Why husbands should not go out of town for two weeks at a time

At dinner last night my 10 year old son asked me what a "C-O-N-D-O-M" is.

--P.

Is it "Mowgli" or "Fugly?"

Today I thought I'd practice riding Stampy the Sienna (i.e., my new minivan) so I took it out on some errands.

Now, these errands were definitely not glamorous, and I was definitely dressed down, but still. I swear, when I got behind the wheel of that thing, I could feel what's left of my sex appeal evaporating like pool water in Vegas.

So excuse me, but I have to go do affirmations in the bathroom mirror right now. Or put on some makeup. Or something.

--P.

p.s. I think the term I'm trying to coin here is "Momgly."

I wonder if I can get a vanity plate that says "Stampy"

So this morning I was cutting back the jungly overgrown shrubs on the side of the driveway in the blazing hot sun. OK, so today's high is actually only 89 degrees--when you're wielding a machete, it feels like more. I was lopping off branches from the 75-year-old landscaping and then putting the branches into big brown yard waste bags.

Since the branches were fairly large and I only had three yard waste bags, I had to do a lot of chopping to make the branches fit into the bags. Lop lop lop. Chop chop chop. Stuff stuff stuff. Drag out to parkway. Repeat.

And why was I indulging in these enjoyable driveway aerobics? I wanted to drive the new-to-me 2005 Toyota Sienna XLE AWD down the driveway and get it, if not into the garage--because I'm not even about to attempt that--at least the hell out of sight.

Yes, that's right folks. Yesterday I bought a minivan. And yes, that makes two cars in a month. Both way uncool cars, but both immeasurably better than the beaters I'd been driving.

I can now test the theory that my crappy beater cars were one of the reasons the other mommies haven't made friends with me. In general, this is a big-honking-SUV kind of neighborhood, but if you must drive a minivan around here, you iconoclast, you drive either the Sienna, a Honda Odyssey, or the Chrysler Town and Country. So I figure the other mommies have got to want to bond with me now. There are two other Sienna drivers on this block alone, not to mention dozens of them in town. So now we have something in common. Right?

Of course, for me to be seen driving the Sienna, I'll have to get the damned thing back out of the driveway. To get it back there in the first place, I had to hack away at the forest primeval for an hour, fold down the rearview mirrors, and have someone spot me. Getting it out again is going to be quite a challenge. I feel like the person in Manhattan who found a parking space on the street and then left his car there for years because he couldn't stand to lose the spot.

Damn it, I got that big boy back there without scratching the paint. Who's to say I'll ever be able to do it again? I mean, those bushes are growing back even as we speak. And frankly, I think riding an elephant--even, as in this case, for the first time--would be easier. And the elephant comparison suggests itself because the Sienna and an elephant are pretty much the same size.

Remember that Simpson's episode where Bart won an elephant from a radio show and it lived in the Simpson's back yard for a while? And was really cranky and ill-tempered? And eventually ran amok?

Excuse me; I have to go bring the minivan a few yard waste bags of landscaping.

--P.

In which I out myself as Ulta's dream date

OK, so I had to head out to the Apple store to pick up my laptop (which I had returned to Apple for its fourth logic board in a year and a half--I hope I don't sound like a relationship lightweight, but I think I'm going to have to break up with Apple, my very cute but clearly abusive demon lover). I figured while I was in strip mall land, I'd swing by the local Ulta, because I stupidly left my magical frizz-destroying Conair Ion Shine hair dryer and my perfect, perfect, PERFECT hair styling brush in New Hampshire. I was not about to walk around with Bad Hair until August, so I needed to get replacements.

This shopping expedition revealed me to be the Compleate Village Idiote of Ulta shoppers. See, when you head into certain stores, like a supermarket, they have carts or baskets or some such so you can walk around and purchase lots of stuff. The genius designers of stores like Ulta and Sephora have adopted this cart/basket scenario even though some of the stuff they're stocking is more in the price range of fresh Iranian caviar than say, your average loaf of bread and quart of milk.

So I walked around Ulta for about an hour. When I got home, I had not just the hair dryer and a reasonable facsimile of the ultra-super perfect styling brush, but no fewer than three different foot files, two different kinds of foot cream, a lipstick, a bottle of nail polish, and this weird electrical thingamajig that claims to both floss and whiten one's teeth.

Either I have become obsessed with grooming, or upon seeing the basket at Ulta, I devolved into some kind of weird, proto-Homer Simpson state, and walked around in a daze murmuring "must ... buy ... grooming ... crappe ..." Or both.

