represent a side of Carroll that most people know nothing about.
4. The pretty little girl on the right is Alice Liddell, for whom Carroll wrote Alice in Wonderland.
4. The very Victorian subject matter, particularly the chinoiserie aspects makes me think deep thoughts about imperialism, race, and cultural appropriation.
5. The Michael Jackson trial has me thinking other deep thoughts about the place of children in society. As in when does appreciation become exploitation?

Whatever else a photograph represents, it represents our attempt to capture a moment, which is of course, the one thing we actually can't do. So in that sense, every photograph is about loss--whether of the moment, youth, a certain innocence, what you were thinking when you snapped the shutter--what you were when you snapped the shutter. But in every photograph, we do manage to capture at least some aspect of life's fullness, and the fact that someone, somewhere appreciated it.

So--please find this photograph beautiful; personally, I think we owe it to Charles Dodgson/Lewis Carroll, not to mention the Liddell sisters.

--P.

Fall into the yap

I do begin to see the resemblance
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

I'm sure Julia Roberts will not be the least bit gratified to hear this (and if you're reading this, Julia, I apologize in advance for the rude awakening) but I get told pretty often that I look like her. Like three times in the past four days. It happens frequently enough so that I start laughing maniacally whenever I hear the phrase "Has anyone ever told you that you look like ..."

Now, mind you, there actually are a few points of resemblance: the general coloring, the much longer-than-it-is-wide Mr. Ed horse face, and the ski-jump nose.

But basically it all boils down to the tremendous yap. Of which this picture shows merely the iceberg's tip. I mean, if she stretched that thing open a bit more, she could swallow not only her fist, but her entire arm, a Hardy's Thickburger, an entire unsliced watermelon, a Volkswagon New Beetle, and if she was feeling particularly peckish, Monstro the whale from Disney's Pinocchio.

So for me, the question is mostly, OK, she has the real estate, but is this basically a McYap--just for show--or does it actually get used?

And that is not what I was talking about at all, you creeps, so just get your minds out of the gutter, OK? I was talking about TALKING.

I ask because my yap partied excessively hard this weekend. To the point where I pretty much have to SHUT THE HELL UP for a few days because my vocal chords are completely shot.

I'd blog at length on the subject of laryngitis and how frustrating it is for the biggest blathermouth in Chicago to have to give herself a gag order, except I swallowed both my hands so they could give my vocal chords a full body massage.

No really, I did. No lie. I'm typing this with my toes.

--P.

Well, what kind of brain would you expect from some dude named "Eye-gor?"

Back from college reunion. Very, very tired. Unable to blog about anything sensible. Reduced to semi-telegraphic writing style. Also, sadly, to publishing the results of Yet Another Quiz, this one about the nature of my brain. If that phrase isn't oxymoronic. To wit:

Your brain: 80% interpersonal, 120% visual, 160% verbal, and 40% mathematical!

Congratulations on being 400% smart! Actually, on my test, everyone is. The above score breaks down what kind of thinking you most enjoy doing. A score above 100% means you use that kind of thinking more than average, and a score below 100% means you use it less. It says nothing about how good you are at any one, just how interested you are in each, relatively. A substantial difference in scores between two people means, conclusively, that they are different kinds of thinkers. Matching Summary: Each of us has different tastes. Still, I offer the following advice, which I think is obvious: Don't date someone if your interpersonal percentages differ by more than 80%. Don't be friends with someone if your verbal percentages differ by more than 100%. Don't have sex with someone if their math percentage is over 200%.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 61% on interpersonal You scored higher than 71% on visual You scored higher than 95% on verbal You scored higher than 38% on mathematical

Link: The 4-Variable IQ Test written by chriscoyne on Ok Cupid

I should still be packing ...

but I found this quiz and had to take it:

I am a hybrid of: Uptown Girl Progressive Girl Click on the pictures below to read more: Take the 'What Kind of Girl Are You?' quiz at CookingToHookup.com

I should be packing

for my trip tomorrow. I'm heading to Massachusetts for a college reunion. And it's imperative that I find out whether the weather (hee!) will be better than it is in Chicago, or whether it will suck as badly as it does here right now.

But of course, I'm blogging, instead.

So I checked out Blackbird's blog, and she turned me on to this.

