The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day Seven

After a short plane ride, we got back to Chicago last night and immediately began to drink heavily rejoice in the presence of our far-away friends, the Jokes.

Today we had lunch at the Mity Nice grill and blathered ourselves hoarse chatted in quite an animated fashion.

Tonight we're going to a black-tie New Year's Eve party. Peter Duchin will be playing. Well, did you evah!

It should be an evening worthy of Truman Capote's swans:

Babe

C.Z.

Diana

Gloria

Lee

Marella

Slim

The evening promises to be positively a-swimming in glamour. And champagne.

Gotta go, darlings--Kenneth is here to do my hair.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 6

We're heading for the airport in a couple of hours to fly to Chicago, where we will rendez-vous with the Jokes.

Of course, it has decided to snow today. But with luck, it won't slow down our flight.

And speaking of flights, it's time to enjoy the Six Geese a Laying. And so, The Opiate of the Masses proudly presents my very favorite, very pregnant geese; the so-called ladies I've been mocking for much of 2006 over at Mamarazzi:

Tori, who, coincidentally enough, appears to be wearing the brown bag her husband put over her head in order to get her knocked up in the first place.

Gwen Stefani, who actually sailed through her pregnancy looking comfortable and beautifully groomed, and about whom I have nothing catty to say.

Sorry; I don't have anything bad to say about Brooke, either. What a class act she is.

Ah, but now, my favorite husband-stealing, goth-dressing, tramp-stamped, walking orphanage, Angelina Jolie.

And this is the single funniest picture of a pregnant Britney I've ever seen. That is, if it's photoshopped. Otherwise, it's kind of sad.

This one ... well, I'm speechless. Can a pregnancy bump really look that much like ... well, not a pillow. It's more like Katie Holmes is smuggling an E-Meter under her pretty silky blouse.

And finally, Anna Nicole Smith, the silliest goose of all. She doesn't even know which gander fathered the egg she laid.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 5

Hey! Merry Christmas!

For those of you who are keeping score, it's the fifth day of Christmas, which is also the fifth day of Blogmas. Because I promised myself I'd blog every day of the 12 days.

Day Five finds me in the finals for the following Olympic events (but if I receive a gold medal for any of them, I will be a-frickin-mazed):

1. Picking up all the Christmas loot and stowing it where it should go. Can I beat the current record of eleven hours, 17 minutes and three seconds? Stay tuned.

2. Keeping my temper when members of my family appear to want to shred my peace of mind into microscopically-fine pieces, and then stomp on them.

3. Traveling to Chicago in my husband's company without wanting to kill him (he's a wonderful man, and frankly, I did very well for myself when I married him, but he is a type-A business traveler of the most impatient and anxiety-ridden sort.)

4. Cleaning up from my long-sought-after blue jeans and slippers state into something more suitable for a black tie New Year's Eve celebration with the Jokes;

5. And finally, getting said black tie regalia to zip without recourse to more Spandex than is usually found at spandex central.

Please enjoy the five gold rings, brought to you by your favorite blogging Olympian.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 4

OK, newsflash, girlfriends; I'm officially sick of Christmas.

Why is that? Well, we had the Christmas-dinner-for-Poppy's-side-of-the-family. With the drinks and snacks and the many foodstuffs cooked by Poppy for all 13 of us:

A 10 pound boneless loin of pork, roasted, with home-made applesauce, home-made gravy, roast potatoes, string beans cooked al dente and then tossed with butter and Parmesan until yummy and gooey, Poppy's prize-winning wild rice salad with pecans and raisins, tossed green salad a la Fran Drescher with pine nuts, croutons, avocado, blue cheese, tomato, red onion, endive with a horseradish cream dressing ... (sound crazy, but it's great) followed by home-made pecan pie, home-made blueberry pie, three flavors of super-premium ice cream, my mother's bourbon pecan cake, some cookies somebody brought, and home-made eggnog.

So the food was great. The company less so. Anyone who thinks Christmas is about family hasn't spent Christmas with mine. They're ... well, "abrasive" is the word that comes to mind.

You know what? My mother is really annoying. And my younger brother? Has really been acting like an asshole lately. I mean, my poor sister-in-law was in tears for part of the evening.

So I don't have all that much Christmas spirit left at this point, having spent the past 12 hours cooking and dealing with family bullshit.

But I did have enough left to find you four calling birds.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 3

I don't know about you, but I'm not sick of Christmas at all. I barely experienced it. I feel like the kid in Bill Cosby's story about getting his tonsils out. The one whose life passed before his eyes when he was going under anesthesia, and his life was so short he wanted to ask for a replay.

The problem is my husband is working harder than he usually works when he's not "on vacation." What with the laptop, Fed-Ex, word processing, emails, and conference calls--this is Christmas break?







So what do I do? Well, today I had my smoking hot minivan serviced.

I did laundry.

I did a deep clean of the kitchen.

I also tried--AND FAILED--to get my children to look and act as though they aren't being raised by wolves. Because without great effort on my part, they will spend their vacations 1) in their pajamas 2) playing Nintendo.

And I don't feel like making the effort.

So what did I do for fun? I surfed the internet looking for

THREE

FRENCH


HENS.
Did you spot them?

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 2

Blackbird wants me to take part in her Christmas meme, and I will, if only to convince her that my threat to unlink her was just a joke. It's really OK that her son got a Wii for Christmas, while mine lay there sobbing on a heap of Cabbage Patch Dolls and Tickle Me Elmos.


So, without further ado, What I Got for Christmas:

Because chicks dig getting appliances for Christmas, the Sonicare Elite.

