I don't know whether it was the dress or the party

but New Year's Eve sucked ass this year. The food was OK, but the company was less than enthralling, and the band was lame.

In fact, now that I think of it, New Year's Eve sucks ass every year.

We've been going to this party for years, and the best thing about it was the souvenir champagne glasses. But this year they didn't have any.

Well, no souvenir champagne glasses? Sorry, folks, but we're out of here. So That Stud Muffin I Married and I left the party, and now we're home. In our pajamas, drinks at the ready. And not a noise maker in sight. Unless you count me.

--P.

Midnight minus seven hours.

I'm procrastinating.

I'll be heading out for New Year's Eve in about two hours. I don't want to go out at all, for reasons I have already gone into.

I haven't even figured out which dress I'm going to wear. I do enough black tie events to have a choice of long dresses, so I have to figure out which one I'm wearing. I'm dreading doing this because I'm terrified that everything I like will be too tight, and I'll have to wear my fat dress. Which I tend to refer to as my "Margaret Dumont" dress, because it makes me look matronly, and as if I'll be terribly shocked if someone makes a dirty crack. (When actually, if I were at a reception standing next to Groucho Marx, he'd probably slap my face for making too many fresh remarks.)

But in an attempt to at least look halfway decent--because OK, she was no spring chicken and was a bit on the plump side, but check out that hairdo!--I went over to Bravco and bought: a bottle of Kerastase shampoo, a BaByliss Pro ionic hairdryer, a Mason Pearson hairbrush, a set of Helen of Troy hot rollers, a new mascara, and some Simple Solutions Ultra copper Firming Serum. Also a bottle of contact lens solution so I can wear my contacts.

Then I went to Bloomingdales and bought five pairs of control top hose: control top, firm control top, ultra firm control top, "Lace me tighter, Mammy," and "Your stomach might be flat, but your eyes are going to bulge like crazy."

All I can say is I hope my public appreciates all this.

I'd better go get ready. Happy New Year, everyone!

--P.

It's my obsession.

And I don't really know why.

It's a complete mystery to me.

It combines so many things I don't even like. I mean, I've never liked Coach bags. And I hate logos. And metallic leather? Sucks. And patchwork--I see the term "patchwork" and unless the term is followed immediately by the term "quilt," or "Lilly Pulitzer," I immediately have a vision of those truly ugly retina-destroying enfattening patchwork madras shorts sold by L. L. Bean and worn by grandmothers in Wellesley, Massachusetts.

So--all these fashion trends I don't even like? What could be more perfect and throw-away, over-the-top chic than to combine them into a rich and strange accessory burgoo? Dare I use the term "post-modern?"

Oh GOD, I hate how I'm over-intellectualizing this.

Anyway. I spotted some woman carrying it not long ago. I realized who the maker was right away--duh, it's Coach--and I started searching for it idly one night when I was on line.

Uh oh. It's a limited edition. And? It's SOLD OUT IN STORES.

It will be mine. Oh yes. It will be mine.

--P.

These are a few of our favorite loots

1. That Stud Muffin I Married: I'm not sure, but I think it's the Sudoku booklets Santa tucked into his stocking. Santa is smart, and Santa knows that if Santa hears that something is 1. about numbers and 2. totally addictive, That Stud Muffin Santa Married will looooooove it.

2. Me: I was going to say the boxed set of Wayne's World and Wayne's World II on DVD, but then I remembered that my mother gave me my grandmother's sterling silver tea service. Gorham Fairfax. On a beautiful heavy tray. It's to die for. So that's really number one. I mean, I look at it and I feel "just like Jackie Kennedy."*

But the Wayne's World DVDs come in a close second. For those times when I want to feel just like Tia Carrere. Schwing!

3. Son o' Poppy: Nintendo DS. Duh. It's the only thing he asked Santa for.

4. Popette: Bratz Stylin' Dance Mat. Ditto on the Santa thing, and Santa was having a bitch of a time finding it, since the Bratz Dance Mat apparently had become the Cabbage Patch Kid of the 2000s. Thank Heaven that Stud Muffin Santa Married found it at Wal-Mart on line, thus saving the day, and for all I know, Western Civilization. Because Popette is really NO FUN AT ALL when she's feeling very disappointed. World War III might have ensued.

--P.

*Thanks and a tip of the hat to Alan Sherman.

If only cars ran on cookies, instead of gasoline.