So now I'm watching an red-headed animated cartoon guy tell me about the weather in Boston and vicinity. Which by the way will suck, but I don't care, because I'm in love with the cute little talking redheaded drawing on my computer monitor. He's kind of like what you'd get if you crossed Max Headroom with the talking Crush the turtle from the Living Seas exhibit at Epcot. Except cuter and littler. Plus when you move your cursor, his eyes follow it. It's so cute!

Obviously I need to go to bed.

--P.

It all began when she chose to wear the black panties

Psst--are yours real, or are they Memorex?"
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Today I called in overwhelmed. Not sick, because no matter how many germs are circulating around in the blogosphere, I feel pretty well. I'm also pleased to report that the bad weather Badger sent up here from Texas is pretty much over. So that storm appears to have passed.

And speaking of passing, I'm thrilled to be able to report that I'm not constipated. Not that I ever am, but this being a blog, where it is apparently de rigueur to report on the state of one's bowels, I felt that I should let you know that all systems are go.

But this was going to be the shape of my day:

10:00 - 11:00 appointment in 'burbs
11:15 drive to city for 12:00 rehearsal, lasting until 1:30
1:30 drive home to suburbs,
Take hour off, pick up kids
Leave detailed notes and dinner preparation for babysitter; start overseeing homework
4:30 depart for 5:30 meeting downtown
7:30 opera with huzbin

Now those of you who work will be thinking, "What's the big deal? Sounds like a normal day to me." The thing is, I'm a housewife, and nobody is paying me jack$#|+ to charge around like this. This is all volunteer stuff. And I suspect that I'm taking on too much.

It could be that I'm lazy. Or feckless. Or maybe I have ADD (hmm, I wonder if I got any good mail today? Is it time for another mug of tea? What's for dinner?) But at any rate, I have more than enough to do, so I decided just for once to say "fuck it."

So I called in Overwhelmed. Or maybe Exhausted. Or Bratty. I'm not sure which. In fact, come to think of it, I didn't even call in. I'm basically playing hooky. Heh heh heh.

Wow, I'm really the girl gone bad. Can tight sweaters be far behind? And maybe I should start smoking and wearing too much eye makeup.

--P.

Thank you, but I prefer sheets of cotton

Since my star ship crashed on Planet Blog, I've noticed that things spread from blog to blog with astonishing rapidity.

First there was the whole meme phenomenon. This actually has its uses because there are times when a person gets the urge to blog up a storm, but doesn't feel sufficiently creative to come up with anything interesting to say.

Not that that stops me, but anyway.

Then a couple of weeks ago I noticed that everyone was reporting having some kind of flu/grunge/sinus thing.

More recently I've noticed that many peoples' bowels appear to be becoming obstructed. Can constipation possibly be contagious? Apparently, it can.

And now, I give you the weather. Which ordinarily I consider to belong in the "Act of God" category. But now I'm thinking even the weather might belong in the "Act of Blog" category, instead. Because within hours of my reading Badger's description of being shot off the toilet seat by a lightning bolt, I awoke this morning to stygian darkness illuminated irregularly by nerve-shattering flashes of lightening, loud crashes of thunder, and sheets of rain (see title above.)

Coincidence? I think not.

So could everyone could please cut it out? Because if this keeps up, I expect to find myself lying in a soaking wet bed swigging NyQuil and wishing that it didn't seem so impossible to add to the world's supply of fresh manure.

--P.

It's "Coffee Talk," folks

I have decided to piggy-back on the Seinfeld (a program I never watched, but hey, I'm hep to the zeitgeist, man) concept of what I will call "bloggable" and "non-bloggable" subjects.

I've already had my rant about ugly baby pictures, so I'll spare you my thoughts on what I, taste arbiter extraordinaire, consider to be unbloggable visuals. (And anyway, I'm a prime offender myself, having just uploaded a jpeg of what looks like dog vomit to my other blog.)

But honestly. Enough with the constipation talk!

One of my favorite bloggers was recently going on and on and ON about digging hardened baby poop out of her toddler's butt. Practically the next entry she's going on about her aunt's impending bowel movement. Recently she went on about her bouts with constipation. ENOUGH ALREADY. Yeah, yeah, I know ... etiquette rules don't apply in the blogosphere ... but still.

Blogs == the shiz-nit
Blogging about the shiz-nit != fascinating reading.

