Holy shit!
Not long ago I pronounced that I thought the courtroom shenanigans Cindy Sheehan and her followers indulged in recently amounted to nothing other than annoying media manipulation.
Well, the article in The Washington Post that I linked to now has a little box where Technorati informs people which blogs discuss the article. And there I am. Ready to be clicked on.
And my hit counter has picked up.
I have arrived.
Can a job in the halls of power be far behind?
--P.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Poppy the Pokemon
Remember the heights of energy and accomplishment I reached over Thanksgiving break? No?
Well, anyway, yesterday was quite the comedown. (Henh henh ... she said 'come.'")
In fact, you might say that I reverted to total slugdom.
Of course, I have an excuse, people. I had a dentist appointment first thing in the morning, and while I was there, I received three massive shots of novocaine. This deadened all the feeling in my tongue, jaw, and face, and made my lips and tongue swell up, but didn't do all that much to numb the teeth in question.
You Monty Python fans will remember the scene in Holy Grail where they're bringing out their dead and Eric Idle says "I'm not dead yet" and finally John Cleese whacks him over the head. Well, yesterday was like a remake, with my teeth playing the Eric Idle role and Dr. Sadist filling in for John Cleese.
Except it didn't work. The teeth wouldn't die. These were some stubborn nerve endings, people.
Naturally, this really sucked. The easiest way to deal with the torments of extended and insanely expensive dental work is to not feel it going on. At all. As in "This afternoon Poppy's head is being played by a cinder block." As in "You won't feel a thing ... until you get the bill."
But this time I ended up not only feeling certain unpleasant aspects of the work in progress, but also biting my own ginormous tongue while trying--at Dr. Sadist's request--to ascertain whether my jaws were meeting properly when the new, ultra-deluxe and horribly expensive crowns were in place. So then I had to come home and wait for all that novocaine to wear off, wearing, as an extra-kewl fashion statement, a shiny triangular tongue-biting-preventing doohickey.
Hence the illustration of Lickitung, one of the lesser-known Pokemon. This is pretty much what I felt like by the time I got home from John Cleese's I mean Dr. Sadist's office.
So ... what did I do to fill the empty hours while talking, eating, and drinking were pretty much out of the question? Why, shop for Christmas presents, of course!
But because I was an invalid, this year's Christmas shopping involved even less physical effort than usual. And that is saying a lot, as for years I have been the Uncrowned Queen of Internet Shopping.
This is what I did:
1. Grabbed a stack of likely-looking catalogs.
2. Got a pad of Post-It notes.
3. Started paging through catalogs, and when I found something promising, stuck a Post-It note to to the page in question.
Today, my mouth is operational again, so I will start making the calls to order the stuff. (Naturally I've thought about ordering this stuff on-line, but--and I know this will sound heretical--I find that finding it the stuff via a hard copy catalog is faster and easier. It takes less time to flip through a 40 page catalog than to hit different web sites, wait for pages to load, and squint at a tiny picture of the item in question. Also, ordering from a human being can be helpful. Even pleasant. Call me a Luddite, but there you are.)
I expect to be about 80 percent done with my shopping by 9:00 this evening.
Smugly,
--P.
p.s. Anyone who wants to say anything snarky about catalog shopping can just bite his or her tongue. Get it??
Well, anyway, yesterday was quite the comedown. (Henh henh ... she said 'come.'")
In fact, you might say that I reverted to total slugdom.
Of course, I have an excuse, people. I had a dentist appointment first thing in the morning, and while I was there, I received three massive shots of novocaine. This deadened all the feeling in my tongue, jaw, and face, and made my lips and tongue swell up, but didn't do all that much to numb the teeth in question.
You Monty Python fans will remember the scene in Holy Grail where they're bringing out their dead and Eric Idle says "I'm not dead yet" and finally John Cleese whacks him over the head. Well, yesterday was like a remake, with my teeth playing the Eric Idle role and Dr. Sadist filling in for John Cleese.
Except it didn't work. The teeth wouldn't die. These were some stubborn nerve endings, people.
Naturally, this really sucked. The easiest way to deal with the torments of extended and insanely expensive dental work is to not feel it going on. At all. As in "This afternoon Poppy's head is being played by a cinder block." As in "You won't feel a thing ... until you get the bill."
But this time I ended up not only feeling certain unpleasant aspects of the work in progress, but also biting my own ginormous tongue while trying--at Dr. Sadist's request--to ascertain whether my jaws were meeting properly when the new, ultra-deluxe and horribly expensive crowns were in place. So then I had to come home and wait for all that novocaine to wear off, wearing, as an extra-kewl fashion statement, a shiny triangular tongue-biting-preventing doohickey.
Hence the illustration of Lickitung, one of the lesser-known Pokemon. This is pretty much what I felt like by the time I got home from John Cleese's I mean Dr. Sadist's office.
So ... what did I do to fill the empty hours while talking, eating, and drinking were pretty much out of the question? Why, shop for Christmas presents, of course!
But because I was an invalid, this year's Christmas shopping involved even less physical effort than usual. And that is saying a lot, as for years I have been the Uncrowned Queen of Internet Shopping.
This is what I did:
1. Grabbed a stack of likely-looking catalogs.
2. Got a pad of Post-It notes.
3. Started paging through catalogs, and when I found something promising, stuck a Post-It note to to the page in question.
Today, my mouth is operational again, so I will start making the calls to order the stuff. (Naturally I've thought about ordering this stuff on-line, but--and I know this will sound heretical--I find that finding it the stuff via a hard copy catalog is faster and easier. It takes less time to flip through a 40 page catalog than to hit different web sites, wait for pages to load, and squint at a tiny picture of the item in question. Also, ordering from a human being can be helpful. Even pleasant. Call me a Luddite, but there you are.)
I expect to be about 80 percent done with my shopping by 9:00 this evening.
Smugly,
--P.
p.s. Anyone who wants to say anything snarky about catalog shopping can just bite his or her tongue. Get it??
Saturday, November 26, 2005
And if you don't like it, you can just Eff Off.
Stolen from Septuagent:
Your Blogging Type is Cocksure yet Callous |
 You've got a wicked high I.Q., and you work it. What a brilliant blog! Both creative and loony, you come up with amazing ideas and insights. Aren't drugs fabulous? If your supply runs too low or imagination palls, there's always an internet quiz. Or the photoblog option. Rock on with the ugly pictures of your kids! Punctuation is a minor deity for you; you find yourself revising and rewriting posts a lot of the time. Your motto is "Let no nit go unpicked." You blog for yourself - and you don't care how popular (or unpopular) your blog is! You fart in the blogosphere's general direction. |
Friday, November 25, 2005
Thanksgiving update, part II
I love Thanksgiving.