Because the 21 books he gave me two weeks ago for my birthday were only an hors d'oeuvre, the latest Artemis Fowl book.

Because red is my color--mine, not yours, not Christmas's, not Valentine's Day, mine--a ring with rubies. For which, I hasten to add, he did not pay retail.

And now, what I'm glad I didn't get for Christmas:


A seven-foot tall silver aluminum Christmas tree. Even if it had come with the revolving stand and colored lights ... I'm just not that post-modern.

A Christmas-themed sweater. In this case, Santa's face would have ended up on my right nipple.


Chest waders. I don't know ... they're practical, and they certainly look comfortable ... and if I dropped the Sonicare down them, things could get interesting ... but they're just not me.

I hereby tag:

Bridget of Idiot Eradication
Diesel of Mattress Police
RW of Chasing Vincenzo
Sarah O. of Lemon Life
Susie Sunshine of The Underpaid Kept Woman

n.b. Here are the rules, if you're interested:

1. Players start by listing three things he/she got for Christmas.
2. Then they list three things he/she definitely did not want to get for Christmas.
3. Then he/she tags five friends and lists their names.
4. The ones who get tagged write on their blogs about their Christmas wishes, and state the rules clearly.
5. Then tag five more victims. The tagger needs to leave the taggees a comment that says you have been Christmas tagged! and tell them to read the tagger's blog.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 1

Merry Christmas!

I've decided that I'm not hard-core enough to do MaPoToFu or whatever the hell it's called, where you blog every day for a month. But I think I can manage to blog every day of the 12 days of Christmas. And I think I deserve to, considering that the month between Thanksgiving and now has been the TOTALLY FUCKING BUSIEST MONTH OF MY LIFE.

That includes the month after I brought my eldest child home from the hospital having undergone 56 hours of labor followed by a surprise C-section followed by being home alone, with no help, while I was recovering from surgery, my husband was traveling for business, the apartment was full of painters, and I was working on a massive case of post-partum depression. And yes, now that I mention it, that was a busy time. But at least I got to spend most of it slobbing around at home in my pajamas. This month I kept having to get dressed up and going out.

But this month is pretty much over now! I have free time!

So here we go.

Thank God my children don't read blogs. Because Young Master Buxom found a framed letter from Santa under his stocking on Christmas morning, informing him that due to factory problems (darn those elves!) he wasn't getting a Wii. The letter was accompanied by a cute little computer-printed gift certificate good for one Wii.

And he was totally satisfied.

But if he ever finds my blog, and clicks over to Blackbird, he'll find that some kids did get Wiis. Yo, Blackbird! Way to ruin my kid's Christmas!

If this keeps up, I might have to unlink to her. NOT THAT I'M BITTER OR ANYTHING.

p.s. How was my Christmas, you ask? Fairly merry, but low-key. That Stud Muffin I Married coined out big time for my birthday two weeks ago, and he was very busy writing briefs and such, so I did the buying for everyone, which meant that he and I didn't get all that much loot. But it was a pleasant day. My in-laws were nice. The children liked their gifts. The tree didn't fall over (although it tried.) The food was great: standing rib roast, roast potatoes, lasagna, pumpkin pie, blueberry pie, and my mother's nut cake (from my great-grandmother's recipe). And yet, my jeans still zip. And we were done with opening presents by 10:00, so I even had time to post to Mamarazzi.

The fat lady would sing, if she weren't afraid she'd wake up the whole house

At some point on Christmas Eve, I completely stop stressing. Everything I've been able to do has been done. This year I managed to:

put a few strands of lights out
decorate two trees
perform Christmas music with various groups eight times
go to about 10 parties
drive to New England to see our families
buy, wrap, and ship presents for far-away friends
buy and wrap presents for many family members
tip the staff at my club
tip the grocery guys
tip the doormen at my building
fill four stockings

I did not:

send out cards
fill the windowboxes with cute greenery
bake anything
tip the paper boy, mail lady, or garbage guys
get much of anything for That Stud Muffin I Married
go caroling
make it to church, except when I was singing in the choir

But. What I've done is done. What's left undone, I won't sweat. That's the difference between me and Martha Stewart. (Well, that, and about 10 years and a billion dollars.) Unlike Martha, I realize that I won't get everything done. I don't expect anything to be perfect.

I hope my children like their presents; I hope my family enjoys coming to visit; I hope my jeans will zip come New Year's Day; I hope my blogging friends enjoy their holidays.

As I sit here, having wrapped the final present and stuffed the final stocking, I'm enjoying a much-deserved glass of wine. Here's to a messy, human, imperfect, loving Christmas.

Cheers!

It's Christmas Eve, and I'm going crazy.

We got our tree yesterday.

It was the last one at the Home Depot--probably in Portsmouth. My son and I went to get the tree alone because my husband was writing a brief.

Yesterday my in-laws showed up and found me trimming the tree, while my husband finished his brief. Then he had a conference call at 6:00 p.m. in the restaurant parking lot while my in-laws and my kids and I went in and ordered food and drinks. I wore a Santa hat. I'm festive! But it's busy around here.

Today I went to Wal*Mart and bought ornament hangers. And a cubic ass-load of Nintendo and Bratz merchandise. And to the Celtic store to buy marmalade and penny whistle CDs and Cadbury chocolate. And to the independent bookstore to buy beautiful books for my daughter. And to a Hallmark store to buy SCOTCH TAPE because I'll be wrapping presents for about a million hours tonight.

Most of the ornaments are on the tree, but not all. I ran out of ornament hangers. I'll probably finish tonight. I hope.