We left New Hampshire at 6:00 a.m. We got to Chicago at 11:00 p.m.

That's seventeen hours in a car. To misappropriate Keats, that is "all ye need to know."

I mean, OK, we made great time even though we hit a bunch of rain in Ohio. And snow in Indiana. But I've spent the entire day in a minivan with my husband and children. And that is all I am capable of writing at the moment, or various small muscles in my face will start twitching uncontrollably. Again. So Happy New Year, and good-bye.

No, wait. I have three more things to say:

1. Harry Potter books on CD totally rock. I've read all the books (except the most recent one) many times. But I still get totally sucked in. The down side of this is getting a speeding ticket in Pennsylvania. I told the state trooper it was Voldemort's fault, but he didn't believe me.

2. My husband is already trying to think of a way to go to New Hampshire from Chicago that doesn't involve 17 hour drives. Like flying to New Hampshire and keeping a car there. What? Did I go through the lengthy energy-draining process
bargaining for a minivan so that we could fly around in airplanes? No way. I want to amortize the time I spent researching cars and dickering with slimey used car salesmen. (Apparently I want to spend all my waking minutes on the highway listening to Harry Potter on CD.)

3. In other news I have to go to a black tie New Year's Eve party and I totally don't want to go, if only because I'm SO FUCKING FAT that nothing I own will fit. On top of which, I'm sick of parties.

Is anyone with me here? Does anyone else out there actually WANT to go on a diet, starting by throwing out all the leftover seasonal fattening foods? Anyone else want to march into the kitchen and throw out all those damned cookies?

Would anyone else like to slap her children back into school, go spend two hours at the gym, and then have a salad and a Diet Coke for lunch?

I'm telling you, right now that sounds great.

I'd be in the kitchen right now tossing out leftover fattening Christmas crappe, except I'm so rotund, I can't move.

--P.

OK, maybe I'm not thinking too clearly

because I really badly need to get into the kitchen and do the dinner dishes, and I'll do anything to avoid that,

including checking out blogs I don't really like all that much,

even ones that used to be in my blogroll but no longer are.

But honestly, between the pictures of her daughter (who, frankly, is no Gerber Baby) the posts about constipation, the post about Lil Pudding Face's favorite book, Once Upon a Potty, and the post about nose-picking ...

I ask you. Is no body orifice sacred?

I guess not.

I'm squicked. And those dishes are actually starting to look good. I think I'll go do them.

Thanks a lot, Dooce.

--P.

Boxing Day.

Last night, in the midst of the madness that is Christmas dinner for 17 people, my younger brother took me aside and asked me to meet him for coffee this morning at 9:00.

I drank coffee after Christmas dinner--very strong and a lot of it. So I woke up this morning at about 2:00 a.m., and didn't get back to sleep for a long time. Then I re-awoke at 8:45. I got dressed in a hurry and rushed out to meet my brother at his hotel.

When I got there, my older brother was waiting with him. And they told the hostess that our table for two needed to be a table for five. Apparently my sisters were joining us, too.

Finally everyone showed up. Some of us negotiated the buffet; others ordered a la carte. Once everyone was done eating, my sister pulled a big Federal Express envelope out. I thought it was a another last minute Christmas gift that had shown up late. It turned out to be the documents regarding the settlement of my father's estate. The attorneys needed our signatures and banking information. So I listened to the explanation, read through the papers, and signed the documents.

So that was a surprise. Morning coffee turned into a business meeting.

There was another surprise. I found out my brothers and sisters had decided to scatter Daddy's ashes off a bridge into a harbor that leads into the Atlantic ocean. So we got into our coats, and because it had started raining, those of us who had umbrellas got them out. The rest of us huddled under the hoods of our coats.

We walked down to the middle of the bridge. A couple of us tested the direction of the wind. The eldest held the box while the youngest took out a knife and slit off the outer packaging. Inside there was a glossy dark green cardboard box. Inside the green box was a plastic bag of ashes. They were a very light, almost pearly gray color. My brother slit open the bag and my sister got ready to start scattering them.

Someone said "Should we say something?" Someone else suggested the Lord's Prayer. I started reciting it, even though one of us mentioned it wouldn't have meant anything to Daddy. This was probably true; my father would fill in for the organist at church, but as far as I can tell, he was an atheist--one of the rare ones who simply doesn't discuss religion. I suppose I recited the Lord's Prayer for myself.