Somebody like Joke, who has listened to my many rants about Thanksgiving, might be surprised to hear this. But it's true.
See, the problem with previous Thanksgivings is that I have always been at someone else's house sitting around while someone else cooks. Sometimes the food was execrable (at my mother's) sometimes it was excellent (at my mother-in-law's), but Thanksgiving meant hours sitting around waiting for a meal. And nothing to do, really, except make small talk and read catalogs.
Well, this year, I had plenty to keep me busy.
We:
flew from Chicago to New Hampshire;
upon our arrival, we discovered that the dining room and kitchens were stuffed with living room furniture because the painter was putting the finishing touches on the trim
because the floor refinisher hadn't finished in time;
see the pretty floor?
and we therefore had to uncover everything and move it back into place, and sweep up a lot of dust;
and shop for a tablecloth big enough to fit the table with all its leaves,
and buy a food processor, toaster, and various other things needed to cook the food,
oh, and buy the food;
and the wine;
then set up the dining room table with the leaves and the table pads and the new tablecloth;
and borrow some candlesticks and a card table from my sister;
and wash towels and sheets to make sure people had clean ones.
Then we had to cook--for meat eaters and vegetarians--
1. Turkey, stuffing, and gravy
2. Sauteed green beans with Parmesan cheese
3. Baked acorn squash
4. Mashed potatoes
5. Penne with a spinach/ricotta/Parmesan sauce
5. Salad of Romaine and Boston lettuces with endive, tomatoes, red onion, crumbled blue cheese, pine nuts and croutons, with a dressing of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, mayonnaise, and horseradish
6. Salad of wild rice, toasted pecans, raisins, and green onions, in an olive oil and rice vinegar vinaigrette
7. rolls
also:
8. Two sweet potato pies
9. A Pumpkin pecan bundt cake
10. Whipped cream
My in-laws brought:
11. Apple pie
12. Yellow beet salad
13. Nut loaf
14. Vegetarian gravy
Well. Everything was fabulous.
The furniture store had lost our order for a new sofa (in a shining example of "too little, too late," it showed up today)
so there was a very strange assortment of things to sit on in the living room.
The oven, which had done some bizarre things to the cakes and pies on Wednesday, finished morphing into Robo-Oven, and cooked a 12 pound stuffed turkey in two--as opposed to four--hours.
But:
(They're happy, really. It kind of looks like they're praying. But they're just trying to figure out how many calories are on their plates.)
Everyone got drunk.
We have tons of yummy food left over.
It rocked.
So I guess the answer is--work me hard enough and I'll have a great time.
--P.
Somebody like Joke, who has listened to my many rants about Thanksgiving, might be surprised to hear this. But it's true.
See, the problem with previous Thanksgivings is that I have always been at someone else's house sitting around while someone else cooks. Sometimes the food was execrable (at my mother's) sometimes it was excellent (at my mother-in-law's), but Thanksgiving meant hours sitting around waiting for a meal. And nothing to do, really, except make small talk and read catalogs.
Well, this year, I had plenty to keep me busy.
We:
flew from Chicago to New Hampshire;
upon our arrival, we discovered that the dining room and kitchens were stuffed with living room furniture because the painter was putting the finishing touches on the trim
because the floor refinisher hadn't finished in time;
see the pretty floor?
and we therefore had to uncover everything and move it back into place, and sweep up a lot of dust;
and shop for a tablecloth big enough to fit the table with all its leaves,
and buy a food processor, toaster, and various other things needed to cook the food,oh, and buy the food;
and the wine;
then set up the dining room table with the leaves and the table pads and the new tablecloth;
and borrow some candlesticks and a card table from my sister;
and wash towels and sheets to make sure people had clean ones.
Then we had to cook--for meat eaters and vegetarians--
1. Turkey, stuffing, and gravy
2. Sauteed green beans with Parmesan cheese
3. Baked acorn squash
4. Mashed potatoes
5. Penne with a spinach/ricotta/Parmesan sauce
5. Salad of Romaine and Boston lettuces with endive, tomatoes, red onion, crumbled blue cheese, pine nuts and croutons, with a dressing of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, mayonnaise, and horseradish
6. Salad of wild rice, toasted pecans, raisins, and green onions, in an olive oil and rice vinegar vinaigrette
7. rolls
also:
8. Two sweet potato pies
9. A Pumpkin pecan bundt cake
10. Whipped cream
My in-laws brought:
11. Apple pie
12. Yellow beet salad
13. Nut loaf
14. Vegetarian gravy
Well. Everything was fabulous.
The furniture store had lost our order for a new sofa (in a shining example of "too little, too late," it showed up today)
so there was a very strange assortment of things to sit on in the living room.The oven, which had done some bizarre things to the cakes and pies on Wednesday, finished morphing into Robo-Oven, and cooked a 12 pound stuffed turkey in two--as opposed to four--hours.
In other appliance excitement, the little rubber hose that connected the dishwasher to the disposal split clear through while a full load of dishes was running and dumped gallons of hot Cascade-scented water under the sink and all over the kitchen floor.
So that when I realized which sink still worked, I was up until past midnight handwashing the dishes.
So that when I realized which sink still worked, I was up until past midnight handwashing the dishes.
But:
The food was wonderful.
(They're happy, really. It kind of looks like they're praying. But they're just trying to figure out how many calories are on their plates.)
Everyone got drunk.
We have tons of yummy food left over.
It rocked.
So I guess the answer is--work me hard enough and I'll have a great time.
--P.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Thanksgiving update
I spent most of today cleaning, then cooking a ton of food.
It turns out that the oven here is hotter or more efficient or something, because my sweet potato pies came out kind of toasted-looking. The pumpkin pecan spice cake ended up a bit toasted, too, but also a bit sqashed.
(Who knew that cakes actually fall? I thought that was just in the movies.)
So anyway, it's nine minutes from T-Day, and I'd like to take this opportunity to mention why I'm thankful. I'm thankful that:
1. None of my guests is actually coming here for the food;
2. We are somewhat lacking in furniture, so people won't have anyplace to sit;
3. We stocked up on liquor, adding to an already impressive supply, so with nothing to sit on, I predict that my guests will get falling-down drunk;
and that means they won't remember that I burned the desserts.
--P.
It turns out that the oven here is hotter or more efficient or something, because my sweet potato pies came out kind of toasted-looking. The pumpkin pecan spice cake ended up a bit toasted, too, but also a bit sqashed.
(Who knew that cakes actually fall? I thought that was just in the movies.)