So anyway, I spent a great deal of today grooming myself in an attempt to justify having purchased a shopping basket stuffed with beautifying products. As a result, my hair is great, my feet are soft, "my shoes are clean and neat / and this is odd, because you know, I haven't any feet."

Sorry about that. I don't believe I've mentioned this, but I have Carroll's Syndrome. This is a very rare phenomenon, so don't be surprised if you've never heard of it. Scientists define it as "1.) the ability to recognize when something scans uncannily like a well-known poem or jingle and 2.) a concomitant lack of social awareness, resulting in the immediate production of idiotic doggerel."

Anyway. I'm happy to report that the Ulta booty appears to work fine, although the jury is still out on the motorized tooth flosser, which kind of reminds me of one of those colored vibrators that's trying to look like a cute little animal, except made for midgets instead of grown-up ladies, and I can't believe I'm expected to put it in my mouth, but whatever--I tried it and while the earth didn't move at my end, my teeth appear pretty pleased with themselves.

So, although I'm clearly the mindless minion of the mass market, I'm happy enough. But God help me if Ulta ever gets those big ass carts like the ones at Target.

--P.

Holy Farking Schnit!*

The Asian Leprechauns linked to me! Sweet! I have arrived.

So this isn't being mentioned in the Style section of the NYT, but it's a start, OK?

Check out the leps. They are seriously funny, plus they are evil. And they really know their fashion shiznit.

--P.

*Stolen from Badger. But Badger, don't even think about suing. That Stud Muffin I Married kicks big intellectual property litigation butt. And I'm pretty sure he'd take on my defense pro bono.

Time wasting on Krypton and other adventures

So last night I decided that I needed to find the NetFlix DVDs that got delivered here, oh, a couple of months ago, and had probably been buried under all the children's DVDs, GameCube game booklets, Happy Meal toys, empty VHS boxes and loose tapes scattered and stacked throughout the sunroom. (Which is actually more of a shade room. Or maybe even an Anaerobic Bacteria Production Facility, as the trees on the property have had 80 years to grow big and block 80 percent of the light, not to mention the obviously dire clutter situation.)

So then of course I couldn't find any of the NetFlix DVDs except the one I had already watched. So I spent about 45 minutes watching the out takes, bloopers, and extras on that one while mating tapes and DVDs with their respective boxes and putting them away.

Now here's the truly saddest aspect of what was clearly a pretty pathetic evening: the NetFlix DVD I was watching was Trading Spaces: Viewer's Choice! (2002).

I know, I know. How lame is that? Unbelievably lame. I know. I can't even remember why I put this puppy in my NetFlix queue. I must have been feeling all decorating-a-go-go or perhaps it was the nefarious influence of my favorite TV show, How Clean is Your House? or maybe it was the devil-may-care NetFlix vibe, where, since you're paying a flat fee no matter how many DVDs go back and forth in the mail, why not watch every fucking thing they have?

So anyway, four or five years after the original Trading Spaces shows were broadcast, I'm watching the out takes on such classics as the "Crying Pam" episode, where the woman goes into the other room and sobs because they covered up her fireplace with painted plywood.

Well, either you're a fan, and you're thinking "Yeah! The Crying Pam episode! God, I loved that one!" or you're clueless, which I pretty much was for a long time, and you're thinking "Why in the hell would anyone want to watch that?"

Let me raise the ante here: why in hell would anyone watch the OUT TAKES of these programs? Aren't the fully-edited, released versions of these programs mediocre enough? That's a rhetorical question, but I'll answer it; yes, they are. And no, perky Paige of the piece-y, messy, supposedly-casual-but-scarily-lacquered-into-place hair style is not nearly as cute as she thinks she is.

But while I was neatening up the Chamber of Gloom, I found two more NetFlix DVDs, and at least one of them is another Trading Spaces compilation from five years ago. And tonight I'll probably watch a couple of the episodes.

(Oh, and by the way--don't think I'm not aware of the irony that the owner of a blog called "The Opiate of the Masses" is basically so out of touch with television broadcasting that her main way of keeping up is watching five-year-old shows on DVD. Which she orders from NetFlix and then loses in the Tomb of the Ghost of Media Past otherwise known as "the sunroom.")

No--all that notwithstanding, you must envy me, for my time-wasting abilities are, at the absolute minimum, bionic. And I suspect that they may actually be superhuman.

--P.

Why I So Totally Rule, Part II

I've already bought one of Joke's Christmas presents.