Then someone suggested we sing something. I knew better than to suggest a hymn. Our family has always been big on gathering around the piano to sing. My father was a gifted musician and was ready to accompany singers at the drop of the hat. We grew up singing Gershwin, Porter--all the standards--as well as the Rogers and Hammerstein musicals and the scores of Gypsy, Fiorello, and Guys and Dolls.

One of the things we always sang--in the increasingly rare occasions where we were all together--was the score to Guys and Dolls. "Adelaide's Lament" was a favorite. Today one of us started singing the "Fugue for Tin Horns." "I got the horse right here, his name is Paul Revere ..." Everyone else joined in. (Fittingly enough, there is a horse named "Epitaph.")

Our singing faltered a bit, and I said "We're missing our accompanist."

My sister started scattering the ashes. The ashes poured out of the bag and caught the wind. Then they took flight, spreading in the breeze like plumes of smoke, swirling down towards the ocean and into the water. We gazed down at the water until the current cleared. Then we each bid farewell to our father. We all hugged each other and walked back to our cars.

When I looked at my siblings' faces, it was impossible to tell where the tears ended and the rain began.

--P.

Christmas Eve.

That Stud Muffin I Married is busy making noodles for the Christmas Eve lasagna. But what am I doing? I'm sitting around in bed blogging and drinking tea (trying to caffeinate myself enough to help the Advil get rid of the headache I had this morning.) Not only is this slothful, it could get me into all kinds of trouble. Yesterday, beginning around 10:00 in the morning, members of my family kept showing up unannounced. First my future brother in law, then my eldest sister, then my mother.

Don't people usually call first? I mean, what if we were out buying last minute stocking stuffers? And anyway, hello? When did my family become the Waltons?

Well, they had to deal with me in the giant oversized t-shirt I slept in, with some jeans slung on, and nothing cleaned up, including my teeth. Morning breath a la Poppy. And it serves them right.

Yesterday after all the relatives had gone away, and I had bathed and put on clean clothes and even some makeup, and yes, brushed my teeth, we went out to the place where we were supposed to be able to cut down a Christmas tree. It was closed. Closed! Even though I checked the hours in their yellow page ad. Fuckers!

So then we tried another spot. Nothing doing. So we ended up at Wal*Mart. Where we scored a Balsam Fir for get this--$13.00. Trees were $26, but marked down half-price because it's so close to Christmas.

So then we decorated the tree-quick and dirty, check out the angles on some of those candles--and went out to Warren's for dinner. Two margaritas and a plate of fried clams and things were really starting to look up.

Until this morning when my husband let me sleep late. I mean, look at the time stamp. And I have last minute uber-frazzling shite to do, plus my in-laws are showing up who knows when, and I still need to get those stocking stuffers.

Yep, we're in full-on frazzle here, and it feels good. Merry Christmas!

--P.

Christmas Eve Eve Eve.

The car is unpacked. Many presents are wrapped. (Many more are not, unfortun- ately.) Tomorrow we will head to a place where we can cut down a real live fresh tree. (I'm hoping this one is so fresh, sassy, and fragrant that Santa Claus will overlook the fake ones back in Illinois.)

But today? Today was about food. Today we sat down and worked out the menus for the next four days. I picked the food, wrote out the grocery list, and then my husband went out, bought it, and schlepped it home.

Honey, have I told you that I love you? Honey?

(Oh well--I guess all that grocery shopping is tiring.)

So. There is a stunning new steel refrigerator in the kitchen. One of those mega-kewl new ones with the armoire-type doors and the freezer on the bottom. And right now it's stuffed to overflowing with the food for the next few days.

We're very eclectic when it comes to Christmas feasting. We are equal-opportunity gluttons. We appropriate from every culture that makes us feel drooly.

For example, although we are very much not Italian, my husband is planning to make lasagna for dinner on Christmas eve. Right down to the home-made pasta. That's because like Polish people, which again, we are not, we like to eat a vegetarian meal on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas we become English by having a standing rib roast and roast potatoes for Christmas dinner. Then it's back to Italy for the green beans cooked and then tossed with butter and grated parmesan. Dessert is from America: peppermint stick ice cream with hot fudge sauce and real whipped cream. After that, it's the United Nations of Ecumenical Yuletide Naughty Calories: Irish truffles, German dark chocolates with brandy centers, Scottish shortbread, stollen, and an English fruitcake.