So anyway, it's nine minutes from T-Day, and I'd like to take this opportunity to mention why I'm thankful. I'm thankful that:
1. None of my guests is actually coming here for the food;
2. We are somewhat lacking in furniture, so people won't have anyplace to sit;
3. We stocked up on liquor, adding to an already impressive supply, so with nothing to sit on, I predict that my guests will get falling-down drunk;
and that means they won't remember that I burned the desserts.
--P.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Borrowing Badger's Meme
I'm feeling unimaginative today and I have to pack and get ready to head to New Hampshire for Thanksgiving, where, upon my arrival, I have to start getting ready to feed 14 people Thanksgiving dinner. So I "borrowed" this from Badger.
8 Firsts.
First Best Friend: Debby H., which lasted from kindergarten to fifth grade.
First Kiss: Oh dear, I can't remember his name, and he was my first "boyfriend." I was 12 or 13 and it was at one of those post-dancing school dances where you're supposed to learn how to behave. I'm sure having a 13 year old boy stick his tongue into the mouth of a 13 year old girl WAS NOT AT ALL WHAT THE ORGANIZERS HAD IN MIND, but whatever. For the record, and in case you think I'm some kind of hussy, I didn't enjoy it.
First Screen Name: The first syllable of my real first name. No, not "Pop."
First Pet: Black cat named Winkie who was there my entire life and died when I was 15. Oh, the crying that ensued.
First Piercing: Ears, and I can't remember how old I was. Maybe 13. I did it myself, following the instructions from a chapter of Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins. See? I was always a geek.
First Crush: Matthew P. In fourth grade I paid him a quarter to kiss Debby H., which was how the nine-year-old Poppy expressed devotion. No, I don't understand it either.
First CD: Like Badger, I don't remember. My first vinyl was a Partridge Family single, "I Think I Love You," as sung by David Cassidy. I won it at one of those post-dancing school dances. Probably as a punishment for letting a thirteen year old boy put his tongue in my mouth.
First Car: 1993 Saturn SL2, which, coincidentally enough, is currently sitting in my driveway waiting for the charity to tow its completely dead self away.
7 Lasts.
Last alcoholic beverage: A glass of white wine, last night, which I didn't finish.
Last Car Ride: Yesterday, from Chicago to Winnetka.
Last Kiss: This morning when That Stud Muffin I Married left. Poor thing probably got a mouthful of Elizabeth Arden's Eight Hour Cream. Serves him right for trying to slip me the tongue. If he doesn't watch out, Santa is going to put a David Cassidy album in his stocking.
Last Movie Seen: Capote. And what a repellent specimen of humanity he was.
Last Phone Call: Today, from Fiddledeedee. She was trying to talk me into going to yoga class. Shyeah, right! As frocking if.
Last CD played: Disc number 7 from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
6 Have You Evers.
Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Friends: No.
Have You Ever Broken the Law: Yes.
Have You Ever Been Arrested: No.
Have You Ever Skinny Dipped: Yes.
Have You Ever Been in love: Yes.
5 Things.
5 Things You're Wearing: periwinkle cashmere crewneck, jeans, a bra, a pair of underpants and ... nothing. I'm one-fifth naked. Maybe I really am a hussy.
5 Things You Did Yesterday: drank tea, blogged, packed, drove home, watched Three Stooges.
5 Things You Can't Live Without: tea, laptop, son, daughter, Eclipse peppermint chewing gum. Or do you think I should say That Stud Muffin I Married? Well, I was just kidding about the gum, even though it is magically addictive. So here's the real fifth thing: Diet Coke. (Listen, I'm no voyeur. My private life is my business, except when I'm french-kissing on a dance floor. Anyway, he reads my blog. So this will keep him humble. Right, sweetie?)
5 places You've Been: The Max Factor Museum in Los Angeles, St. Mark's Basilica in Venice, inside the Statue of Liberty, the Chapel of St. Chapelle in Paris, Canterbury Cathedral in England.
3 People You Can Tell *Almost* Anything To (in no particular order).
1. That Stud Muffin I Married
2. Joke
3. Best friend number 3, the one who goes from 7th grade to the present.
2 Choices.
1. Black or White: black (white is for nurses and brides.)
2. Hot or Cold: hot (if we're talking about beverages and kisses.)
--P.
8 Firsts.
First Best Friend: Debby H., which lasted from kindergarten to fifth grade.
First Kiss: Oh dear, I can't remember his name, and he was my first "boyfriend." I was 12 or 13 and it was at one of those post-dancing school dances where you're supposed to learn how to behave. I'm sure having a 13 year old boy stick his tongue into the mouth of a 13 year old girl WAS NOT AT ALL WHAT THE ORGANIZERS HAD IN MIND, but whatever. For the record, and in case you think I'm some kind of hussy, I didn't enjoy it.
First Screen Name: The first syllable of my real first name. No, not "Pop."
First Pet: Black cat named Winkie who was there my entire life and died when I was 15. Oh, the crying that ensued.
First Piercing: Ears, and I can't remember how old I was. Maybe 13. I did it myself, following the instructions from a chapter of Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins. See? I was always a geek.
First Crush: Matthew P. In fourth grade I paid him a quarter to kiss Debby H., which was how the nine-year-old Poppy expressed devotion. No, I don't understand it either.
First CD: Like Badger, I don't remember. My first vinyl was a Partridge Family single, "I Think I Love You," as sung by David Cassidy. I won it at one of those post-dancing school dances. Probably as a punishment for letting a thirteen year old boy put his tongue in my mouth.
First Car: 1993 Saturn SL2, which, coincidentally enough, is currently sitting in my driveway waiting for the charity to tow its completely dead self away.
7 Lasts.
Last alcoholic beverage: A glass of white wine, last night, which I didn't finish.
Last Car Ride: Yesterday, from Chicago to Winnetka.
Last Kiss: This morning when That Stud Muffin I Married left. Poor thing probably got a mouthful of Elizabeth Arden's Eight Hour Cream. Serves him right for trying to slip me the tongue. If he doesn't watch out, Santa is going to put a David Cassidy album in his stocking.
Last Movie Seen: Capote. And what a repellent specimen of humanity he was.
Last Phone Call: Today, from Fiddledeedee. She was trying to talk me into going to yoga class. Shyeah, right! As frocking if.
Last CD played: Disc number 7 from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
6 Have You Evers.
Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Friends: No.
Have You Ever Broken the Law: Yes.
Have You Ever Been Arrested: No.
Have You Ever Skinny Dipped: Yes.
Have You Ever Been in love: Yes.
5 Things.
5 Things You're Wearing: periwinkle cashmere crewneck, jeans, a bra, a pair of underpants and ... nothing. I'm one-fifth naked. Maybe I really am a hussy.
