Is that all there is ... to Halloween?

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

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

My kids are such lightweights.

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

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

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

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




Plus maybe I'd get to meet Johnny Depp.

--P

Woo hoo! I'm not Homer!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

--P.

Links and dip

I'm constantly fiddling with my links list. If you suspect (or know) that I read your blog but you're not in my links list, it's probably because I don't need a link to get to your blog. Either I've memorized your blog's url (www.dooce.com, anyone?) or I blog hop to it from one of the many blogs I check daily.

Actually, more than daily.

Yes, I badly need to get a life.

I actually do this with blogs I don't even like. For example, there's a guy who made it over here once and left a comment to the effect that mine was the single most tedious stream of bilge he'd ever read. Once in a while I blog hop over to his blog to reassure myself that his life remains as uninteresting and essentially vapid as he believes mine to be.

So please don't feel neglected. (Unless you're an asswipe who has nothing better to do than leave pissy little comments on my blog. Because if you are, I'll make fun of you--beginning by calling you an asswipe.)

In other news, my diet veered onto the rocks and sank without a trace today due to the siren song of the leftover Costco multi-layered Tex-Mex dip and Restaurant Style White Corn Tostitos. Now, I'm not one for conspiracy theories, but what the hell is IN that stuff that makes it so deliciously addictive? All I have to do is think about the luscious combination of guacamole, picante sauce, sour cream, shredded cheese and corn chips and I literally salivate like Pavlov's dog. I figure the secret must lie in the mysterious taco seasoning mix they add. Please, somebody out there assure me it isn't carcinogenic.

--P.

Two days late and a dollar short.

As promised (or threatened) elsewhere (and I can't remember where) I'm finally uploading a show-and-tell Friday picture. Because for once I had the subject and the camera AND the laptop--all in one place and all in working order.

Blackbird has requested it, so voila--la toile-a-rama:



Believe it or not, an actual red-blooded heterosexual American man sleeps there with me at night. In fact, he's sleeping there right now.

And that's what I should be doing, so ... bye!

--P.

Hippo Halloween

I don't think there is any feeling greater, more triumphant, than waking up in the morning the day after having a party.

Maybe successfully pushing out a baby--but then, you have to factor in hormones and maybe drugs. So OK, I felt like Tondelaya of the jungle after I pushed out my daughter ... but that was long, long ago, in a galaxy far away, before she could get dressed up as a glamorous witch




so I think it's pretty safe to say that I don't quite remember how triumphant I felt. And I do know that this morning I feel pretty triumphant.

And this is not even factoring in for an extra hour's sleep. Let's face it--to feel this good, I'd have had to have had a baby the day daylight savings ended. Is there anything better than waking up in the morning, secure in the knowledge that it's actually an hour earlier than you think it is?



Now let me just brag a bit about my cheapo Costco flowers, people. Two bunches for $14.99 a bunch. A little fiddling around with the shears and the recycled florist vases and voila:












And here's another bouquet, in the smaller vase, next to the candy.







For thirty bucks I think they look pretty good. BTW, that recycled goldfish bowl was full at the start of the evening. So in the goody bags I included some gruesome looking fake teeth. Got to remind the little guys to BRUSH.










Of course my efforts are totally put to shame by the florist extravaganzae on the mantelpiece:




The only bad news is that I have ALL KINDS of party food left over. Last year I sent people home with leftovers, but this year I got too busy, and people were gone before I could load them up with leftover pulled pork, chili, slices of cake, and cookies.

So, confession being good for the soul, allow me to confess that for breakfast this morning I had two cups of tea, two M&M cookies, and a snack sized KitKat bar. And I'm sure things will go downhill from there.


Oh--and speaking of babies--check out the youngest guest:


--P.

Freaky Frantic Friday

I'm in the frantic stage of party preparations for our annual Halloween open house. This morning I made a few phone calls to order stuff for tomorrow: flowers and helium balloons from the florist, pulled pork, potato salad, and cole slaw from Hecky's. Then I went into the kitchen and started cooking. And I feel LIKE I'VE BEEN HERE ALL DAY. All I cooked was a huge pot of chili and a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, for Pete's sake. But it's been HOURS. I feel like I've been stuck in my kitchen forever.

