PSA: AJ

To those of you who are fans of AJ from alt.fashion, here's a public service announcement. I've heard from her. She's fine. Jackson, MS is a zoo, but she and her loved ones are well.

--P.

What a difference a day makes

I realize with the catastrophic events that have been happening due South of here, it's a bit much for me to whine. But I will, anyway.

After all, less than a week ago, I was lounging at my ease on the sunny, yet not-too-hot New Hampshire seacoast, reading trashy novels and sucking down steamed lobster dunked in melted butter.

Now I'm in Illinois. I'm on Phase 1 of the South Beach Diet, because surprise! lobster has calories. My kids have gone back to school, so that whole species of torture has come roaring back to life. I've had two volunteer committee meetings already and there are three eight-inch high stacks of mail and various hand-outs on my desk (which was whistle-clean when I left for NH). The phone is ringing off the hook. The horror of overseeing my children's homework has already started.

I am really not ready for this.

On top of that, I went to the endodontist today to finish up a root canal, and while the experience was not the most painful I've ever had, I've spent the past few hours slurping down mug after mug of tea and wondering morosely why, when he was supposed to be working my tooth, did my endodontist see fit to leave my gums apparently novocaine-free, whereas my nose, upper lip, left cheek, and left eye were completely numbed to the point where I had to hide from the world because when I talked, I looked like a stroke victim.

And once more, he offered me no drugs. Bastid. And there is NO BOOZE on Phase 1 of South Beach.

Joke says his new car makes him feel as though he went to bed with Bo Derek and woke up with Bo Diddly. He was referring to a car he bought, but as Joke's car runneth (or runneth not, as the case may be) so runneth my life. I feel as though I answered a personal ad with a picture of Gary Cooper playing Beau Geste. But when my date showed up to pick me up, it was Beau Bridges playing himself.

--P.

The Atlantic Ocean, Lake Michigan, and the Red Sea

We made it. I didn't post about it last night because my DSL was acting up. (Pause, then add in Martin Short-as-Ed Grimley-voice) "Isn't that always the way?"

But we actually drove from New Castle, NH--an actual island in the Atlantic Ocean--to Arcadia, Illinois--on the shores of Lake Michigan--in one day. We left NH at 5:00 a.m., (4:00 a.m. Central Time) and arrived in Arcadia at 9:30 p.m., after dropping the boy off at his slumber party in nearby Newtopia. A total of seventeen and a half hours of driving, not counting very, very brief stops to refuel us and/or the car.

And it wasn't that bad. The kids were actually amazingly well-behaved. The driving wasn't that bad. We didn't hit any traffic and we experienced a bare minimum of road construction.

I am so totally impressed with my husband. All those remarks about him being completely insane or on crack? Just hot air. He is a genius.

And in other news, I'm not PMSing any more.

--P.

Is it a Red Sox cap or a martyr's crown?

We're leaving New Hampshire (wanh!) tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m. That's Ack Emma, people. Not my best time of day.

This is so we can drive to Chicago in one day--which if you don't stop to eat, put gas in the car, or pee--takes 16 hours.

OK, now, let's be real. That was the plan as devised by That Stud Muffin I Married. The man with a plan. The guy with the maps, AAA guides, and the GPS. Mr. Type-A-About-Travel himself.

But I am his sneaky wife, and I figured that IF by any chance we got a later start than 5:00 in the morning OR hit traffic OR got really tired, THEN we could crash at some hotel ... so I secretly packed a small bag with some overnight stuff for me and the kids.

(But the Stud Muffin was on his own as regards clean underwear and a toothbrush. If he wants to drive all day and night without stopping, that's his bidnis--but he'll get all hairy and smelly and have moss on his teeth, that's all. That will show HIM.)

But then the phone rang. The slumber party that my son was going to on Saturday night? Has been rescheduled for Friday night. Tomorrow night. Which means that we really, actually, in sooth HAVE to make it to Chicago in one day, for real, no shiznit.

Fuck.