We'll be eating Christmas dinner tonight. Because my father-n-law has developed lactose intolerance, so the big huge lasagna that my husband made for our traditional vegetarian Christmas Eve dinner won't work. So we're having lasagna for Christmas dinner. And roast beef tonight.

We've got to get the stockings hung. But hung from what? I guess the painters took out the old nails out of the mantelpiece, and I'll have to find more. I hope I can find some.

My in-laws are leaving on Christmas Day at around 11:00 because my mother-in-law has to work.

So anyway. Between my mother-in-law working Christmas day and my husband working the 22nd, 23rd, 24th, and probably the 25th, I. am. thisclose. to losing it.

So I'm taking a well-deserved blogging Old Fashioned break. Mmmm, bourbon.

Merry Christmas to all. And if anyone wants to come help me trim the tree and wrap presents, FEEL FREE.

We're here. We're beer. Get used to it.

We left Chicago yesterday morning at 6:20 a.m.

We arrived in NH this morning at 2:02 a.m.

It rained the entire fucking way. I will never get the slap of windshield wipes out of my brain if I don't finish this drink.*

Oh, and did I forget to mention that the Sienna's cigarette lighter is blowing the fuses any time anything was plugged into it? Which meant that there were no DVDs and precious little GameBoy to be had. For the 22 hours on the road.

BTW? It's still raining.

The good thing is if this were the Rocky Mountains, instead of the Appalachians, my family and I would be stuck in a snowdrift, eyeing each other hungrily, and wondering whether anyone packed a cooking knife.

* Not beer, but that old-skool gay pride slogan sneaked up on me and goosed me. Because my creative juices are really flowing after 20 hours on the road.

My Christmas Movie list

Unlike Joke, I have actually read a few books where Christmas plays a big role, such as:

Little Women. It's how the whole thing starts. "'Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,' grumbled Jo, lying on the rug."*

Or the Little House book where they got, like, a cooky (note archaic spelling) and maybe a peppermint stick.

And The Middle Moffat, when Janey sneaks downstairs to leave her little brother a note from Santa.

And O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi.

And A Christmas Carol ... which, as is so often the case, has me sobbing. Yeah, I know. It's embarrassing. But that Victorian sentimentality reaches out and grabs me by the throat. I mean, there's always a tiny little child who might die ... and then does. Little Nell, Tiny Tim, Little Eva, Extremely Small Samantha, Undersized Ursula ... I tell you, that crap gets me EVERY TIME.

And then, there are the movies. Which I've seen so many times I watch them while I address Christmas cards. In no particular order:

1. White Christmas. Bing. The amazing Rosemary Clooney. And I'm actually glad Fred Astaire couldn't co-star with Bing as originally planned, because Danny Kaye does an amazing job. Yeah, the blackface "Mandy" number is embarrassing, and Vera Ellen's knees are frankly scarily knobby, but they start singing "We'll Follow the Old Man" and the soldiers march in and Poppy gets out the handkerchief. Because it's not just very tiny dying children that has me losing it; it's dying children OR old people heading for the poor house.

2. The Thin Man. Nothing fills me with Christmas cheer like the sight of Myrna Loy in the drop-dead mink coat and diamond watch she bought for herself, watching William Powell play with the B. B. gun she bought for him.

3. Metropolitan. Preppies enjoying Christmas break in the city.

7. Trading Places. Preppies, winter, city--but also Dan Ackroyd in a Santa suit. And Jamie Lee Curtis's boobies.

4. Moonstruck. Instead of preppies, it's about colorful Italian types + winter + New York. This isn't actually a Christmas movie, but it's the city and it's cold, so I consider it a secular Christmas movie. For the people who think Christmas isn't about religion; it's about getting together with your large, noisy, obnoxious, extended family.

5. Christmas in Connecticut. Barbara Stanwyck in a classic screwball comedy from 1945.

5. Remember the Night. Barbara Stanwyck again, in an amazing Preston Sturges film from 1940.


* This is from memory, so sue me if I'm wrong.

Is Beta Bettah?

1. I'm not here today; I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of Melissa Etheridge. Unless I'm admiring Melissa and Tammy and making fun of Angelina Jolie. Or maybe I'm mocking Tom Cruise. Whatever. Go read it and figure it out for yourselves.

2. Every time I try to log in to Blogger, they remind me that Blogger Beta is available, and I can switch. In fact, they won't shut up about it. So I know that I can switch any time I want to. But do I want to?

Stop me if I've used this graphic before ...

... but this is what 50 looks like.

That's right. This is a picture of me. And I turned fifty this morning! Of course, I don't usually dress like this. In this picture I'm wearing my George Burns in Drag costume.

All right. I'll stop lying. It's not me. But I did turn 50.

So listen to me, you blogging whippersnappers. I think a little respect is called for in these part, now that I'm the Venerable Poppy. No more of this cheekiness, you hear? I'm practically a member of the AARP.

And be prepared for a LOT of wisdom. After all, I've had even more time than you to ponder and distill my opinions on a wide variety of subjects. And I'd tell you all about arthritis and refinancing mortgages and other subjects so dear to the middle-aged, except right now I'm frantically looking for my cell phone so I can charge it before I go out tonight to act like a moron in front of 122 people.

Oh, and eventually, I'd upload pictures of my birthday loot, which is of a quality to make Joke soil himself (due to the frightening uptick in wifely expectations that will result when That Fabulous Babe He Married sees what That Stud Muffin I Married bought me.)

But as I said, I'm busy.