Mon dieu! if only I had time to make a buche de Noel.

--P.

The Eagle has landed.

We left Chicago at 5:30 this morning. We encountered some snow. Not too much, but Ohio was kind of tricky in spots.

I got pulled over for doing 70 mph in a 55 zone. In the snow. The police officer reminded me that I was driving my children. He gave me a $135 ticket. Thereafter, I'm pleased to say that sanity prevailed.

So I mostly drove at the speed limit. Yes, Virginia; there is a Sanity Clause.

We arrived in New Hampshire at 1:30 a.m. Eastern time.

The car is unpacked and the wine is being drunk.

Life is good!

--P.

This fat dude better give us what we want ...

... or we will zap him with our laser vision until he's totally crispy, man. Then we'll ship him down below to be tormented by our fellow red-eyed demons.

--P.

p.s. Click on the picture and blow it up so you can get the full Demon Spawn effect. My son, in particular, looks much scarier than a 10-year-old has any right to look. I am totally making sure he gets what he asked for.

Christmas shopping can be such a bich.

In my Sunday morning eBay perusals I discovered the perfect Christmas present for my husband to give me. It's Elsa Peretti* gold brooches, each one a letter of the alphabet.



They would look SO CUTE on a black sweater for the holidays! And of course, buying them on eBay means he wouldn't have to pay retail, so I'd be saving That Stud Muffin I Married some money.

I'll bet Badger would like them, and if only they came in white gold, Joke could get them for That Fabulous Babe he married.Unfortunately, there's a letter missing.

And call me a bitch about spelling, but I believe in dotting the "i"s and crossing the "t"s.

After all, if I'm going to walk around wearing an 18K gold sign from Tiffany's--in a kind of post-modern twist on the whole Laverne and Shirley giant "L" thing, filtered through a ghetto-fabulous blingbling vibe--I think I owe it to my public to spell correctly.

Damn! I guess I'm going to have to find something else for my husband to buy for me.

--P.

* Thanks and a tip of the hat to Blackbird for knowing it was Elsa Peretti and not Paloma Picasso, as previously stated.

Not as frazzled as Badger, but close.

Once in a while I check my blogging stats and I am pleased, flattered, and frankly, heartened by the fact that you all keep stopping by even though these days the updates are non-existent, whiney, or both.

When I actually have time to sit down and play with the internet, I'm mostly reading blogs, not updating mine. I especially like to read Badger's updates on how frazzled she is.

Reading Badger's blog makes me feel a lot better, because she's way more frazzled than I am. Her visitors are already upon her, whereas mine won't arrive until Christmas Eve, and my philosophy is: sufficient unto the day are the frazzling events thereof. So that makes me feel better, as I have a few more days before I have to start thinking about groceries and clean towels and sheets and shite.

Also, Badger's frazz lays the groundwork for mine. She's kind of the John the Baptist of Christmas Frazz, because she's freaking out way in advance of the main event, thus setting the stage for my personal, ultimate, over-the-top Christmas Freak Out. Think about it: if Christmas can do this to a Wiccan, imagine what it will do to a card-carrying Episcopalian. In addition to the visitors and the present-buying and the decorating and the cards and the cooking, I have to add activities like getting the spawn to church a couple of times, with my daughter insisting that dresses aren't cool and wanting to show up dressed like a Bratz doll. So I've got Badger acting as my advance guard, blowing trumpets on her blog getting the blogosphere ready for the Ultimate Christmas Frazz-a-rama, which will be MINE.

So thanks and a tip of the bedraggled Santa hat to Badger, my own private Christmas Elf.

--P.

Too. Many. Parties.

I got home tonight from a benefit--which I suppose qualifies as a party--and discovered that I'd been invited to another party.

This one is on December 26th. This means December 26th can now join December 3rd, 10th, 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 20th, 21st, 29th, and 31st in offering me yet another chance to pay big bucks to a babysitter so I can go out and get hammered.

Honestly. What ever happened to getting hammered at home while my children bicker in the next room? (That's my version of family values. It's not exactly the Waltons, but at least it's cheap.)

And where the hell are all these hospitable people when it's late February in Chicago, and everyone's bored suicidal with take-out food, Netflix, and their spouses? That's when I'd give at least one kidney, maybe two, for the chance to get dressed up in something sparkly and trade witticisms with someone who has 1) never seen me without my makeup on and 2) doesn't strew dirty socks all over my house.