You know, a cake is actually a better investment of my time. All this dropping by teaspoons onto a baking sheet and baking only one sheet at a time--I'm lucky if I get a cookie for each minute spent cooking. And it's hands-on cooking. A cake can be in the oven for a while, and you get to do something else. You even get to leave the kitchen. But with cookies it's in and out, in and out, IN AND OUT. I hope is that my oven is enjoying this more than I am.

So I have about one hour to make my house appear semi-presentable, then take a shower, blow dry my hair, get dressed, and head downtown for dinner and the ballet with some friends and That Stud Muffin I Married.

Last night I got dressed up and drove downtown for a party at the Field Museum.

TOO MUCH GETTING DRESSED UP.

At least for tomorrow's party no one will expect me to look good. In fact, I could get up tomorrow morning and put on exactly what I'm wearing right now (Mom jeans, an ancient "Northern Exposure" t-shirt, no makeup, bare feet, and limp hair) and tell everyone I'm going out as a zombie. And I'd probably win the prize for Most Realistic Costume because I just caught a glimpse of myself, and I look like I snack on human brains.

--P.

Sox in Any City

Last night--after seven innings without a hit and nine innings of nail-biting nervousness on my part--the White Sox won the World Series. They swept the Houston Astros in four games. I was thrilled.

Since I'm from Boston, and am a fairly vociferous Red Sox fan with an impressive collection of t-shirts and baseball caps, this might not make a lot of sense. But hear me out.

Last year during the World Series between the Red Sox and the Cardinals, my father was in a hospital bed. He was dying-- and he was wearing a Red Sox button on his pyjamas.

Daddy was born in Boston in 1918, the last year the Red Sox had won the World Series. He died on Monday, October 26, a couple of days before they won the World Series for the first time in 86 years.

At his memorial, my brothers and sisters decorated lots of tables with pictures and memorabilia from Daddy's life--his school years, his music, his service in WWII, his business, his travels. And there was a table with Red Sox memorabilia--especially the magazine covers that said 1918-2004.

During the lead-up to the final White Sox win, the Chicago Tribune was full of stories about long-time die-hard Sox fans. On the South Side of Chicago, the florists are selling White-Sox-themed wreaths, and people are hanging them on the tombstones of their fathers or grandfathers who were devoted White Sox fans.

I wouldn't necessarily want to do that--but I can sure understand the impulse. Because so many of us are thinking "If only Daddy were here to see this."

So I'm celebrating a White Sox World Championship for the City of Chicago. For the American League. For the amazing players I've been watching. For the fans who never lost hope. And most especially, for the fans who never had the chance to see it happen.

--P.

An Update on the Update.

Lordy, here I was thinking that without electricity or reliable phone service, Joke would find it a bit difficult to post.

Emily Litella: I'm sorry. Never mind.

Chevy Chase: Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Garrett Morris (screaming) GOOD NIGHT, AND HAVE A PLEASANT TOMORROW!

--P.

News Update for Joke's Fan Base

Joke called me up tonight to give me the update, and since I'm such a generous and thoughtful person, I thought I'd share. Because good lord, ladies, I can hear the keening and the wailing and the worriting all the way from Chicago. (Or is that me keening? Sometimes I get confused.)

So anyway, Joke and the rest of the Joke clan are doing fine. Like much of the rest of Florida (3.2 million households and counting) they are without their usual source of electricity. However, Joke very wisely bought a generator one or two hurricanes ago--i.e., two weeks ago, not that I'm knocking Florida or anything--so as long as he has gas, they have juice.

Of course, there is the little problem of what to do when they run out of gas, as what are the chances that the gas stations have electricity when no one else does?

Still, they're fine and in good spirits. However, there is no cell phone service, no DSL, and limited land line use. So we are going to have to endure an awkward silence of indefinite length emanating from points south. Unless you live in Key West, in which case you're too busy bailing to care.

Not to mention--and I'm not whining, really--but Joke and Mrs. Joke were supposed to be flying to Chicago to hang out with the Poppies and gad about, eat, drink (too much) and talk (even more than that.) But the Miami-Dade airport is closed, man, because of blown down palm trees and wreckage and such-like. So they might not come.

Which sucks more than a hopped-up Hoover.