5 Things You Did Yesterday: drank tea, blogged, packed, drove home, watched Three Stooges.
5 Things You Can't Live Without: tea, laptop, son, daughter, Eclipse peppermint chewing gum. Or do you think I should say That Stud Muffin I Married? Well, I was just kidding about the gum, even though it is magically addictive. So here's the real fifth thing: Diet Coke. (Listen, I'm no voyeur. My private life is my business, except when I'm french-kissing on a dance floor. Anyway, he reads my blog. So this will keep him humble. Right, sweetie?)
5 places You've Been: The Max Factor Museum in Los Angeles, St. Mark's Basilica in Venice, inside the Statue of Liberty, the Chapel of St. Chapelle in Paris, Canterbury Cathedral in England.
3 People You Can Tell *Almost* Anything To (in no particular order).
1. That Stud Muffin I Married
2. Joke
3. Best friend number 3, the one who goes from 7th grade to the present.
2 Choices.
1. Black or White: black (white is for nurses and brides.)
2. Hot or Cold: hot (if we're talking about beverages and kisses.)
--P.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Just say no to Cindy Sheehan.
Sorry, Cindy. I don't need your help. You don't need to add your voice to the chorus of anti-war opinions. You really don't. I'm as much of a leftie-bolshie peacenik bleeding heart Democratic-voting Massachusetts liberal as you can get.* Therefore, as everyone knows, I'm perfectly capable of looking like a fool all by myself.
I mean, can't you just see me--after singing a heart-felt rendition of "Blowing in the Wind" in my Joan Baez-like soprano--out there putting daisies down the barrels of the National Guardsmen's rifles?
So Cindy, you and your crazed fan-girls and boys singing "We Shall Overcome" and speechifying from the witness stand when you're on trial for protesting in front of the White House without a permit? Can just shut up and go away.
This is cold, hard, premeditated media manipulation. It's right up there with the Commander in Chief of the U.S. armed forces donning a flight suit to announce that the United States of America has successfully liberated Iraq. And it pisses me off.
Not to mention that there are probably millions of conservatives out there pointing at the evening news and saying "See? SEE? I told you those liberal dumbasses were full of shit!"
--P.
*Except for the fact that I don't like many of the Kennedys. But don't tell them, OK? They'd be so hurt.
I mean, can't you just see me--after singing a heart-felt rendition of "Blowing in the Wind" in my Joan Baez-like soprano--out there putting daisies down the barrels of the National Guardsmen's rifles?
So Cindy, you and your crazed fan-girls and boys singing "We Shall Overcome" and speechifying from the witness stand when you're on trial for protesting in front of the White House without a permit? Can just shut up and go away.
This is cold, hard, premeditated media manipulation. It's right up there with the Commander in Chief of the U.S. armed forces donning a flight suit to announce that the United States of America has successfully liberated Iraq. And it pisses me off.
Not to mention that there are probably millions of conservatives out there pointing at the evening news and saying "See? SEE? I told you those liberal dumbasses were full of shit!"
--P.
*Except for the fact that I don't like many of the Kennedys. But don't tell them, OK? They'd be so hurt.
When I finish putting together my Halloween party play list, I'll put the finishing touches on my Nan Kempner costume ...
... and then go whip up some beet sorbet. Then I'll sit in front of the Opiate of the Masses (no, not this blog--a television set) and channel surf looking for Christina Aguilera's butt crack.
And I hope that satisfies all of you who have been hot on my Google trail for the past week.
--P.
And I hope that satisfies all of you who have been hot on my Google trail for the past week.
--P.
I would have gotten "Crotch-grabbing purple-velvet-clad ageing rock vixen Princess," but Madonna already grabbed it.
The Traditional Princess
You are generous, graceful, and practical with both
feet planted firmly on the ground. You tend to
be a little on the old-fashioned side. You
value home, hearth, and family life and love to
be of service to others.
Role Models: Snow White, Maid Marian
You are most likely to: Discover a hidden talent
for spinning straw into gold.
What Kind of Princess are You? - Beautiful Artwork (Original Music is BACK!!!)
brought to you by Quizilla
Saturday, November 19, 2005
You can all pretty much stop blogging now.
I mean, if I'm literally going to spend hours on the phone with you, I don't think it's necessary for you to keep up-to-date with your blog entries.
See, yesterday not only did I spend something like an hour on the phone with the lovely and gracious Fiddledeedee, I spent even more time on the phone with the lovely and gracious Joke.
Which leaves me wondering why we bother to read each other's blogs, since we already know we talked on the phone.
Therefore, since I'm about to graciously offer my pals the chance to just stop blogging, I might as well extend this kind invitation to the rest of the internet.
I know, I know--I'm too kind. But honestly, it seemed like the right thing to do.
You're welcome,
--P.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Snark!
To quote Lord Byron, "Hail, Muse, etc."Madge, Madge, Madge. You've got to love someone who seems to exist to be made fun of ... but honestly, honey, I can come up with my own material without so much help from you.
I mean, I appreciate a freebie as much as the next blogger, but when Homer nods, or my muse is taking the night off, there's always an internet quiz to take, or a meme to take on ... so I don't really need another picture of you sporting your "new" Farrah Fawcett hairdo.
Plus what's this I see? More purple? Is this really necessary? I mean, I think you've made your point. "Purple Is The New (or 80s-retro-chic, or subversive, or self-referencing) Black." OK, OK, we GET IT.
And you? Are the new Prince. WHATEVER.
Also--I'm sorry, Artist Formerly Known as Madonna--I know it hurts a lot when you get your pubic hair stuck in your zipper--but do you have to try to fix it on stage during a concert? Couldn't you just wear underpants?
--P.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Honestly, the excitement never ends around here.
I don't think I've bothered to mention it yet, but I have been A.B.D. with a doctoral dissertation on film for an embarrassingly large number of years. Like ... as many years as my daughter is old. Well, I withdrew from graduate school a couple of weeks ago. Somehow it started to seem Really Dumb to be paying tuition fees to sit around and avoid writing my dissertation.
Make that "Really Dumb, Ph.D." And that might be the closest I'm ever going to get to being Dr. Poppy.