So quit screwing around and wish an old bag a happy birthday.

Merry Commuter-ness to all!

My mother wants my social life. And she can have it.

Let me first point out that I don't actually live in Chicago.

Last Friday night we went to the Opening Night of the Nutcracker Ballet/Family Party, as detailed below. In Chicago.

On Saturday we attended the annual Children's Christmas party at my club. In Chicago.

On Sunday my husband and I went to the annual Carol Sing/Dinner given by friends, guess where? That's right; Chicago.

Today I'll be taking the Girl Scouts to sing carols at retirement home in the suburbs. Then I'll be taking myself to sing carols at different retirement home, located where? Very good. Chicago. Afterwards I'll have dinner with my husband to celebrate my birthday because

on Tuesday, which actually is my birthday, I'll be leading the singers in the annual Stanley Paul sing-along in Chicago.

Wednesday I have a rehearsal for future Christmas music making, and you'll never guess where it will be.

Thursday I have a ladies' luncheon. IN CHICAGO.

What I need is driver. And a cheap source of gas.

Borrowing trouble at 18 percent interest, and other reasons to drink heavily.

On Friday I dragged my coughing, sneezing, gravelly-voiced self out of bed and went to the "beauty parlor"* where (in spite of the fact that I felt like an ageing horse, who, if she had a halfway merciful owner, would be on her way to the glue factory) I had my mane and hooves groomed so I could look halfway decent at this weekend's furious round of Christmas gaeity.

The first part of which was the opening night of the Joffrey Ballet's production of The Nutcracker. This was to be preceded by a benefit for the ballet company: a charming family party with dinner and jugglers and music and goody bags for the wee ones.

So. My hair and nails were done, and I was packing the car with all of our Nutcracker finery, when I suddenly realized that my children's dress shoes were too small. Bad mommy! Instead of lying around in bed, coughing and sneezing, I should have been taking my children to the shoe store to be fitted for new shoes.**

So after they got home from school, that's what we did.

I swear, ordering the fucking shoes over the internet would have been faster. Even if Zappos had delivered the wrong size, and I had had to exchange them, it still would have been faster than the salesperson at Ye Olde Children's Shoe Shoppe in downtown Newtopia.

It took forever.

It took so long that the first thing we did, after getting all dressed up in our Sugar Plum Fairy finery, was arrive at the dinner party too late to get dinner. So there we were, having paid huge sums for a lovely dinner we didn't get to eat, stuffing our faces with Chex Mix in the lobby of the Auditorium Theater. And calling it dinner.

Then we saw the ballet, and in spite of the fact that I spent the last week getting tense and anxiety-ridden over what my children's behavior would be like, they (of course) completely disarmed me by behaving beautifully. I mean, here I was, making sure that my husband had the coat check tickets so that when my daughter decided that it was TOO MUCH DANCING and started to have a meltdown, he and she could leave early, while I stayed on with my son.

But I didn't account for the perversion of childhood. My children--who have accrued 20 years of experience in second-guessing me--were undoubtedly thinking "Neener neener, Mother. We'll show you." Manifesting complete singlemindedness of purpose, coupled with grim determination--the kind you can only have if you're either a sociopath or nine years old--they enjoyed every minute of the ballet.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I drink.*** Because anticipating my children's bad behavior creates just as much wear and tear on the psyche--maybe more--than the behavior itself.

*Just one of the many ways, in addition to the gray hair, wrinkles, and flabby places where I'M SHOWING MY AGE, ok?

**Another way in which I show my age is my touching belief in the expertise of the salesmen who make sure my children's shoes fit. I blithely order shoes over the internet for myself, but I'm too chicken to do the same thing for my children. Because I am of the generation that believes that it is properly-fitting children's shoes--and not, as many people will tell you, cleanliness--that are next to godliness.

*** Another reason? On Friday in the mail, I got invited to join AARP.

I'm an evil Pop-Tart

I'm still sick.

And that leaves me feeling evil.

I'm stuffed up, with a raspy throat, and I've had a headache pretty much non-stop since Tuesday. I think it's one of those sinus headaches people used to whine about on TV ads when I was a kid and had no idea what they were talking about. They would press on the areas around their noses and moan about the pain! and pressure!

Unfortunately, I think I have figured out what they were talking about.

It wouldn't be so bad, except I refuse to take any cold medicine whatsoever. Cold medicine makes me almost as weird as Demoral makes me. And the one time I was given Demoral, I became so weird that I've been entertaining people at parties for over 10 years with the hilarious descriptions of the way I reacted.

(In better hands, this story would have me dining out free for life, except nobody gives dinner parties any more. It's tough out there for us dinner party raconteurs. Even Oscar Wilde would starve.)

Now, cold medicine doesn't make me that weird--or funny--but it makes me weird enough. And I don't want to find myself alphabetizing the spice rack at 2:00 in the morning. So ixnay on the eudoephedrine-psay.

Being sick is actually OK when I'm home alone, and it sure helps with the paperwork. I mean, you wouldn't believe the bills I've paid and the appointments I've set up for snow plow services, fire wood deliveries, and similar exciting aspects of owning a house in the frozen north.

But three days of non-stop nose-blowing and sounding like a flock of geese flying south (HONK! HONK!) have palled.

And so, I'm evil.

And so, I've accepted I'm an Evil Pop-Tart as my renter. This is kind of like PostSecret, except you don't have to mess around with stamps and shit. You can just confess your evil deeds on line. And the confessions are pretty funny. So check it out.

And then try to guess which one is mine.

The Internet Makes Me Sick

It's not the pervy websites, either.