So I'm off to bed now. And it's well before midnight--easily the earliest I've gone to bed this entire vacation. I'll be getting up at about 3:30 to put on my martyr mommy crown I mean my Red Sox baseball cap (not to mention the rest of my clothes) and then start driving and driving and driving.

Talk to you soon from the land where the Sox are White.

--P.

There is nothing like the sight of navy blue sausages to make a girl lose her appetite

I was getting dressed after my shower today, and already regretting the "dinner" I ate last night when That Stud Muffin I Married was off in NYC and I was alone with the kids: a few heapin' handfuls of crackers, a Diet Coke, and then after the kids went to bed, two, count' em, two bowls of ice cream: Brigham's The Curse Reversed (vanilla with chocolate covered peanuts and fudge swirl) and The Big Dig (vanilla with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.)

You know, the usual woman-with-no-witnesses-around-dieting-backlash-cornucopia-of-crap. Carbs, chocolate, salt--BRING IT ON, baby, because we are suffering from advanced PMS--i.e., Poppy Meltdown Status.

So today I was trying to squeeze into my jeans. And it was so. not. happening. As I tugged at them, I was thinking regretfully of the recent night I spent eating pizza and drinking beer and willing my jeans to stretch. Well, they've been washed and dried, and while they don't remember the pizza, apparently my body does. And I'm tugging at the zipper in fucking VAIN and nothing's happening. They will not zip.

Then I thought to check the label. Sure enough, these were my husband's jeans. And I stopped freaking out. See, he's not that big of a guy. He's no longer wearing the 29" waist he was sporting when we met, but he hasn't gotten THAT big. And let's face it; his hips and thighs are never going to be able to compete with mine.

So I pulled his jeans off and pulled mine on. And while I'm not happy with the final effect, I can at least leave the house without getting arrested.

Unless you're a PETA member whose main concern is the health and welfare of the local camel population. Because it does look like I'm trying to illegally smuggle one of their toes, or at the very least, carry one as a concealed weapon. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.

--P.

So where the hell is Darcy?

You're Elizabeth Bennett of Pride and Prejudice by
Jane Austen!


Which Classic Female Literary Character Are you?
brought to you by Quizilla


p.s. Stolen from Jasmine. Thanks, Jasmine!

And some have tight jeans thrust upon them

So a few weeks of eating lobster dunked in butter and sucking down Margaritas every chance I get have definitely taken their toll. I brought all fat clothes when we left Chicago, but they're starting to bite me anyway. Hard.

Today I mostly lounged around. What do I mean, "mostly?" I sat around like a god-damned slug all day reading The Amber Spyglass and playing Snood Solitaire. About 4:00 I decided that I'd better do something constructive, so I hung up curtains. Except I thought I bought three pairs and I only bought three panels, which means another trip to Linens 'n' Things is in order. But after an hour on the stepstool with the Philips head screwdriver and the measuring tape, I figured I was due for a shower.

After the shower I went to put on a pair of jeans because it's quite chilly here; maybe 70 degrees and getting colder.

Well, the jeans were THISTIGHT and I had to shoehorn myself into them and wrestle with the zipper for a while ... and while I have to admit that the rear view was definitely improved (as under normal circumstances my ass is as flat as a wallet with no money in it) the view from the front was horrifying. Not to mention the view from the side.

So I did the only thing I could do. I called Domino's and ordered a couple of pizzas and some Buffalo wings. And then I sat down and ate pizza and drank beer. See, I know these jeans, and the only thing that's going to make them get looser is if I stuff down a few slices of pizza and drink enough beer to force my entire lower body outward, at which point the denim will loosen up.

Oh, right. Like you have anything better to suggest.

--P.

You have been warned.

Hot hot! I am Curry Flavoured. I have a spicy personality. If you can take the heat, you'll love me, if not, I'll probably make you cry. I am not for the faint-hearted. What Flavour Are You?

Still Life with Toes

My dinnuh
Originally uploaded by Poppy.