But--and I'll say this for one last time--they're really fine.

Sobbing uncontrollably,

--P.

The mighty blasts of October

Well, the White Sox won last night, and the game was truly exciting. During the seventh inning, when the White Sox were down by two, the bases were loaded, there were two outs, and Konerko stepped up to the plate, I immediately thought: "Either he'll strike out or he'll hit a pop fly that even I could catch, and that will be that."

Instead, he hit a grand slam. A grand slam! While I was watching! That never happens.

So that was cool.

Then the Astros caught up and tied the game (due to some surprisingly sucky pitching from Saturday night's boy wonder, Bobby Jenks.) "Argh! Extra innings!" I thought. "I'll be up all night!" So when the White Sox got a home run in the ninth inning, I practically needed an ambulance full of CPR-trained professionals to perform resuscitation.

OK, so this morning, it's raining and overcast and instead of medical technicians, I have an army of cleaning guys going through my house with wet-dry vaccuum cleaners, long-handled brushes, and toothbrushes, washing windows inside and out, hand-scrubbing every little bit of the woodwork, and washing the radiators with a clang clang CLANGing sound. By the end of the day, my house will look fantastic. Except for my furniture, rugs, curtains, crappy art, and tacky tasteless tchotkes, that is. But that woodwork! Those windows! OMG! They are to die!

To keep out of the cleaners' way, I'm hunkered down in our minuscule so-called "sun room." It's really more a place where you'd grow ferns or maybe moss, since the trees outside have grown very tall since this house was built. And they make a lot of shade. The pedantic would describe my yard as "umbrageous." The pedantic might even liken my yard to "the forest primeval." All this shade is--if not excellent, at least acceptable--except on rainy fall days before the leaves have finished falling. Like today. Then it's kind of depressing.

The cleaning is so my house can look acceptable for Saturday night's Halloween party. Although it does seem a bit silly to rid myself of real cobwebs only to see party stores filled with artificial ones for decorating. But hey, we have REAL spiders here. And they make REAL cobwebs, man. Fake cobwebs are for wussies.

Not that I do all that much in the way of decorating. I sure as HELL don't put gruesome skeletons, severed hands, giant cobwebs, and maniacally cackling witches everywhere. This is a family party, and I don't hire hoards of professional cleaners at exorbitant prices to get the place spotless only to have a bunch of four year olds pee in their pants with fright over the decorations.

This reminds me--I've really got to get cracking on the Lisa Simpson costume my daughter thinks I can make. Or I will go down in history as the Worst Mother in the Midwest, that's all. Possibly even East of the Mississippi. And I only have two children. For all I know, the young lady in question will be picking my retirement community. And I want a nice one. With clean windows and woodwork! And no cobwebs.


--P.

Alvin has left the building

Well, we came home from a weekend away to signs of animal life in da house: critter or critters unknown had been chewing on the apples in a bowl on the kitchen table, digging in the potted miniature garden o' greens in the dining room and pooping on the sofa doing what critters do best on a piece of furniture that is now--voila!--scheduled for reupholstering.

It was a chipmunk.

The fourth or fifth in the past six months.

I have NO idea how they're getting in the house. Were people leaving the screen door open? Leaving the garage door open--who knows? Who cares? All I know is that it has been a homeless chipmunk shelter around here lately, and I. have. had. it.

I don't mean to brag, but the first one or maybe two were handled with relative aplomb by yours truly, with her son riding shotgun. The beauty part of chipmunks is that unlike most other outdoor critters, they WANT TO GET BACK OUTSIDE. And it's just as well they do, because That Stud Muffin I Married was invariably out of town on business when the little rodents took up occupancy. As I was the sole responsible adult on the premises, I needed every advantage.

So here's some free advice: if you're ever faced with a chipmunk-in-the-house problem, here's what you do: set up a barricade between said Alvin and a door to the outside. Then with a broom or a dustmop or anything else handy, encourage said Alvin to exit the premises.