--P

Happy Mother's Day to my fellow Disney Villainesses

Cruella de Scarf Strikes Again
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Wishing all of us selfish and greedy Mo's a fun and loot-filled Mother's Day.

See, I realize that Mother's Day is a Hallmark Holiday. In fact, the pre-emininent Hallmark Holiday, superceded only by "Sweetest Day," (whatever the hell that is.)

But does this knowledge prevent me from enjoying Mother's Day? The day in which I am celebrated for doing what I would be doing anyway? Hell, no. I take full advantage. There is loot involved here, people.

Oh, how I enjoy the slow build-up in the post-Easter print media. They put the pastel bunny-related items to rest and almost immediately start filling the newspaper with advertisements for fine jewelry, chocolates, perfume, flowers, and designer bags. An almost palpable amount of guilt begins to build up in my husband. About a week before Mother's Day, I'll compound the guilt by mentioning the fact that it would be a good idea if he ordered flowers for his mother and stepmother.

By the Thursday before Mother's Day, I spring whatever trap I have set for the year. For several years I've told him that I don't want a present per se; what I'd really like is an afternoon where he watched the kids and I went shopping. Believe it or not, he would actually prefer to let me wander solo through a series of luxury department stores rather than have to do it himself, even though the latter would allow him some control over the credit cards.

This year I simplified things even more. I decided that what I wanted was the Hermes scarf in pale blue with a pattern of rocking horses, and since it was available on line, I called him up and asked him whether he had anything in mind for my Mother's Day present. A brief but stricken silence ensued. Then I assured him that I had the perfect present in mind. He was so relieved that it didn't occur to him to ask me how much it would cost. So I hung up and ordered the scarf.

Also, later today the four of us will be heading to a private club for the annual Mother's Day brunch. Other than getting free loot, I enjoy nothing more than the prospect of getting me and my children all dressed up so I can go out and swan around in my role of Well-Bred, Well-Dressed Mother of Well-Dressed, Well-Behaved, Well-Bred Children accompanied by their Adoring, Youthful Father with Great Hair. It's kind of a Jacqueline Kennedy scenario, although this version of Jackie is a lot older and a lot less slim.

Now personally, this is my revenge--not on the husband and children, although I'll grant that they are the ones who suffer the most from my villainy--but on a society that sees fit to honor me and my fellow matriarchs only one day a year. And honors us for what--suffering the pangs of childbirth? Packing a few lunches? Driving the minivans? No, for being what we are. What's next, Brunette Day?

Well, personally, the pangs of childbirth weren't all that bad. OK, they weren't a full-body massage, but honestly, I've had dental work that was more excruciating. As for the rest of it--well, as I said, I'd be doing it anyway, so what the hell--I'll take advantage of the good will or guilt or whatever.

And by some time next year, I'm going to figure out how to move in on this whole Sweetest Day scam.

--P.

My name in pictures

Poppy is poppy is poppy.

poppy
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

My name in lights

Waste time on the internet.

Spell stuff with flickr'ed letters.

--P.

What's my lines?

OK, here's another quiz-type thing stolen from Aurorealis.

I know this is lame. But see, I have nothing of interest to report because I spent the day in my back yard digging up plants I don't like--plants that, too tell the truth, I haven't liked for the seven years I've lived in this house. So there was a lot of hate at work there. As in "stupid phlox!" and "stupid daylilies!" and even "stupid forsythia!" (If you're not a gardener I'll point out this last bespeaks a very high level of hostility. Because when you start uprooting shrubs, can trees be far behind?)

Also, uprooting plants and stuffing big brown bags with yard waste is hard work. So for today's entry, I'm taking the easy way out.

Here's the deal: You're supposed to pick five of the following professions and then finish the sentence pertaining to each profession. Then pass it on to three other bloggers.

Ready to play?


If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a backup dancer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be a midget stripper...
If I could be a proctologist...
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host...
If I could be an actor...
If I could be a judge...
If I could be a Jedi...
If I could be a mob boss...
If I could be a personal trainer...
If I could be a professional race car driver...
If I could be a stand-up comedian...
If I could be an artist...

Okay, my choices.....

1. If I could be a librarian ...

I would make sure the library was stocked only with books I wanted to read, CDs I wanted to listen to, and DVDs I wanted to watch. Oh, and of course, high-speed wireless internet access. This would alienate 99 percent of the library's patrons, so I could sit around on my ass all day reading, listening to CDs, watching DVDs, and wasting time on the internet. The difference being that I would be getting paid to do it.