Well, I'm sure you've enjoyed the break, but today That Stud Muffin I Married set up the wireless DSL service for which my soul had thirsted like the hart for the water hole. This means that instead of using a crappy, incredibly slow dial-up connection and being plugged into the house's single phone line, I can sit comfortably at my ease in any room in the house and blog my ass off without incurring outrageous connection charges or hogging the telephone line. Which is, of course, as it should be. But this probably means that I'll start blogging a lot more.

You have been warned.

OK, for today's photo safari I took the usual complement of pretty pretty postcard type pictures, but for a piquant change of pace, I also decided to branch out and become a food photographer. For those of you who are, say, French or Australian or somesuch (hey, don't accuse me of being nosy; that's what ID Counter is for) let me explain what you're looking at here: reading from the middle of the left side of the picture, one one-pound boiled lobster with melted butter, the cover to the clam container, a container of clam broth--grains of sand visible at the bottom--the bottom of my husband's wine glass, more melted butter because you can never really have enough, right? a glass of cheap white wine, the bottom of my daughter's chocolate milk, my husband's onion rings and cole slaw, my daughter's ketchup, my steamers (steamed soft-shell clams), my onion rings, my cole slaw, the disposable lobster fork, plastic bib, and wet nap, my toes.

I hope my readers from exotic places like Amsterdam, Sydney, Florida, and Texas find this picture and its accompanying description unbelievably fascinating and evocative of local color. Almost like an Andrew Wyeth painting with a caption by Robert Frost. Because that's about as amusing as I find it possible to be.

Not that I have indigestion or anything.

FYI, everything except the toes is courtesy of BG's Boat House in either Rye or Portsmouth, New Hampshire--I can't really remember which. You sit on a deck overlooking a marina and eat fish in a relaxed, casual, if somewhat mosquitoe-ridden atmosphere. I recommend the restaurant, but I also recommend a liberal dose of bug repellent as a pre-prandial precaution.

--P.

The good, the bad, and the boring

Hmm, it's been a while. Where, oh where, to begin?

Well, I've been in New Hampshire for almost two weeks, and I'm having an excellent time. I've made some more progress cleaning through the accumulated grime and clutter, plus we've purchased a new king-sized mattress and boxspring so we can fwomp I MEAN SLEEP in style. Also a new living room sofa and some gorgeous mahogany dining room table and chairs. I've also picked up a few souvenirs and discovered some great shops in the Market Street area of Portsmouth.

I got a library card at the local teensy library--so cute!--and have finished reading all six Harry Potter books, so I'm starting on Philip Pullman His Dark Materials trilogy. Big fun.

Plus I plan to pick up a few seafood cookbooks and start waving a briny spatula about real soon now. It's just that it's been so nice to let That Stud Muffin I Married do all the cooking, heh heh heh. But soon I will start cooking seafood--which of course, I never bother to cook in Chicago--but yay, now there are local lobster pounds and fish stores, tra la.

So that's the good.

The bad? It's so damned picturesque that after a while, your eyes beg for mercy. "Please!" they scream, "no more seascapes--no more 18th century houses--no more windowboxes teeming with gorgeous flowers, no more arbors draped with roses--NO MORE."

Of course, when that happens, I just tell my eyes to FUCK OFF and go on my merry way.

The boring--well--moi. Because my weirdo hippy Hare Krishna mother-in-law just visited while my WASP-y Wellesley-educated Republican mother was in town and no fireworks erupted. The walls still stand, the roof is intact, and basically, that star spangled banner still waves / o'er the land of the free and the home of the cowardly.

OK, so I planned it so they never actually saw each other. Call me a chicken. Lambaste me for my lack of imagination. This is my vacation, damn it. I want to drink cocktails and go out to dinner and shop and hit the beach. I don't want to hear any crying or whining at all--this is true for my kids and especially true of me.

Sooner or later, things will get dramatic. Meanwhile, I'm boring.

--P.

The Dog Vomit Report

Yesterday I went shopping by myself, so I was actually away from my husband and children for the first time since July 29th. So that was pretty great right there.