--P.

Why I So Totally Rule, Part I

Recently, it has come to my attention that not everyone is as good a present buyer as I am. And so now, I feel bad. Because while I rue the awfulness of the presents foisted on Joke, I am unable to resist bragging about the Father's Day presents I bought for my husband (a/k/a That Stud Muffin I Married, or TSMIM.)

But first, a brief digression into the joys of marrying a guy who, although he does not send up the visual equivalent of a warning shot--i.e., he doesn't go around wearing floods, filthy sneakers, and pocket protectors--would probably agree that he is something of a geek.

There are many, many reasons to like being married to a geek: I will never set foot inside a sports bar; I will never have to stand outside freezing to death at a so-called tailgate "party," and I will never be any variety of sports widow. OK, maybe my beloved will be spending the Chicago area's extremely scarce supply of beautiful days indoors building a Smart House computerized system or some damned thing, but at least he's at home keeping his nose--and I hope--the house clean.

But the really important fact is this: Geeks are incredibly easy to buy for. There are two reasons for this; first of all, if the gift pushes even part of one of his geek buttons, he's in bliss. ("Woo hoo! Dr. Who on DVD! Now I have a second set to watch on my laptop!") Second, he's not going to get all huffy in the off chance that you bought him the wrong thing. Wrong things might end up stashed on top of the highest bookshelf in his study gathering dust, but your typical geek isn't going to get upset that you didn't read his squirrely little mind correctly. Who is going to be more aware than a geek what a hopeless squid he is?

Plus the true geek never gets over his immense gratitude that there is a woman who was willing to marry him. And who even gets naked once in a while.

And now, the report on the triumphant Father's Day presents. TSMIM adores Tintin, the Belgian boy detective dreamed up by Hergé. On top of that, TSMIM is learning Chinese. Not for practical purposes, mind you; he just finds Chinese interesting.

So of course, what I had to buy him was:

1. The complete adventures of Tintin in Chinese
2. The complete adventures of Tintin on DVD in Chinese with Chinese subtitles.

Also a 2005 Tintin calendar, even though it's May, because he had one last year and there's this sad little blank spot on his study wall where it used to hang.

Now perhaps these don't sound like the greatest presents in the world to you, Gentle and Discerning Reader, but trust me. They totally did the trick.


--P.

Back in the Wholesome Midwest, Part Deux

After a week of heavy duty housecleaning in New Hampshire with by the way NO INTERNET ACCESS AT ALL--in case you were wondering--I'm back in Chicago.

Time for me to go to sleep in MY OWN DAMNED BED for a change.

Good night,

--P.

In which I confess to having been in a fix

First of all, I hope you're all enjoying my extremely kewl new skin.

You know, usually I can resist spending money on frivolous extras.

Well, OK, maybe not.

Confession time; I am the easiest possible prey for the malevolent marketers of the Impulse Purchase. Little weird fatty Ice Cube chocolates at the check out line at Walgreen's? Check. Buy-it-now items on eBay? Check. Well, now I can add "things you pay for with PayPal" to that list.

I'm putty in their evil, scheming mitts. Especially when the item in question is truly stylish. Or extremely well-designed. Or it involves cartoon characters--and even better when they're from the silent screen. Or all of the above.

So, sadly enough, for me to see a Felix the Cat skin and buy it via PayPal was the work of an instant.

I suppose my next impulse item will be a Gertie the Dinosaur Hermes scarf, which will satisfy all my criteria and will, no doubt, push my buttons like an elevator operator.

But let us speak of the here and now, shall we? You might be wondering where the hell I've been. Well, if you keep up with Joke (and you should) you'll have heard that I recently bought a new car. A 2003 VW Passat AWD wagon.

Confession time again: with one stroke I've become a car lover. All it took was a halfway decent set of wheels, which to date, I'd never owned. But now--moon roof! leather upholstery! CD player! Power everything! Walnut-trimmed dash! CUPHOLDERS!

All I can say is at least the car wasn't an impulse item. And I didn't buy it from eBay or pay for it via PayPal. At least I have that much going for me.

So anyway, for a while I was wheel-less. On top of that, both of my computers were moribund. Well, the laptop is as dead as Marley's Ghost, but the desktop is acting more like Badger's microwave.

But at least I could bring the dead laptop to the Apple store in my NICE NEW CAR.

And now I'm going to see whether my neighbors like me more now that I'm not driving a beater.

And if that doesn't work, I'll show them my kewl blog skin.

--P.