2. If I could be a farmer ...

I'd grow acres and acres of those super-expensive, rare, heirloom, and/or organic baby vegetables that foodies like Joke like. Plus outrageous amounts of herbs. I'd get so rich that I could indulge all of my over-the-top gardening fantasies. (Potager? Mais oui! Espaliered pear trees? Absolument! Hives of honey bees? Sweet! Somebody else to rip out the stupid forsythia? Priceless.)

3. If I could be a chat-show host ...

I'd book really, really boring guests. Being bored inspires me to new levels of wackiness, and generally speaking, people tend to enjoy it when that happens. This would be a great way to find out whether millions of total strangers find this sort of thing as amusing as my husband does. I mean, the sight of me ostensibly interviewing Alan Greenspan--but when the camera was on Greenspan, putting pencils up my nose and making walrus faces--might not provide the rest of you with big yuks, but the guy I married would pee in his pants.

4. If I could be a mob boss ...

I'd have my goons go after my first boyfriend for being a lousy lay. I'm trying to avoid too much information here, so suffice it to say that the earth did not move. Not once. Even though it was provided with the opportunity to do so many, many times over the two years I went out with this cretin. Well. Due to some drunken snooping in someone else's copy of the Social Register, I now know where the cretin lives and what he does for a living. He's an emergency room physician in Charlottesville VA. So my goons would descend on Dr. Cretin and slap him around a little. Mind you, nothing too violent, just a few bruises and abrasions. As they would prepare to leave, the biggest, meanest-looking goon would give Dr. Cretin a level stare that would let him know that next time they wouldn't go so easy on him. And then one of them would tell him "Physician, heal thyself!"

5. If I could be a back-up dancer ...

I'd be an Ikette. Because it was watching Ike and Tina Turner on television that made me realize the way race works. I realized that through no fault of my own, my one big dream in life would be denied me. I would never be an Ikette, because I was too white. Well, in a perfect world, where we get to be what we want to be when we grow up, some other little girl can grow up to become a forsythia-uprooting blogging housewife who will clearly doing anything to make people laugh.

And I'll be an Ikette.

So Badger, Joke, and ... Blackbird ... you're next.

--P.

You're no bunny until some bunny loves you

You're Watership Down!

by Richard Adams

Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're
actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their
assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they
build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd
be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

She's a man, man!

A male Giraffe in disguise as a female human
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Is it just me, or does Giselle Bundchen look like a trannie with 1) implants and 2) hair extensions?

I don't know which is weirder--RuPaul as a female supermodel. Or this.

Because while RuPaul started out life as a man--and then did an exemplary job of transforming himself into a woman--Miss Bundchen just looks freaky to me. And not in a good way.

Far be it from me to mock a woman for being six foot two inches tall. Far be it from me to scoff at some poor creature who was obviously standing in the wrong line when they were handing out hips. But to hold this specimen up as the height of female pulchritude seems really, really strange. I mean, she'd make kind of a cute boy--albeit a scrawny one sorely lacking in upper body development. But a woman?

Seriously, I could see a pedophile getting into her. In fact, he could point to his collection of Victoria's Secret catalogs as evidence that he really isn't into boys. Because honestly, all he'd have to do is cover up the part of the picture that shows the implants and voila--Michael Jackson's dream date.

Speaking of dates, supermodels are always claiming that they were freaks in high school and couldn't get a date. Well, imagine Exhibit G. over there, without the makeup, professionally done hair, flattering lighting, and pouty facial expression--the result of years of being told she's hot. Do you honestly think she could get a date for the prom?

Well, maybe with Michael Jackson. Although she's really too tall for him.

Well ... maybe from the neck up

Your inner classic movie diva is:

Audrey
Hepburn

Known for her trend-setting style and irresistible
personality, Audrey charmed millions over her
long and successful career. She always
projected the high-class, sophisticated aura
that she was born to, as the child of a wealthy
banker and a baroness. She also had a warm and
generous heart, as exemplefied by her work with
UNICEF in her later years.


"Remember, if you ever need a helping hand,
it's at the end of your arm, as you get older,
remember you have another hand: The first is to
help yourself, the second is to help
others." -- Audrey Hepburn


What classic movie diva are you?
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