I have to say, though, the experience brought back unhappy memories. You see, I suffered a degree of culture shock when I moved to Chicago. The people there were so ... dressy. I thought I liked clothes, and as soon as I started receiving an allowance, I pretty much spent every cent of it on fashion magazines, but when I moved to Chicago, I realized I looked frumpy. See, there's a kind of "don't look like you're trying too hard" vibe in New England. I blame this on the fact that New England has much in common with Old England--way more than the rest of the country. These characteristics include pale skin, bad teeth, bland food, a penchant for decorating in a traditional style, a general dislike of embarrassingly fervent religious gatherings, and looking pretty much god-awful most of the time.

So when I moved to Chicago, I realized that I was suffering from the New England fashion curse. It took me a while to get up to speed. And for all I know, I'm still driving 35 on a fashion freeway with a speed limit of 65.

Other members of my family had it even worse. I know this is true because they think I'm well-dressed.

We won't go into the matter of my mother's wardrobe--I'll save that for one of those long winter evenings when I feel like blogging but inspiration fails me--but my oldest sister dresses like an aging hippy, and my other sister has always been pretty clueless about what looks good on her or what looks good in general, and she never gets rid of her old clothes, so even though she's an extremely good-looking woman with a great figure, she pretty much dresses like dog vomit.

Like when you're visiting her and you come down for breakfast, she's likely to be wearing leggings and a big old stretched-out sweatshirt and one of those cheap stretchy Goody hair bands that you didn't think they made any more (and you'd be right; my sister's dates to 1979.)

I have always attributed my sister's appalling wardrobe to her innate bad taste . However, now that I have been shopping in the nearest mall, I can see that it's a case of the blind leading the blind. See, my sister has lived in New Hampshire for about 10 years. And if this mall is any indication of what's available, her general Glamour-Don't-ness makes all kind of sense.

You know it's bad when the mall's anchors are Macy's, Filene's, Sears, and if I'm not mistaken, J. C. Penney. You know it's bad when the only brand of shoes you recognize is Steve Madden, and what looks like the high-end sportswear department is full of Liz Claiborne, or when the only stores you can actually see yourself shopping at are the Gap, the magazine store, and the place with all the different-colored Red Sox baseball caps.

But if the stores were bad, the people. Good. Lord. Jeeves. The old guys with the high-waisted pants like Ed Grimley. The old ladies in those coordinating pants and tops from the Appleseed catalog. The trailer trash moms with their bra-straps showing pushing double strollers and yelling at their kids. The cheesey tattoos. The generally lackluster grooming. The nicely dressed people look as though they stepped bodily out of the L. L. Bean catalog. The badly dressed people looked like they stopped buying clothes 25 years ago. Except for the teen-aged girls in their Limited II slutware. I'm telling you THE MIND BOGGLES.

My greatest fear is that I am somehow going to suffer a complete relapse. Since I got here I've worn nothing but flip-flops, shorts, and t-shirts. So far they haven't all been Red Sox t-shirts, and the shorts aren't from L. L. Bean--but it could happen. And if that happens, can a cheesey tattoo be far behind?

--P

My crush

My crush
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're thinking--the Queen Anne's Lace is nice enough, but getting a crush on it? That's weird.

Well, it's not the QAL I'm loving. Or the yarrow or the roses. It's that cute little lobster boat. I want to bear its children. RRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr.

And that's about all I have to offer as a photo safari of the lovely seacoast of New Hampshire. I was out walking around today for about an hour and a half, but the battery to my digital camera crapped out after about four shots, so you're getting one of my Pretty Postcard Picture shots from the other day.

I'm sure that's OK with everyone, because the shots I was planning on taking of the art class in the cemetary and the Naval Prison and the purple house and MORE LOBSTER BOATS might not have been all that entrancing, anyway.

So you can all pretend that I was ambling along the waterfront snapping cute pictures, when actually what I did today was:

1. Go to Sears and buy a king-sized Stearns and Foster mattress because they were on sale and no sales tax in New Hampshire, yay me!