As a freshly-minted expert on chipmunk removal, you'd think I'd have kept my head this time. But no. I'm afraid that there was a cumulative adrenaline overload effect happening. I'm familiar with the syndrome, as it also happened with the Emergency Room visits I appeared to make--routinely--with my son when he was a toddler. The time we were in New Hampshire and I was pregnant and he fell off a booster seat and bit through his lower lip and had to get all drugged up so he could get stitches? No problem. However, a week later, when he tripped and fell face-forward onto the rim of a metal wastebasket? Total meltdown city. Not him--me. I called That Stud Muffin I Married and told him to meet me in the Emergency Room, STAT, because I was "not going through this again alone."

Thus it has gone with chipmunks in da house. With the first one, I was Sheena of the Jungle. With the second I jumped a bit, but managed to get said Alvin out with despatch. The third time, I jumped every time the swinging of the pendulum of the kitchen clock appeared in my peripheral vision. The fourth time and upwards? For-fwomping-get it. I'm a total basket case.

And it didn't help that TSMIM was actually around this time. Because unlike our son, who can go into full-on Chipmunk SWAT team mode in the blink of an eye, TSMIM needed to have various principles of chipmunk engagement explained, which is pretty much impossible when you're screaming and hysterical and keep jumping up on the kitchen counter to get your feet up and way from possible chipmunk scrabbling.

But he and I finally managed to get the little bugger out of the house. YAY!

So here I am, in my boudoir, basking in the glow of accomplishment, and not coincidentally, chugging some very decent Shafer chardonnary. With my bare feet tucked securely under me. And not a rodent in sight.

--P.

I say it's Black Tie. And I say the hell with it.

Last night I went to a black tie event.

Actually, as That Stud Muffin I Married put it, there was so much ass-kissing going on that it was more of a Brown Nose event.

And that aspect of it was sort of amusing. I enjoyed watching one new partner kiss the asses of the people he thought--incorrectly--were important. This definitely wasn't me, so I spent long periods of time speaking to--and being spoken to by--no one except TSMIM. Whenever anyone buttonholed him, I would get so bored that I made five trips to the "lady's room," i.e., out to the television set to watch the White Sox beat the Houston Astros in the first game of the World Series.

I kept thinking that if I weren't at my husband's firm's prom, we could be watching the game at home. Wearing comfortable clothes.

God, how I hate black tie events.

Joke loves them, but he doesn't have to encase himself from head to toe in unnatural fibers. He wears a cotton shirt, a wool dinner suit, a silk tie and a cummerbund. A bit of fiddling with shirt studs and cufflinks and boom, he's done.

But when I go to a black tie event, it takes a long time and a lot of effort to get ready. And I end up wearing enough nylon and spandex to equip a small gathering of fetishists.

First of all, there's the dress. I have no idea what the fabric is made of, but it's definitely not natural. Under it I'm wearing a one-piece instrument of torture that sucks my stomach in for me. Over that I've got on a pair of control-top panty hose to prevent the tops of my thighs from bulging out from under the instrument of torture.

Then of course I have to wear pointy-toed shoes. I have to style my hair (a joke in and of itself) and then cover myself and my bathroom mirror with hair spray.

At various points during the process of donning my fetishwear, I have to apply a full face of spackle and deal with my contact lenses. I hate wearing my contact lenses. I only wear them for black tie events because glasses + black tie = Agnes Gooch. The solution they're stored in irritates my eyes, so every time I wear them I have to factor in extra time for the tearing, blinking, swearing, adjusting, and mopping off of my face.

I also hate my lenses because they don't correct my vision all that well, and they don't correct at all for my rapidly-developing hyperopia, meaning that I have to put them on after I've done everything that involves being able to see anything at reading distance. And this means that I end my primp sessions by having to put on my eye-makeup via Braille. With the result that I end up with mascara in my eyebrows, so thank heavens I can't see myself when I look into a mirror.

After going through all that, is it any surprise that when I arrive at the event, my first and pretty much only idea is to inhale any ethanol within a five-foot radius of my spandex? Of course not. But then I am faced with the challenge of getting in and out of the fetishwear in order to relieve myself of the after-effects of too much liquid refreshment.

So I've decided that black tie events are a plot devised by the male of the species to make themselves look great while the females of the species undergo the modern, Western equivalent of foot-binding in order to end up looking--maybe--sort of acceptable.

And anyone who wants to argue with me can just kiss my spandex-encased ass.

--P.