So now that I've ceased being a card-carrying Intellectual and fully embraced my life as a housewife, what have I been up to? Glad you asked:
1. Become a total fashion plate via the seasonal clothes rotation cha-cha. It finally got cold enough to justify taking the time and energy to haul all of my winter clothes out of storage, get all my winter shoes and boots upstairs, and take the summer clothes and sandals downstairs. I know, it's the middle of November, but honestly, it's been unseasonably warm around here. (It has too, so just stop laughing, Badger and Joke.) Anyway, it turns out I have frightening numbers of shoes and boots. Even more frightening was the fact that I had forgotten buying some of them. Even the very nice and quite expensive ones appeared to make little or no impression on my long-term memory. Even though I got them on sale. So here's a shout-out to my recently unearthed shoe fashion finds. For example: Ralph Lauren, I commend you for the seriously nice boots you make. They are like buttah. I hope you don't mind that I wore them today with a Tarjay leather jacket and a Tarjay Marc Jacobs knock-off bag. (Marc, honey, there is no way I'm paying retail for one of your hopelessly trendy yet ugly bags. The only thing I can say in their favor is that at least those little pockets are useful for stashing a cell phone. But they are ugly.)
2. Became Martha Stewart via the seasonal garden cha-cha. Tonight I brought in the rest of the tender perennials, i.e., plants that will die if left outside in the cold. It got down to 26 degrees tonight, so I brought in the last of the rosemary and some zonal geraniums. When I've bathed them and made them comfortable, they'll go on a sunny spot on my closed front porch. This makes me feel all kinds of thrifty and down-to-earth and country gal-ish. Another plus is that between the thyme, rosemary, and geraniums, it smells a bit like Pears soap out there. And that's ... a Good Thing.
3. Changed my ethnicity. Because I'm not just a housewife. I'm a Japanese housewife. I.e., my job appears to be to oversee mind-numbing amounts of homework as performed by number one son and number one daughter even though I think they were both hit with the ADD stick and consequently, can't sit still and focus on anything for more than 20 seconds at a time and I am NOT exaggerating. So I have to ("Do your homework!") keep sitting ("I mean it, sit down and do your math problems NOW") on their heads. The Whack-a-Mole game at Chuck-E-Cheese's? Now I know why I'm so good at it--I get so much practice during the off-season. So some days it's three straight hours of homework, and then I feed them nourishing meals while my husband works late. Again. Both kids had major projects due yesterday and I had to sit on their heads to get them done. What with the Elmer's glue and construction paper from the diorama and the flashcards for the history of the Age of Exploration test, I was ready to kill myself by 7:00 last night. As it is, I was thatclose to putting on full Cio-Cio-San regalia and belting out "Un Bel Di" as I waited for my husband to come HOME already.
--P.
Make that "Really Dumb, Ph.D." And that might be the closest I'm ever going to get to being Dr. Poppy.
So now that I've ceased being a card-carrying Intellectual and fully embraced my life as a housewife, what have I been up to? Glad you asked:
1. Become a total fashion plate via the seasonal clothes rotation cha-cha. It finally got cold enough to justify taking the time and energy to haul all of my winter clothes out of storage, get all my winter shoes and boots upstairs, and take the summer clothes and sandals downstairs. I know, it's the middle of November, but honestly, it's been unseasonably warm around here. (It has too, so just stop laughing, Badger and Joke.) Anyway, it turns out I have frightening numbers of shoes and boots. Even more frightening was the fact that I had forgotten buying some of them. Even the very nice and quite expensive ones appeared to make little or no impression on my long-term memory. Even though I got them on sale. So here's a shout-out to my recently unearthed shoe fashion finds. For example: Ralph Lauren, I commend you for the seriously nice boots you make. They are like buttah. I hope you don't mind that I wore them today with a Tarjay leather jacket and a Tarjay Marc Jacobs knock-off bag. (Marc, honey, there is no way I'm paying retail for one of your hopelessly trendy yet ugly bags. The only thing I can say in their favor is that at least those little pockets are useful for stashing a cell phone. But they are ugly.)
2. Became Martha Stewart via the seasonal garden cha-cha. Tonight I brought in the rest of the tender perennials, i.e., plants that will die if left outside in the cold. It got down to 26 degrees tonight, so I brought in the last of the rosemary and some zonal geraniums. When I've bathed them and made them comfortable, they'll go on a sunny spot on my closed front porch. This makes me feel all kinds of thrifty and down-to-earth and country gal-ish. Another plus is that between the thyme, rosemary, and geraniums, it smells a bit like Pears soap out there. And that's ... a Good Thing.
3. Changed my ethnicity. Because I'm not just a housewife. I'm a Japanese housewife. I.e., my job appears to be to oversee mind-numbing amounts of homework as performed by number one son and number one daughter even though I think they were both hit with the ADD stick and consequently, can't sit still and focus on anything for more than 20 seconds at a time and I am NOT exaggerating. So I have to ("Do your homework!") keep sitting ("I mean it, sit down and do your math problems NOW") on their heads. The Whack-a-Mole game at Chuck-E-Cheese's? Now I know why I'm so good at it--I get so much practice during the off-season. So some days it's three straight hours of homework, and then I feed them nourishing meals while my husband works late. Again. Both kids had major projects due yesterday and I had to sit on their heads to get them done. What with the Elmer's glue and construction paper from the diorama and the flashcards for the history of the Age of Exploration test, I was ready to kill myself by 7:00 last night. As it is, I was thatclose to putting on full Cio-Cio-San regalia and belting out "Un Bel Di" as I waited for my husband to come HOME already. --P.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Flipping the birds
It might not be immediately apparent, due to my fascination with Felix the Cat, Christina Aguilera's butt crack, and Madge "Purple is the new purple" Ritchie's fashion false steps, but I'm something of a culture vulture.
In the last week, I have attended a ladies-who-lunch luncheon cum program, a ladies-who-dine dinner cum program, and a performance of the Lyric Opera of Chicago. In addition, I agreed to serve on the committee for Yet Another Arts Organization's annual benefit.
This was all a lot of fun. Especially the luncheon, where we were treated to a lecture by the wardrobe mistress followed by a fashion show where performers modeled costumes from upcoming productions. Oh my word, they were exquisite. The costumes, I mean--although the performers were also strikingly good looking. But the colors! The drape and swoosh of the silk brocade and velvet! The hand-beading--I'm telling you, a Galliano couture show has nothing on it. I have no idea why the workmanship on these costumes is as good as it is--no one but the other performers ever gets close enough to appreciate them--but now that I've seen a few costumes up close, I want to go on a backstage tour.
Wednesday night was an evening program devoted to the art of the sampler, and very interesting it was, too.
Last night was Manon Lescaut at the Lyric, and what a fabulous production. Karita Mattila was incredible as Manon, which is a terribly difficult role--it makes huge demands on the lead singers. But Mattila sounded fantastic and looked wonderful. (So much easier to believe that the hero falls in love with her at first sight when the singer doesn't have Dame Joan Sutherland's face on top of Jane Eaglen's body. Meow.)