2. Take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's and spend $50 on pizza and Budweiser and cotton candy and tokens and TOTALLY KICK BUTT on the smash-the-prairie-dog on the head game and the baseball game and the Skeeter Ball game and win tons of tickets only to walk out of there with a completely paltry set of prizes consisting of some Skittles, a candy bracelet, and a set of fake gold fingernails.

What a rip off. (Yes, this actually is the first time I've been to Chuck E. Cheese's.) And wow, I haven't had one for a long, long time, but is Budweiser ever watery tasting.

So basically this picture is the only proof I have that I'm in the seacoast area of New Hampshire. Because from my day's activities, I could have been in Anytown, U.S.A.

The only way I knew where I really was was the candlepin bowling place we passed on the highway. Oh, and the car with New Hampshire plates with a "Manny,"vanity plate, three Red Sox stickers, and a sticker that says "Yankees Still Suck."

And of course, they do.

--P.

Greetings from New Hamster

Greetings from New Hampster
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

We're in New Hampshire and it's wonderful. It's wonderful even though I'm spending a lot of time cleaning. And I don't mean just wiping kitchen counters. No, this is big time stuff. Like yesterday I was washing walls. But I was actually enjoying it, in that pathetic way anyone who has ever bought a "fixer upper" would recognize.

So yeah, I can't really call this a vacation, per se. Our house needs a ton of work, but I have family in the area, which helps a lot. My future brother-in-law has done a lot--he made many trips to the dump, and now we can actually get a car into the garage. Which was impossible before. There were two work tables in there, a bunch of old weird tools, an entire hardware store's worth of canned hazardous waste, and a ton of miscellaneous junk. There was absolutely no room for a car, so of course the previous owners parked their cars outside in the yard. Which I'm sure just thrilled the neighbors.

I figure they love us already, if only because we put the car in the garage once in a while.

Also my sister's fiance pulled up the deeply ugly shag ORANGE wall-to-wall carpeting on the stairs, revealing beautiful oak steps--I just wish I had taken a picture of the "before," that's all, because it was so bad I could have dined out on it for years. I'm serious; they were so hideous I could have become the Oscar Wilde of bad interior decoration and never had to cook another meal, damn it. I could just have waxed wondrous witty over my hideous shaggy orange stairs and people would have fought for the chance to invite me to dinner.

Or at least I'd have come up with a funnier blog entry than this.

Instead, you're stuck with my pretty pretty postcard-perfect style of photography. This is New Castle; it's just so damned New England-y and quaint and gorgeous that it boggles the mind. It's like Nantucket without the self-conscious cutesy twee factor (not to mention wall-to-wall New York CEO's wives wearing too much jewelry and those ubiquitous straw hats with the black grosgrain ribbon trim blabbing on their cell phones. Yes, I'm bitter; so sue me.)

When I'm not cleaning house or taking pictures, I'm eating seafood. The other night we ate dinner at Warren's, my favorite lobster place in Maine; it's very corny with the obligatory big-ass lobster sign and a plaque demonstrating various nautical knots hanging on the wall, but the food is really pretty good. I had swordfish and before the entree we all shared shrimp cocktail and fried calamari (which my daughter loved, declaring "It's like chicken and french fries, only more octopus-y.") Today's lunch was at the Portsmouth Brewery where there are many marvelous local beers on tap.

See the pretty boats? I've decided I want a lobster boat. There isn't one in this picture, but I'll upload one. They are SO CUTE. I want a lobster boat and while I'm at it, I also want to join the Portsmouth Yacht Club and have my daughter's wedding there, or at least my son's rehearsal dinner.

Which is completely idiotic of me, because I know absolutely nothing about boats. I am an idiot. But aren't they pretty?

So anyway, I'll be uploading more pictures now that I've figured out my ISP and photo software. Mind you, I take pictures of anything that amuses me, so some stuff maybe needs explaining. And maybe not everyone is as obsessed with lobster boats as I am. So I won't make it all cute lobster boats. Mostly, though.

--P.