Because Badger asked

So here is the menu for our annual Halloween Open House (which, like, one person has bothered to RSVP about, so the quantity of food will probably be way off, resulting in my family being forced to subsist on party leftovers for a week.)

First we'll have an assortment of appetizer-snacky things. I haven't figured out exactly what. I'm thinking of fixing my mother's Curried Olive Canapes because they look black and fairly scary, but actually taste pretty good. Plus a layered bean dip thing. But no Vienna-franks-decorated-to-look-like-Witches-fingers or anything like that.)

For drinks we will of course have beer (Sam Adams, Amstel Light, maybe some of that weird pumpkin ale) plus wine, plus I'll have the usual bar available.

Alice's Favorite Chili
(from the Alice's Restaurant Cookbook)
with lots of toppings: grated cheddar, minced onion, minced scallions, sliced black olives
plus a big rice cooker of cooked white rice, for people who like to tone down the spice,
plus a few bottles of hot sauce--(my favorite is Texas Champagne) for people who like to bump up the spice.

Pulled Barbecued Pork and rolls
(from Heckey's)

Heckey's Cole Slaw
(which I don't like because it's too sweet, but other people seem to think it's fine)

A couple of sides from Song of Sixpence. Last year I got Harvest Corn Salad and Dill Potato Salad.

I order a lot of the food, I guess. But I actually bake the desserts:

Pumpkin Pecan Bundt Cake

Alexander's Favorite Chocolate Chocolate Chip Bundt Cake

both to be served with plenty of Whipped Cream

also

M&M Cookies made with Halloween-Colored M&Ms

Oatmeal Tam O Shanters

Since this is a family event, I will also have juice boxes, individual bags of Pepperidge Farm goldfish, baby carrots, broiled drumsticks, and hot dogs available.

There are usually bowls of candy around, too.

And the children get goody bags. If I have time, I'll make popcorn balls for them.

--P.

My Halloween Party Play List

For the benefit of Tequila Red, and anyone else who is throwing a Halloween party on October 29, I bring you the latest version of my All Ages Halloween Open House playlist:

"Ahh Real Monsters" from Nickelodeon
"Angelique's Theme" from Dark Shadows
"Barnabas's Theme" from Dark Shadows
"Clown Dream" from the soundtrack to Pee Wee's Big Adventure
"I Like to Move It" (Monster Booty) from the soundtrack to Madagascar
"Lydia Strikes a Bargain" from the soundtrack to Beetlejuice
"Quentin's Theme" from Dark Shadows--performed by the Boston Pops
"The Castle of the Wicked Witch" from the soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz
2 Unlimited: Twilight Zone (Rave)
Alan Silvestri: "The Mummy Returns"
Alice Cooper: "Feed My Frankenstein"
Alvin and the Chipmunks: "Fish Heads"
Alvin and the Chipmunks: "Witch Doctor Techno Remix"
Annie Lennox: "Love Song for a Vampire"
Apocalyptica from Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Big Bee Kornegay and Group: At the House of Frankenstein
Bobby "Boris" Pickett: "The Monster Mash"
Bowie: "Scary Monsters"
Butthole Surfers: "Dracula from Houston"
Classic IV: "Spooky Little Girl"
Danny Elfman: Theme from Sleepy Hollow
Dark Shadows Music Cue Medley
Dave Chase: Chase Abduction
Dead Can Dance: Music for Vampires
Drifters: "Love Potion Number 9"
Edgar Winters Group "Frankenstein"
Gene Wilder: "Puttin' on the Ritz" (from Young Frankenstein)
Golden Earring: Twilight Zone
Guns and Roses: "Sympathy for the Devil" (from Interview with the Vampire soundtrack)
Ichabod Crane
J. S. Bach: Toccata and Fugue in D
Korn and Marilyn Manson: Theme from Sleepy Hollow
Mannheim Steamroller: Night on Bald Mountain
MC Hammer: "Addams Groove" (from Addams Family Values)
Metallica: Alfred Hitchcock Presents (Theme)
Michael and Janet Jackson: "Scream"
Michael Jackson: "Thriller" (extended version)
Michael Jackson's "Bad"/Theme from Ghostbusters mashup
Misfits: Theme from The Munsters (the cover)
Misfits: "Vampire Love"
Mussorgsky: Night on Bald Mountain
Napoleon XIV: "They're Coming to Take Me Away"
Phish "Feed My Frankenstein"
Ray Stevens: "Witch Doctor (Ooh Ee Ooh Ah Ah"
Robin Williams: "Batty" from the soundtrack to Ferngully
Run DMC: theme from Ghostbusters II
Ryan Adams and the Cardinals: "I See Monsters"
Social Distortion: Mommy's Little Monster
Swinging Phillies: Frankenstein's Party
The Eagles: "Witchy Woman"
The Simpsons: Treehouse of Horror V opening credits
The Slackers: The Mummy
Theme from Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho"
Theme from Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Theme from Dark Shadows
Theme from Ghostbusters
Theme from The Addams Family
Theme from The Munsters (the classic)
Theme from The Twilight Zone
Warren Zevon: "Werewolves of London"