Well. Aren't I just the most la-dee-dah artsy-fartsy chi-chi-poo-poo thing you've ever heard of? I mean, if she hadn't already died, Jackie O would definitely be calling me up looking for tips, you know?
So this morning, as I lay basking in my culture vulture-dom, I decided to balance my checkbook. I wanted to make sure I had the funds to pay for my latest eBay win--something I totally sniped and pretty much stole. This did not involve a lot of money.
Well. I discovered that on Thursday, when I paid the dentist for the torture he'd been inflicting on me, I used the wrong checkbook. So tomorrow I have to make a mad dash to the bank to get a cashier's check and slap it into the other checking account before my dentist sends his leg-breakers to my house to bash my knees--or maybe just pry off the crowns he just installed.
So. While I'm a true Culture Vulture, happily guzzling down all the cultural carrion I encounter, I am also, apparently, a Financial Finch, blithely hopping about from branch to branch and forgetting to ask myself whether the account has sufficient funds before I write the check.
The good news is that my daughter told me this morning that she likes her music LOUD. And she's now ensconced in her bedroom singing along--LOUDLY--to some cheesey Kids Pop CD--covers of songs that should never have been recorded in the first place. I mean--"Car Wash," forsooth.
I don't mean to get all metaphysical here, but HOW can so much bad taste reside in something so small?
My hope is that since she clearly is Nowheresville--at least as regards the arts--she will probably end up the next Suze Orman. At the very least, she'll be a financial whiz, even if she isn't a best-selling author.
And maybe she'll be able to teach me to balance my checkbook.
--P.
In the last week, I have attended a ladies-who-lunch luncheon cum program, a ladies-who-dine dinner cum program, and a performance of the Lyric Opera of Chicago. In addition, I agreed to serve on the committee for Yet Another Arts Organization's annual benefit.
This was all a lot of fun. Especially the luncheon, where we were treated to a lecture by the wardrobe mistress followed by a fashion show where performers modeled costumes from upcoming productions. Oh my word, they were exquisite. The costumes, I mean--although the performers were also strikingly good looking. But the colors! The drape and swoosh of the silk brocade and velvet! The hand-beading--I'm telling you, a Galliano couture show has nothing on it. I have no idea why the workmanship on these costumes is as good as it is--no one but the other performers ever gets close enough to appreciate them--but now that I've seen a few costumes up close, I want to go on a backstage tour.
Wednesday night was an evening program devoted to the art of the sampler, and very interesting it was, too.
Last night was Manon Lescaut at the Lyric, and what a fabulous production. Karita Mattila was incredible as Manon, which is a terribly difficult role--it makes huge demands on the lead singers. But Mattila sounded fantastic and looked wonderful. (So much easier to believe that the hero falls in love with her at first sight when the singer doesn't have Dame Joan Sutherland's face on top of Jane Eaglen's body. Meow.)
Well. Aren't I just the most la-dee-dah artsy-fartsy chi-chi-poo-poo thing you've ever heard of? I mean, if she hadn't already died, Jackie O would definitely be calling me up looking for tips, you know?
So this morning, as I lay basking in my culture vulture-dom, I decided to balance my checkbook. I wanted to make sure I had the funds to pay for my latest eBay win--something I totally sniped and pretty much stole. This did not involve a lot of money.
Well. I discovered that on Thursday, when I paid the dentist for the torture he'd been inflicting on me, I used the wrong checkbook. So tomorrow I have to make a mad dash to the bank to get a cashier's check and slap it into the other checking account before my dentist sends his leg-breakers to my house to bash my knees--or maybe just pry off the crowns he just installed.
So. While I'm a true Culture Vulture, happily guzzling down all the cultural carrion I encounter, I am also, apparently, a Financial Finch, blithely hopping about from branch to branch and forgetting to ask myself whether the account has sufficient funds before I write the check.
The good news is that my daughter told me this morning that she likes her music LOUD. And she's now ensconced in her bedroom singing along--LOUDLY--to some cheesey Kids Pop CD--covers of songs that should never have been recorded in the first place. I mean--"Car Wash," forsooth.
I don't mean to get all metaphysical here, but HOW can so much bad taste reside in something so small?
My hope is that since she clearly is Nowheresville--at least as regards the arts--she will probably end up the next Suze Orman. At the very least, she'll be a financial whiz, even if she isn't a best-selling author.
And maybe she'll be able to teach me to balance my checkbook.
--P.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Christina's Butt Crack
You know, I go through a lot to keep my readers happy.
So when I realized that so many of my readers are deeply interested in Christina Aguilera's butt crack--and that they actually found my blog by doing Google searches for "Christina butt crack slobber slobber slobber,"--I decided I might as well throw them a sop.
Hence my title.
But now I'm going to talk about the dentist. A very talented Chicago blogger--whom you really should be reading--named Tequila Red recently waxed eloquent on the subject of cruel dentists. Far be it from me to even attempt to compete. So I'll just say that I had a bridge replaced today, which meant I had two crowns removed. Now this isn't pulling teeth. But it isn't cleaning them, either.
So there was the sticking with the needles and the drilling and the stuffing of my mouth with all the necessary accoutrements and the prrrrryyyyyyyyyying off of the old crowns that really didn't want to leave and the impressions and the seemingly endless fine-tuning of the temporary crowns. After two hours I was finally allowed to leave, sporting some groovy new choppers.
So that's good, right?
But now that the four shots of novocaine are wearing off, it feels as though a large, heavy animal mistook my mouth for the cave that it no doubt resembles--or perhaps a trampoline--and decided to hibernate on the right side of my lower jaw, after jumping up and down on it for a couple of hours. In other words, ow, the soreness. At this point I can't really open my mouth particularly wide. Eating and pretty much every other enjoyable oral activity are going to be sharply curtailed for a while.
Isn't it lucky that I've got my fingers to do the talking. Especially for Christina Aguilera's Australian fan boys.
So here I am, sitting at home. If you can't open your mouth more than an inch, it's pretty much impossible to sing opera. So the weekly voice lesson is out.
Free time! Woo hoo! Albeit in pain.
Big plans for today now include knocking a few things off the "To Do" list I finally started when I realized that I either have confetti for brains or ADD. Because generally I start to do one task, and I'm doing fine. But if I get interrupted, even by a thought springing up unbidden in my own brain--well, you know those moving toys that move along nicely, but if they hit a table leg or a bump in the carpet they just stay put, grinding along but not really going anywhere? Yeah, like that.
So lists. That's the answer. Lists.
Now I'm off to go find mine. And make myself a pot of tea so I can dribble it down my front.
--P.
p.s. For the Australian fan boys out there--here ya go, mite!