(Although really, what with all the recent attempts to get me to buy Viagra (or Cialis, which is apparently the new Viagra) there doesn't seem to be any great need to provide men with hours and hours of sexually stimulating material. After all, the men are all walking around with tentpoles, right? From all that Viagra they're buying over the internet? They don't really need to get any more excited, do they? Are all those pervy websites really necessary?)

Anyway.

I have a cold. It's not a huge one, and it started off as quasi-laryngitis. Originally I attributed my new sexually-stimulating husky voice to having, on Sunday:

1. Sung with my choir
2. Sung again with my choir
3. Had my choir over for a post-Advent Lessons and Carols Service party
4. Stayed up late TALKING MY HEAD OFF.

So then on Monday I woke up and discovered that my vocal chords had been replaced with a pile of shredded lettuce. I was capable of speaking in a soft, quavery whisper, but that was about it. At first I thought it was the result of drinking Manhattans and being waaaaay too funny. But on Tuesday, I woke up with a full-fledged upper-respiratory-tract thing.

Which I think I caught from one of you. Probably Badger, but maybe someone else. Let's face it; the whole internet has been complaining about being sick.

Thanks to you prolific, yet germ-ridden bloggers, I have taken to my bed. Yesterday I emailed people, posted to a Yahoo group, shopped for myself and wonder of wonders, I even did some on-line Christmas shopping.

I even wrote a Mamarazzi contribution. If by some reason, you've run out of Viagra (although if you have, I think I know where you can get some) you might want to go check it out. There are legs! And boobages! And Lipstick Lesbians, even. Maybe.

And now, having provided the internet with Even More Pervy Material, my work here is done.

In cast you were wondering, I'm ... mediocre. But not a total failure.

If I were a Baldwin Brother, I'd be William.
If I were a celebrity chef, I'd be Peg Bracken.
If I were a magazine, I'd be Reader's Digest.
If I were a running shoe, I'd be New Balance.
If I were a politician, I'd be Gary Hart. Or Dan Quayle.
If I were a food, I'd be quiche.
If I were a soft drink, I'd be Diet Pepsi.
If I were a car, I'd be a Ford.

Why do I think this? Because of this:

White Out

Even if I had anything to say, Internet, you wouldn't get a lot from me today.

First of all, I was up until something like 2:00 in the morning putting the finishing touches on my latest Mamarazzi post. In which I make fun of Victoria Beckham/Posh Spice--and only partly because of her clothes. I mean, credit me with a little more creativity than that; anyone could make fun of the way she dresses. (But why don't they? Here is a woman literally begging to be mocked for her fashion mistakes, yet people leave her alone. I don't get it.)

But anyway, today is a snow day, because it's a blizzard out there.

I think that before noon today, we're supposed to get something like 12 inches. (Which seems excessive. I'm perfectly happy with eight. Even six will do, as long as the snow knows what its doing.)

But this means my kids are home from school today. And, I we have shoveling to do.

It's official. Halloween is over.

And so is Thanksgiving.

How can I tell? My yard.

See, today, finally and at long last, I removed the final Autumn and/or Halloween decorations from my yard.

Yes, I am that loser who leaves her holiday decorations up way too late.

Here's my excuse: I had a pair of really, really long window boxes made for under our porch windows, because I am a moron with a death-wish, and I thought they would look cute.

And they do look cute. When they're filled with lush, healthy plants. Which means that in the past year, they've looked cute for all of two days. Do you have any idea how many goddamned plants twenty feet of window boxes can swallow up? Or how much time it takes to buy, bring home, plant, and water said plants?

These are actually rhetorical questions, so I'll answer them myself: 1. lots; and 2. too much.

Let's put it this way; I think Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock got married while I was filling the boxes for the summer display, and now, just when they've filed for divorce, I am finally finishing. And now it's time to get all cute for Christmas. SHIT.

Holy crap, I knew my hair was getting high-maintenance, what with its monthly cut and color appointments, but honestly, now it's like the front of my house needs its bangs trimmed or its lipgloss reapplied about every five fucking minutes.

So anyway, today I finally removed the pumpkins and little light-up ghosts and took down the black icicle lights. I replaced them with white icicle lights and branches with red berries. Greenery and holly boughs and such Martha Stewartisms will follow, once I've rested up.

And just so you know, to get that done will probably take another three weeks, and meanwhile, what isn't little white lights and twigs with red berries is dying yellow and orange and purple chrysanthemums. And if you don't like it, neighbors and internet? You can bite me.

I need a drink.

Poppy emerges from a turkey coma

It wasn't just the turkey. Or the stuffing and gravy. Or the home-made cranberry, cinnamon, and cognac chutney-like crappe I cooked.

It was the pies. All home-made, all with real
lard--yes, lard!--in the crusts. We had pumpkin, pecan, apple, wild Maine blueberry, and sweet potato and all with home-made whipped cream, or vanilla ice cream (or if you're my daughter, both.)

No wonder I forgot to post to Mamarazzi. Even though today is my day.

So anyway, the pie crust has lifted, and ... I remembered.

I remembered about computers. I remembered about the internet. I remembered all that stuff I usually waste so much time doing. And so, here I am, back where I belong, with my rapidly-expanding ass parked in front of a laptop.

I even posted to Mamarazzi. Check it out--Seal and Heidi Klum had a baby named Gibberish Gobbledy Gook Seal-Klum! No, really! They did! Check it out!

3 x 3 = 9

Three days--yesterday, today, tomorrow--in nine words. Yes, nine. Even more terse and vivid than a haiku. Because I'm feeling poetic. And busy.