--P.

Best line I could steal this early in the day:

"As readers of my blog will surely attest, I just don't have that much to say."

Courtesy of KathyR, who has just earned a much-coveted spot on my blogroll.

--P.

All is forgiven.

I managed to get the television in the home theater working (usually it's too complicated for me to figure out in less than half an hour) so I managed to catch the second half of the last inning.

So I saw the White Sox win the pennant!!!

World Series in Chicago! Woo hoo!

--P.

The Good. And the Completely Moronic.

So the White Sox are up by one run, top of the ninth inning, very close to winning the pennant. And I can't find the game on television. OK, I don't usually watch White Sox baseball. But right now, I'm watching a Chicago Bears player being interviewed about today's football game. Blah blah blah blah, then they cut to an update on the National Hockey League. Where's ESPN or Fox? I can't find the game!

High speed wireless internet, digital cable, three televisions, three computers--and I have to go find an AM radio to hear some play by play. Honestly. I'm probably going to end up sitting in my car to hear it.

Listen up, you retards. The White Sox are about to beat the Angels in Anaheim. This is almost the World Series and no one's talking baseball. It just sucks! This game should be on about four channels. Come on! It's October. Who cares about football? Or hockey???

Definitely not

--P.

Thank God mine were toilet-trained years ago.

I'm as leftie-bolshie-crunchy as the next over-educated goofball, but aren't medication-free childbirth, breastfeeding on demand, cloth diapers, and letting my kids sleep in my bed once in a while enough?

Apparently not.

If mine were infants--and I can't even begin to say how glad I am that they're not (been there, done that, laundered the spit-up off the fugly Motherwear nursing t-shirt) some Lamaze educator would be trying to talk me into paying extra close attention to my baby's "Elimination Communication" to ascertain when he or she was going to take a leak or worse. And then I'd rush the child to a potty seat, and help him along by making wee-wee and poo-poo noises.

Two--no, three words: AS. FUCKING. IF.

I mean, imagine the scenario of a sleep-deprived half-crazed new mother. In addition to figuring out what to feed the child and whether he needs another nap or why, in God's name, is he crying his head off AGAIN, she'd be trying to decipher the language of her child's lower G. I. tract.

For Christ's sake, I have difficulty understanding the so-called language of my own.

Something tells me the people behind (hee!) this movement (HAHAHAHAHA!) are first time parents who either have no lives, or are looking for a little project to keep them busy while they're building their yurta, raising llamas, tanning artificial leather, buying Fair-Trade organic coffee beans at the local co-op, and/or regrowing their foreskins.

--P.

Sox win!

Hey, I'm from Boston, but Red, White--who cares at this point? Chicago so totally deserves this!

--P.

Photoblog--an Indian Summer Saturday

Today we took a trip to the Lincoln Park neighborhood. First, lunch at R. J. Grunt's, the first restaurant in the Lettuce Entertain You restaurant chain. Grunt's was where the salad bar was invented, or at least, that's the claim.

What we really liked, though, was the children's menus and the crayons:

Then we played in the park for a while. My son took this picture of the statue of the turtle.