So when I realized that so many of my readers are deeply interested in Christina Aguilera's butt crack--and that they actually found my blog by doing Google searches for "Christina butt crack slobber slobber slobber,"--I decided I might as well throw them a sop.
Hence my title.
But now I'm going to talk about the dentist. A very talented Chicago blogger--whom you really should be reading--named Tequila Red recently waxed eloquent on the subject of cruel dentists. Far be it from me to even attempt to compete. So I'll just say that I had a bridge replaced today, which meant I had two crowns removed. Now this isn't pulling teeth. But it isn't cleaning them, either.
So there was the sticking with the needles and the drilling and the stuffing of my mouth with all the necessary accoutrements and the prrrrryyyyyyyyyying off of the old crowns that really didn't want to leave and the impressions and the seemingly endless fine-tuning of the temporary crowns. After two hours I was finally allowed to leave, sporting some groovy new choppers.
So that's good, right?
But now that the four shots of novocaine are wearing off, it feels as though a large, heavy animal mistook my mouth for the cave that it no doubt resembles--or perhaps a trampoline--and decided to hibernate on the right side of my lower jaw, after jumping up and down on it for a couple of hours. In other words, ow, the soreness. At this point I can't really open my mouth particularly wide. Eating and pretty much every other enjoyable oral activity are going to be sharply curtailed for a while.
Isn't it lucky that I've got my fingers to do the talking. Especially for Christina Aguilera's Australian fan boys.
So here I am, sitting at home. If you can't open your mouth more than an inch, it's pretty much impossible to sing opera. So the weekly voice lesson is out.
Free time! Woo hoo! Albeit in pain.
Big plans for today now include knocking a few things off the "To Do" list I finally started when I realized that I either have confetti for brains or ADD. Because generally I start to do one task, and I'm doing fine. But if I get interrupted, even by a thought springing up unbidden in my own brain--well, you know those moving toys that move along nicely, but if they hit a table leg or a bump in the carpet they just stay put, grinding along but not really going anywhere? Yeah, like that.
So lists. That's the answer. Lists.
Now I'm off to go find mine. And make myself a pot of tea so I can dribble it down my front.
--P.
p.s. For the Australian fan boys out there--here ya go, mite!
Wednesday, November 9, 2005
Snark!
Dear Mrs. Ritchie,
It has come to my attention that you appear to think you're above the law--that for you, the rules don't apply. This could not be further from the truth.
"What law?" you ask in your fake English accent. Well, if you'll put down the crack pipe, I'll tell you. It's the old adage--if you remember it from the first time it was around, you're too old to wear it now.
I'm sorry to inform you that you are old enough to remember Farrah Fawcett in her heyday. You are also old enough to remember Members Only jackets. As well as the color purple splashed with irrational exuberance over things that in more rational times are colored black or brown--things like shoes, bags, and coats.
I don't care how many brain cells you've killed since then. You, Madonna, are not allowed to wear feathered hair, Members Only jackets, or purple coats.
Also, please do us all a favor and buy some pants.
Yours, etc.
--P.
House Remodeling Alert: Red
Hee! Aren't flickr toys fun?
This is a mosaic made of the mess that is my vacation home. Where we like to go to hang around like slugs and eat lobstuh.
This is also the place that an as-yet undetermined number of the members of our families will be spending Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Gulp.
And I don't even have any pictures of the upstairs bathroom. I assure you, it's a beaut.
Isn't remodeling fun?
--P.
This is a mosaic made of the mess that is my vacation home. Where we like to go to hang around like slugs and eat lobstuh.
This is also the place that an as-yet undetermined number of the members of our families will be spending Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Gulp.
And I don't even have any pictures of the upstairs bathroom. I assure you, it's a beaut.
Isn't remodeling fun?
--P.
Monday, November 7, 2005
Snark!
This is at a movie premiere. Can you imagine the credits?
Hair ... Camilla Parker Bowles
Knickers ... Adam Ant
General Color Scheme ... Prince
Daughter's Eyebrows ... Frida Kahlo
(No mutant caterpillars were harmed in the filming of this production. So there, PETA.)
--P.
Hair ... Camilla Parker Bowles
Knickers ... Adam Ant
General Color Scheme ... Prince
Daughter's Eyebrows ... Frida Kahlo
(No mutant caterpillars were harmed in the filming of this production. So there, PETA.)
--P.
Sunday, November 6, 2005
Believe it or not, in real life, I'm even more of an attention hog.
So if you only know me through this blog, THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS.
Yeah, yeah, yeah--I know it says "lively center of attention." But I think that quiz is just trying to be nice. It was probably too tactful to come right out and call me a big fat show off.
--P.
Yeah, yeah, yeah--I know it says "lively center of attention." But I think that quiz is just trying to be nice. It was probably too tactful to come right out and call me a big fat show off.
--P.
How to lose weight.
What follows is my time-tested infallible method for losing weight. I guarantee if you do this, you will drop at least one dress size.
No, it's not dieting.
No, it's not exercising.
This is what you do:
Go drop a significant wad of cash of new clothes. You have to really like them and look good in them. They must be stylish and fit beautifully.
In one month--maybe two--you will have shrunk and they will no longer fit. I know this for a fact because it has happened to me twice in the past five years.
Yesterday, feeling a bit pudgy, I decided that the two hour walks, yoga classes, and visits to the gym with Fiddledeedee were not cutting it. Drastic measures were called for.
Drastic measures = two pairs of jeans, two pairs of black pants, one pair of brown pants, one purple silk cardigan with coordinating camisole, and one brown cardigan with beaded trim with coordinating camisole.
I predict that in a month this stuff will be hanging off me. Unless the magic doesn't work because everything was marked down 40 percent.
--P.
No, it's not dieting.
No, it's not exercising.
This is what you do:
Go drop a significant wad of cash of new clothes. You have to really like them and look good in them. They must be stylish and fit beautifully.
In one month--maybe two--you will have shrunk and they will no longer fit. I know this for a fact because it has happened to me twice in the past five years.
Yesterday, feeling a bit pudgy, I decided that the two hour walks, yoga classes, and visits to the gym with Fiddledeedee were not cutting it. Drastic measures were called for.
Drastic measures = two pairs of jeans, two pairs of black pants, one pair of brown pants, one purple silk cardigan with coordinating camisole, and one brown cardigan with beaded trim with coordinating camisole.
I predict that in a month this stuff will be hanging off me. Unless the magic doesn't work because everything was marked down 40 percent.
--P.
Saturday, November 5, 2005
Why is it ...
... that in my almost daily perusals of Go Fug Yourself, I--almost invariably--have never heard of the parties in question--except through internet snarkage?
I clearly do not watch enough television and need to get off my LAZY BLOGGING ASS and watch some NOW.