Yesterday

church, accident,* tow-truck

Today

insurance, conferences, laundry

Tomorrow

packing, airport, Thanksgiving

* The only person hurt was my cute little green Passat station wagon. Which is majorly dinged, considering that I was maybe going 20 miles an hour when a car came out of nowhere and planted itself in my path. And the moral of the story is ? Do not rear-end a Sherman Tank Mercedes Benz.

The promised meme. From Joke.

Explain what ended your last relationship?
It's been so long that I can't really remember, but I think it was the time he peed on my bedroom floor.

When was the last time you shaved?
About three days ago, she bristled.

What were you doing this morning at 8 a.m.?
Taking my first life-giving sip of tea.

What were you doing 15 minutes ago?
Sitting around on my fat butt playing with the internet. As you can see, nothing's changed.

Have you had to take a loan out for school?
Yes.

Last thing received in the mail?
The electric bill, which puzzled me. How I managed to use more electricity during the month of August (when I wasn't here) than I did in July (when I was) eludes me.

How many different beverages have you had today?
Three. Water, coffee, and tea. But it's early yet.

Are you any good at math?
A bit. I was always very good at geometry and trigonometry, and I'm still excellent at arithmetic--if you want to know how much carpeting that costs $35/yard installed will cost for your 19 x 26 foot living room, I'm your gal. On the other hand, the idea of even trying to learn calculus makes me want to hide under your living room sofa, which will make installation difficult.

Your prom night, what do you remember about it?
I didn't go to the prom. I was in high school in the 70s. Proms were for dorks.

Do you have any famous ancestors?
Thomas Dudley. And because I'm descended from Dudley, I'm also descended from Charlemagne. I guess I need to get a big-ass ring so all my blogging fans can kiss it.

Do you ever leave messages on people’s answering machine?
Of course. I tell the person to call me back, but I never say who I am. Which means that sometimes the person I called calls the wrong person back, probably renewing the ties of an ancient friendship. In this way, I spread sweetness and light.

Who did you lose your CONCERT virginity to?
It's "Whom." And it was The Rolling Stones. But it's OK. They were gentle with me.

Do you draw your name in the sand when you go to the beach?
What? And risk identity theft?

What’s the most painful dental procedure you’ve had?
A root canal performed by the ham-handed practitioner my parents probably picked because he was descended from Thomas Dudley or some such. It definitely wasn't for his dentistry.

What is your favorite flavor of JELL-O?
Red. All other flavors are heretical and--if you're not religious--just plain wrong.

Have you ever been to a planetarium?
Several times. I like planetaria. You sit in the dark and look at cool stuff. It's like going to the movies without all that tedious violence.

When was the last time you spoke in front of a large group of people?
Do you mean large as in numerous, or large as in obese?

Any plans for Friday night?
That depends upon who's asking.

What is out your back door?
Let me guess. You've run out of even semi-interesting questions.

Do you like what the ocean does to your hair?
Not at all. If I wanted my hair to be covered with nasty, salty, sticky stuff, I'd stay in bed.

Have you ever received one of those big tins of 3 different popcorns?
Wait a minute. Is this so-called meme actually a marketing survey?

Do you re-use towels after you shower?
OK, this is definitely a marketing survey, I just know it. Either that or it's some pervert. Come out of hiding, you cheesey marketing person and/or pervert. Be honest. Just ask me, Martex or Grand Patrician? Monogrammed or not? Do I like my towels soft and cushiony, or do I prefer the rough caress of nubbly terry loops?

Some things you are excited about?
Sex, my upcoming birthday, my birthday loot, if any, Christmas, and nubbly terry loops.

Describe your keychain(s)?
I can't. I don't remember what it looks like. Actually, they. As in the keys to one car. The keys to the other car. The keys to the house. They're all on different keychains. And no, I don't know why; that's just the way I do it. And stop trying to divert attention from your towel fetish. You're not fooling anyone.

Where do you keep your change?
In my wallet. If I get too much of it, I stick it in a jar. When the jar is full, I take it to the bank, where, guess what? They turn it back into money. You should try it, cheesey Marketing Towel Fetish Pervert. Sometimes I get $80 or even more, which will buy a lot of Bed-Head, Stiff-Stuff, and new towels. At least, if the towels are on sale.

What kind of winter coat do you own?
OK, remarks about nubbly terry towels and salty hair aside, this is where it actually gets embarrassing around here:

Vintage camel's hair swing coat with blonde mink collar
Vintage red wool coat with black fox collar
red duffle coat
red boiled wool jacket with Tyrolean braid trim
black car coat with red trim
brown duffle coat
long black cashmere
navy blue wool trench
navy blue cotton trench
black leather zip front jacket
knee-length swing mink
long straight dark brown mink

What was the weather like on your graduation day?
Wet. But not in a way that would excite you, Cheesey Marketing Towel Fetish Pervert.

Do you sleep with the door to your room open or closed?
Closed. And in your case, Cheesey Marketing Towel Fetish Pervert, locked.

And then I woke up--and thanked God it was Friday.

I just checked the date of my last entry, and it took me by surprise. Has it really been five days since I've posted? Wow.

Of course, this has been a week replete with meetings, some of which I led, all of which involved my having to talk. All the talking might have led me to believe that I've shot my wad and am conversationally bankrupt, when as far as the internet is concerned, I'm being unusually taciturn.

And yet, I'm exhausted and have nothing to say.