And yo! all you people who think we're heathens: we have all kinds of appreciation for the arts:


Then on to the Lincoln Park Conservatory, which is Victorian horticulture at its best. The main room, with its aquatic plants, goldfish, and statuary, the koi pond in the Fern room, and an orange tree:

The Fern Room:






The Orchid Room:



Naturally, after all this fresh air, nature, Victorian didacticism, and beer at lunch, the kids are just as fresh and frisky as a pair of chipmunks.

The adults, however, are a couple of zombies. One of us is asleep. Can you guess which one?

--P.

Today is Sweetest Day.

Would somebody be kind enough to tell me--WHAT THE HELL IS SWEETEST DAY?

I've always figured it was Valentine's Day's half birthday. Although I just counted on my fingers and the math doesn't work out.

But why the hell am I being guilt-tripped into buying somebody something?

Actually, I just did a search on it and found the answer. Which I won't bother to discuss. It's actually pretty uninteresting, and anyway, you can always find it yourself. God bless Internet search engines, right? It's great--you don't have to know anything anymore--as long as you have internet access, you can find out your answer and then forget it. Which is exactly what I just did.

--P.

Where to begin?

As a test of my multiple-photograph-uploading abilities, I am pleased to present the upstairs bathroom of our house in New Hampshire.

As Conrad so succinctly put it, "The horror. The horror!" Right on, Joseph. Truer words were never written. And as my title says, where to begin?

While I'll admit I'm fairly amused by the Chinoiserie-style vanity (which is complemented by the Chinoiserie-style electric outlet plate--you can't see it, but it's there) for the most part, I'm flummoxed by the decorating choices made by Person or Persons Unknown.

For one thing, while Mother Nature would assure us that all shades of green go together beautifully, or at least, she would, if she weren't busy with the upkeep on her rain forests and such, this bathroom is living proof that actually, they don't.

If the details escape the viewer, allow me to fill you in. The walls are a sort of olive green paisley stripe. The toilet and bathtub are a shade I've always called Gym Uniform Green.
Some tiles in the tub enclosure have been replaced, but not with matching tile. No, Person or Persons Unknown selected a paler shade of Gym Uniform Green--perhaps what lacrosse players wear during their spring and early summer practices.
The floor is covered with a faux-marbre vinyl tile in a streaked Ivy Green and white. The bathroom sink is yet another shade, something between Ivy and Gym Uniform. And at some point someone saw fit to replace the original toilet seat with one that is once more, Yet Another Shade of Green.

You will all be gratified to hear that there were pale green corduroy curtains in the window, as well as a wooden valance painted with a Chinoiserie-style design. But I removed them. I don't know--call me overly cautious, but I thought six shades of green would be enough for a small room.

I would also like to point out the bizarre-looking mirrors.

Mind you, there are things I like about this room. First, it's nice and big. Also, there's a good sturdy lock on the door, something I very much wish I had in my primary residence, but lack. And it has a linen closet. The pecan-colored wood of the doors, trim, window frame and vanity is in great shape and isn't actually all that ugly. And the little demi-lune vanity kind of cracks me up. It has a sort of Eva Gabor-in-Singapore vibe.

OK, we're really getting petty now, but that thing clipped to Eva Gabor's vanity mirror is a heat lamp, which I'm sure will be nice in the winter. And there's an outlet for a telephone.

Not that I tend to indulge
in the full-on Joan-Craw-
ford-as-Crystal-Allen-in-
The Women-taking-a-
bubble-bath-while-
talking-on-the-phone
thing ...

but it's nice to know that I could if I wanted to.

--P.

Shabby but not chic.

The front of the house
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

This is where we spent Columbus Day weekend (geeze, relax, Badger, will ya? It's named for the city in Ohio, OK?)

The picture was taken during a rare moment when it wasn't raining. It poured buckets on Saturday ... and once again, I am not exaggerating for humorous effect. I was running around all day in flip flops, figuring that at least I wouldn't ruin my leather shoes by stepping right smack into the six inch-puddles that were appearing everywhere I looked.

Also, the Red Sox lost three games to the Chicago White Sox. Which sucks more than anything I ever sucked. So I did the only things I could do under the circumstances--drank heavily when I could, and at other times, bought Red Sox stuff. So I now have two of those magnets to stick on my cars, and two baseball caps: a black one with an orange "B" on it for Halloween wear, and a green one with a red "B" on it for the Christmas season.