I'm just asking.

--P.

Happy Birthday to Me

Your Birthdate: December 12

You're a dynamic, charismatic person who's possibly headed for fame, probably through your blog. So there, Dooce. You tend to charm strangers easily. And you usually can get what you want from them. Like birthday presents. Or, if they're men, money. Verbally talented, you tend to persuade people with your speaking and writing. If that fails, violence does the trick. You are affectionate and loving, but it's hard for you to commit to any one relationship. You fucking slut. Your strength: Your charm Your weakness: Your extreme greed Your power color: Red, unless we're talking currency, in which case, green. Your power symbol: A jewelry box Your power month: December

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

How to get me to stop reading your blog

I realize I can be really annoying. So I thought I'd let people know how to get rid of me. (That is, in the blogo-sphere. In real life, I stick like glue, and you have to pretend to have to go to the bathroom to get rid of me. And even then, if you're female, I might follow you in, still talking.)

But with blogs, if you do any of the following, I will probably stay far, far away:

1. Make grammatical errors. Anyone who writes "and then Tiffani handed her and I a Crunchy Frog bar" is off my blogroll (even though I am a sucker for Monty Python references.)

2. Make frequent spelling errors. And my spelling is atrocious. My 10 year old son spells 1,000 times better than I do. But for Lord's sake, people, there are spell checkers out there. I am the only sucky speller I allow to get near my computer.

3. What's with the teeny tiny fonts? Next!

4. Here's a biggie: change your blogspot template to get rid of the "Next blog" button. I get really pissed off when I click "next blog" and hit a blog with a dead end. That button is how I discovered some stalwart and worthy members of my blogroll, like the Asian leprechaun and Septuagent, and I resent people who get rid of it.

5. Write a knee-jerk conservative blog. Or a knee-jerk liberal blog. Hey, I read Charles Krauthammer and Molly Ivins. And I prefer Krauthammer, even though I tend to agree more with Ivins's bleeding heart, leftie-bolshie point of view. I like reading well-written, well-reasoned, well-constructed arguments. If all you have to say is "Liberals suck!" or "Conservatives suck!" I will stay far away from your blog. Are you listening, Ann Coulter?

6. As for those iDiOtZ who uze kre8ive spelling or orthography or whatever it's called ... someone should shove a pound sign up their semi-colons.

--P.

Shown and told: Christmas decorations

Blackbird asked, and she hath received, from the abundance that is Poppy's Christmas madness:

The tree is nine-and-a-half feet of solid, made-in-China, muscular, artificial greenery.

I think it's on steroids, too, but I'm not sure.

I do know that it took three days to get all the decorations up.











More artifical greenery, this time with wee little toys bedight.

See, around here, Christmas decorations extend far past the front door and now go on places like the door to the china cupboard.

After all, who really needs to get at the Beatrix Potter china animals?

Their season is Easter.









Did you know that Jesus has a thing for martinis?

You didn't? Well, just keep looking at this picture and he'll turn that martini into wine. Truth.


I need a drink.

--P.

Shown and told

I'm two days late for Blackbird's Show and Tell Friday because I went away for the weekend without my laptop (!!!!!) and anyway, I can't find my camera. Typical.

So anyway, here are my cars: a 2005 Toyota Sienna XLE AWD, very gorgeous if elephantine, replete with the leather upholstery, cup holders, power sliding doors, awesome sound systerm, and a surprisingly small turning radius--I mean, this thing is as nimble as one of the hippopotamus ballerinas in Disney's Fantasia;

and my true love, a 2003 VW Passat wagon, again with the AWD, heated leather seats, cupholders a go go--but also a moon roof, Monsoon sound system, wood trimmed interior, la-dee-dah.

I love them both, but I give the edge to the VW because even though vans and wagons are both (let's face it) mom-mobiles, wagons are much more retro, and I'm all about retro.

In fact, I consider myself a card-carrying retrosexual.

I just thought that up! Can you believe how spontaneously witty and clever and shit I can be? Neither can I.

Tomorrow I'll try to find the time to post about how Joke assisted in the purchase of my pretty green wagon, allowing me to totally f*** with the heads of the salesman and his manager ... to the point where I'm afraid to take the car back to the dealership for servicing, because I figure they'll take the opportunity to revenge themselves on us. Well, really me.

--P.