This might be because once in a while, at these meetings I just mentioned, I feel that it's appropriate to let someone else talk. And then I have to listen to that person. And if there's anything that tires me out more than talking, it's listening. Because, you know, people don't always talk about things that interest me. I mean, there they go, blathering away, expressing their own thoughts, when honestly, mine are so much better.

Which you will discover if you check my latest Mamarazzi entry. It represents the last thought I completed before my brain flat-lined, so grab it while it's hot.

Meanwhile I'll try to dredge up some fresh new memes, internet quizzes, knock-knock jokes, trivia, false memories, recipes, and rude cracks about celebrities for tomorrow. Or maybe the next day, if I have a hangover.

Why am I nawt suhprised?

What American accent do you have? Your Result: Boston You definitely have a Boston accent, even if you think you don't. Of course, that doesn't mean you are from the Boston area, you may also be from New Hampshire or Maine.
The Northeast
The Midland
Philadelphia
The West
The Inland North
North Central
The South
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

Hello. I must be going.

As I started to write this entry, I realized I was starving. So I'm going downstairs to have Yet Another delicious Seattle Sutton Healthy Eating lunch.

Which maybe isn't all that tasty, but as I've said before; I didn't have to cook it; ergo, it's delicious. But uninspiring. If you are what you eat, I am a hermetically-sealed microwavable low-sodium, low- fat lunch.

In a word: dull.

Really, it's not worth hanging around here to see whether I'll snap out of it and write something interesting.

You should check out my new tenant. That Grrl makes wicked cool ascii art and has a goofy sense of humor, plus she's a Sagittarius, and that means it's almost her birthday. Now, don't you feel guilty that you haven't checked out her blog? Click on the thumbnail! I gotta go. I'M HUNGRY. kbye!

I'm Number 1! I'm Number 1!

Unlike a lot of bloggers (some of whom read this blog) I'm not a foodie. If a dish is edible, and doesn't contain a mountain of revolting ingredients, and (most important of all) I didn't have to cook it? I like it. And happily eat it.

And yet, I just won a prize for my cooking.

Which just goes to show you that, if you pick the right recipe, and follow the directions, you, too, can win first prize for The Best Side Dish in the All Friends/No Family Thanksgiving Dinner potluck. With at least 60 dishes in the categories of Appetizer, Side dish, and Dessert, the odds were 20 to 1 against my winning anything, and yet, I won best side dish for

Wild Rice and Pecan Salad

1 cup raisins (I use Golden raisins because they're pretty)
1 cup wild rice
4 1/4 cups water
1 cup pecan halves and 3/4 cups pecan pieces
3/4 cup thinly sliced green onion/scallion
1/3 cup olive oil (Oh, OK. EVOO, a/k/a Extra Virgin Olive Oil)
1/4 cup rice wine vinegar
pepper

Soak raisins in hot water until plump; drain well.
Cook rice in water. (It occurs to me--now, when it's too late to do any good--that a teaspoon of salt in the cooking water would probably improve things.)
Toast pecans @ 350 degrees for 10 minutes.
Mix cooked rice, plumped raisins, and sliced green onion in a large bowl.
Whisk olive oil, vinegar and pepper.
Pour over rice mixture.
Toss.
Chill covered until serving time. Add toasted pecans and mix lightly.

Allow me to enumerate the many perfections of this recipe. It is

1. easy
2. interesting
3. uses two indigenous American ingredients (thus making it perfect for Thanksgiving)
4. can be made ahead
5. can be served cold or at room temperature, AND
6. might win you a prize

(Personally, I thought the sweet potato fluff with chopped nuts would totally waltz away with the prize, but who am I to question the judgment of my public?)




.

Poppies, poppies.

Did you all remember Remembrance Day? Armistice Day? Veteran's Day?

We put the flag out and I managed to removed most--not all--of the Halloween decorations.



Newtopia had a ceremony on the Village Green at the War Memorial. At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

Nobody tried to sell me a poppy, though.

I miss the poppy sellers I used to see on the street. Did anyone see them? Or have they gone the way of the veterans in my family?

Because I really am that funny.

I haven't mentioned it in a while, but I'm one of the women who writes a weekly post in Mamarazzi: Because Celebrity Parenting Is So Easy to Snark!

Let me tell you, coming up with a snarky take on today's celebrity parenting practices isn't as easy as you'd think. Sure, there are the days when Britney Spears almost drops her baby, or Angelina adopts Yet Another Third World Baby, but let's face it; great moments for full-on celebrity snarkage don't come nearly as regularly as I'd like.

No, writing about celebrity parenting is a lot like actual, real-life non-celebrity parenting; lots of slogging and not much glamour. Basically, it's a frantic, fast-paced whirl of sound, fury, and guilt--but the good news is that in both cases, you can do it in your pajamas.

On a day like today, when the hour or so I spent finding pictures and writing what I hoped was witty prose falls on deaf ears, because you, Internet, are feeling picky, and if you were a baby in a high chair, would not laugh; on the contrary, you would throw your bowl of oatmeal on the floor and cry ...

... I can play this:

"Want to change my clothes, my hair, my face"

Well, well, well. The returns are in.

How do you spell "Sweep?" P-O-P-P-Y.

Yes, I'm feeling happy. And, to tell you the truth, also a bit petty. A better woman would look at these things with a fine, objective, Zen-like calm. A better woman would not drive around listening to AM talk radio and rolling her eyes at the assinine, mean-spirited remarks being made by the shows' hosts.

So yeah, I'm happy. And petty. But just a bit. Really! Because for all of us who voted, the good news is that the democratic process has shown its strength again. The voters didn't like what was going on, so they threw the bums out.