Because Jessica Simpson? Alanis Morrisette? Bai Ling? Sienna Miller? Anyone from the cast of Lost/Survivor/Desperate Housewives/Le Hot Show du Jour? PARIS HILTON? I've never seen them in action doing whatever it is they supposedly do. I've only seen them on my laptop.
(Actually, it just occurred to me that a large part of Paris Hilton's fan base has probably learned all it needs to know about her from their laptops, too.)
But I mean, even the clean stuff, people. The commercial where a bikini-clad Paris Hilton ate a huge hamburger while hosing down a car? I saw it--a postage-stamp-sized version--via QuickTime or Real Player--on my laptop.
And mind you, this is not reverse snobbery. I do not embrace my identity as Out-of-It Housewife. I do find it vaguely embarrassing that I basically have no idea who these people are. I mean, for years I was a card-carrying intelLECTual, man--and I was studying mass culture. I was a serious film scholar. I attended lectures by people like Jacques Derrida. And not at gun-point.
So I'm thinking ... if I tore myself away from the internet (and my cookbooks, my collection of etiquette books, my gardening books, my books on how to look 10 pounds lighter and ten years younger, yada yada yada) and took the time to watch these women making an attempt to entertain the public (deliberately, I mean, instead of accidentally) not only would I be less out of it,
I'm sure I'd enjoy the snarkage even more.
I clearly do not watch enough television and need to get off my LAZY BLOGGING ASS and watch some NOW.
Because Jessica Simpson? Alanis Morrisette? Bai Ling? Sienna Miller? Anyone from the cast of Lost/Survivor/Desperate Housewives/Le Hot Show du Jour? PARIS HILTON? I've never seen them in action doing whatever it is they supposedly do. I've only seen them on my laptop.
(Actually, it just occurred to me that a large part of Paris Hilton's fan base has probably learned all it needs to know about her from their laptops, too.)
But I mean, even the clean stuff, people. The commercial where a bikini-clad Paris Hilton ate a huge hamburger while hosing down a car? I saw it--a postage-stamp-sized version--via QuickTime or Real Player--on my laptop.
And mind you, this is not reverse snobbery. I do not embrace my identity as Out-of-It Housewife. I do find it vaguely embarrassing that I basically have no idea who these people are. I mean, for years I was a card-carrying intelLECTual, man--and I was studying mass culture. I was a serious film scholar. I attended lectures by people like Jacques Derrida. And not at gun-point.
So I'm thinking ... if I tore myself away from the internet (and my cookbooks, my collection of etiquette books, my gardening books, my books on how to look 10 pounds lighter and ten years younger, yada yada yada) and took the time to watch these women making an attempt to entertain the public (deliberately, I mean, instead of accidentally) not only would I be less out of it,
I'm sure I'd enjoy the snarkage even more.
Friday, November 4, 2005
Show and Tell Friday: My Addiction(s)
My addictions?
They are Legion.
I think.
But I guess it depends upon how you define "addiction." For example ... are we talking real physical addiction, like chemical substances? Because then you can't say I'm addicted to say, toile. Even though the evidence would lead one to suppose that that would be the case.
But ... chemical dependence? No problem ... voilà ... the Cupboard de Caffeine.
Not to mention Le Drawer des Teas:
Alternatively, I could define "addiction" as those things I accumulate--apparently mindlessly--in completely insane amounts. For example, perfume
or scarves
Or by "addiction" do I mean those things that, if I dreamed of doing without them, I would wake up screaming? Because then elements of my skincare regimen would surely qualify:
I suppose it all boils down to whether I can give the item up without going through painful withdrawl. I believe that leaves out perfume, scarves, and even toile. I think I can do without them. No seriously--I can quit any time.
But. I do think that I'm addicted to:
1. PG Tips tea (without which life is not worth living)
2. High-speed wireless internet access (ditto)
3. and blogging. Not my own--yours. Post something, will you?
--P.
p.s. I'm also addicted to Windex--the original bright blue formula with the original scent, and not a cheap knock-off.
They are Legion.
I think.
But I guess it depends upon how you define "addiction." For example ... are we talking real physical addiction, like chemical substances? Because then you can't say I'm addicted to say, toile. Even though the evidence would lead one to suppose that that would be the case.
But ... chemical dependence? No problem ... voilà ... the Cupboard de Caffeine.
Not to mention Le Drawer des Teas:
Alternatively, I could define "addiction" as those things I accumulate--apparently mindlessly--in completely insane amounts. For example, perfume
or scarves
Or by "addiction" do I mean those things that, if I dreamed of doing without them, I would wake up screaming? Because then elements of my skincare regimen would surely qualify:
I suppose it all boils down to whether I can give the item up without going through painful withdrawl. I believe that leaves out perfume, scarves, and even toile. I think I can do without them. No seriously--I can quit any time.
But. I do think that I'm addicted to:
1. PG Tips tea (without which life is not worth living)
2. High-speed wireless internet access (ditto)
3. and blogging. Not my own--yours. Post something, will you?
--P.
p.s. I'm also addicted to Windex--the original bright blue formula with the original scent, and not a cheap knock-off.
Thursday, November 3, 2005
FEED ... ME ...
All of you people in my blogroll--what the hell is going on out there? Do you live to frustrate me or something? Why this dearth of new posts? OK, so I'm a wee bit obsessed with blogging at the moment, because HALLOWEEN IS OVER and I'm not decorating, cooking, and providing costumes for the entire known world.
So get a grip, people. It's November 3rd. Can we move on? You've carved the pumpkins, taken the pictures, and eaten the candy--or if you haven't, you can email me and I'll tell you where to send the CARE package.
So come on. Give. me. something. new. to. read. NOW.
I ask you. Why is badger still going on about Halloween? It's November now. How drunk could she possibly have gotten that she hasn't posted anything since October 31st?
C'mon, Badger. At the very least, post a hilariously funny entry about your crippling hangover.
--P.
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
So ... you're saying I shouldn't tell people that they suck?
| Your Personality Is |
You are both logical and creative. You are full of ideas. You are so rational that you analyze everything. This drives people a little crazy! Intelligence is important to you. You always like to be around smart people. In fact, you're often a little short with people who don't impress you mentally. You seem distant to some - but it's usually because you're deep in thought. Those who understand you best are fellow Rationals. In love, you tend to approach things with logic. You seek a compatible mate - who is also very intelligent. At work, you tend to gravitate toward idea building careers - like programming, medicine, or academia. With others, you are very honest and direct. People often can't take your criticism well. As far as your looks go, you're coasting on what you were born with. You think fashion is silly. On weekends, you spend most of your time thinking, experimenting with new ideas, or learning new things. |
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