And no, I'm still not exaggerating for humorous effect. See what I mean about not being chic?

--P.

First day of school

First day of school
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Still playing catch up with the camera and the uploads and the blogging and the whole internet thing. So here is a first day of school picture so you can see not just my kids, but the ongoing McMansionification of the house across the street, as well as the truly terrible condition of my driveway. And the flower beds don't look so hot, either.

On the other hand, the children add a certain je ne sais quoi. So like any devoted homeowner with an interest in her property value, I do the obvious thing: I keep them in a pen in the front yard.

--P.

What I was wearing last Friday

Friday outfit meme picture thing
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

So I'm using my groovy new laptop, and I've managed to install the crucial software (MicroSoft Office, NOT games, OK?) and get email up and running and everything.

Then it occurs to me that I have a camera full of pictures that I haven't been able to upload anywhere. But now I can!

So this was my attempt to improve on the typical taking-a-picture-of-oneself pose. You know, the one where the subject/photographer's arm mysteriously gets very, very WIDE towards the edge of the shot.
However, I'm afraid that this ultra-foreshortening technique is no better. In fact, it's worse. It is clearly the New Coke of picture-taking techniques.

But anyway, this is what I was wearing last Friday. A hot pink and orange plaid long-sleeved Lilly Pulitzer cotton shirt, Barry Bricken jeans, and Leatherman flip-flops with striped grosgrain ribbon tops. Also my glasses. (Good Lord, you'd think I'd have at least BRUSHED MY HAIR before flaunting this mess before the entire internet.)

Mind you, one interesting thing about this picture is that I believe it actually conceals the size of my hooters. I don't mean to brag, because it's not becoming in a young lady to boast, but as they say in France, I have a lot on my balcony. But you can't tell from this picture. At least, I don't think so. Of course, I might be fooling myself here. But if anyone ever asks me--and admittedly, this hasn't happened in a while, because it's been a long, long time since I attended a kegger at Psi U--"Can you see your feet?" I can whip this picture out and answer "Whomp! There they are." Or something equally witty about my titties.

--P.

Generalisimo Franco is still dead and other updates

Hello.

Um ...

OK, I guess I don't have much to report. And what I do have to report certainly doesn't fit into tidy paragraphs, but what the hell--here it is:

1. Apple computer sent me the Fed Ex tracking information for the laptop they're sending me to replace the one that broke either five or six times in two years. So far the laptop has traveled from California to Tennessee and is now skulking around on some depot or warehouse somewhere in Chicago. Which means that if all goes well, on Monday I will have a brand new, blazing fast, smokin' hot laptop with wireless DSL. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

2. I made another Target run, ostensibly to return a video game that was the wrong game system (X Box instead of PS2. Hey, what do I know? I'm old. And anyway, we're a Nintendo family.) Anyway, I really went mental. AGAIN. I am not exaggerating for humorous effect, here, either. When I left, I was pushing a full-to-overflowing shopping cart and pulling another.

3. It's turning into fall around here, which would be great except that I haven't even started the whole shifting-the-closet-from-insane-looking-resort-wear-to-rather-more-grown-up-looking-clothing-that-adults-wear thing I have to do at the end of the summer. It involves a lot of trips up and down stairs as I get stuff out of trunks and pack other stuff away. So I'm wardrobe-challenged. This would be OK, except tonight we're going to my friend Pam's for dinner. Pam is extremely style-conscious, which would ordinarily be surprising in someone with a doctoral degree from the University of Chicago, except that unlike me, Pam actually finished and went on the job market and is now an Associate Professor of film studies or the like--and filmies dress kewler than anyone else on the planet. Also, I'm still working off some of the lobster, corn on the cob, and blueberry pie I consumed in August, which means that the few clothes I have available are not only not really in season, they're kind of tight. So I have to go rummaging around to find some larger-sized transitional-seasoned clothes, hooray! And I have an hour to do it.

4. The good news is that That Stud Muffin I Married and I will be going out without our children, which, come to think of it, hasn't happened in a few weeks.

5. More good news is that being a Brownie Scout Leader is slightly less nauseating than being a Cub Scout Den Mother. Also, the uniforms are less ugly. Can I have a calloo, callay, here, people!

--P.