Now maybe, just maybe, the Republicans will realize that if you act like an arrogant asshole, you might get fired.

As for the Democrats? Maybe they'll remember what it felt like when they got fired. Maybe this time they'll keep in touch with reality.

But bear with me, because in this, a mostly-non-political blog, I want to talk about two more things. This business of Rumsfeld resigning. Talk about the locking the barn door after the horse gets stolen. Here I was thinking that while the list of our current President's shortcomings is long (Hee! Get it?) he is, at least, loyal. Maybe to a politically-damaging extent, but somehow, for me, that meant he was pig-headed, but in a way that showed he had integrity.

Guess not.

So that sucks. I mean, if the Iraq war wasn't going well today, after the Democrats took control of both houses ... wasn't it going badly yesterday? In which case, why not have asked for Rumsfeld's resignation--I don't know--at any point during the last three years? I mean, what is this--a gesture? When you're pig-headed, you're not supposed to stoop to empty gestures.

And Karl Rove. I suspect that the Republican get-out-the-vote tactic--the one where they add a socially-conservative, non-binding referendum to the ballot in order to increase voter turn-out ("I know! 'Marriage is between one man and one woman!' That will bring them to the polls")--has finally peaked. It looks like the voters have figured it out. Which is good. Because honestly, that tactic looks about as spontaneous and unscripted as Bruce Springsteen pulling Courtney Cox onto the stage to dance in the Dancing in the Dark video. Sure, we all fell for it the first time ... but now we know this was a coldly-calculated move.

p.s. Apropos of nothing at all, DAMN! Doesn't Springsteen look good in that video? Maybe he should run for President. I'd vote for him. As long as he promises to fire his Secretary of Defense right away, and not wait until after the mid-term election results are in.

Bloggers! I have solved your problem. The eternal problem of Blogging Content, and Where to Get It.

It's easy. Look to the left of your laptop. (This leaves your dominant hand free to convey the all-important mug of caffeine towards your face.) And don't give me shitty little come-backs like "But Poppy! I'm left-handed!" Be brave, bold, and resolute, bloggers. Think outside the box. Switch the rights and lefts; we'll wait.

OK. What is to the left of my laptop? Halloween candy wrappers. And thus, today's entry is

Halloween Candy: The Review

1. 3 Musketeers in the wee little snackity-snack size. Verdict: tastes like someone melted a brown crayon and poured it over a stale marshmallow. Why bother? Which explains why there are only three wrappers there. It turns out they do not get better if you eat several of them.

2. Hershey's Dark Chocolate Kisses. These are the ones that come in purple metallic foil wrappers. Verdict: These are actually pretty good. The chocolate has a luscious series of overtones that is guaranteed to to send your tastebuds into pirouettes of delight. There are only two wrappers in the saucer, but there would be more, if I hadn't tried the 3 Musketeers first.

There are also two noticeable absences, or lacks.

3. Across the room, very far from the plate to the left of my laptop there is a container of little Fun-Sized baglets of Hershey's Kissables. Verdict: Don't bother. To the already overly-sweet taste and chalk-like texture of the Hershey's Kiss has been added a very hard, slick coating that smells like little guest soaps. Avoid.

4. DNA testing would reveal that there used to be a bowl of dark chocolate M&Ms on the sideboard. Verdict: These were excellent--the Garden of Eden of Halloween candy. Which is why they're gone.

What is the state of your Halloween candy? All gone? Nothing left but Circus Peanuts? You never had any? Discuss.

Another reason to hate me. Or maybe just think I'm a big weirdo with a lot of time on my hands.

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The Princess and the Pea

I'm back!

And I'll bet you didn't even notice that I was gone. But I was.

Sure, I was a good Mamarazzi contributor; I posted my Friday entry from the funny antiquated desktop in the lobby of the funny antiquated hotel I was staying in, but for a couple of days, that was pretty much all there was going on between you and me, Internet.

I flew out of Chicago Thursday morning, rented a car, checked into my hotel, dinner meeting, talk talk talk, all day meeting the next day, talk talk talk, drive like crazy person back to airport, get stuck in Southwest's "C" line.

Yuck. Exhausted. Fried. Just wanted to sit on the plane and read my book.

I got an aisle seat (yay!) on the aisle in a three-seat row. The other seats were taken up by a beautiful 15-month old girl and her mother, who was busy feeding her little chunks of ham, peas, and corn from a Rubbermaid container.

I guess a lot of business travelers steer clear of rows with children, but not me. Within about a minute of my first "Hi! Aren't you a cutie!" Sarah held out her tiny chubby fist. She was offering me a pea.

Now all you Purell-carrying germ-o-phobes might shudder, but I took it, said "Thank you!" in my best talking-to-toddler voice, and ate it, evincing pleasure like something off the Food Network.

In Jack and the Beanstalk, we learned about magic beans. Well, this was a magic pea. I felt better instantly.

Of course, Sarah, seeing what she had wrought, continued to offer me peas, but really, I'm not a glutton for magic. A little bit, from time to time, at irregular intervals, suits me right down to a pea T.

What I Should Have Said.

The next time somebody asks me

Are you coming?

I'm going to reply

Why? Does it show?

The Revelation of the Month. So far.

OK, so it's not much, but it's early in the month.

Yesterday a fourth grade room mother looked at me and without a "Hello, Poppy" or any kind of preamble asked me "Are you coming?"

I thought she meant coming to the fourth grade Halloween party, but just then, someone interrupted her. When she was free, she asked me again: "Are you coming to the class cocktail party?"

Revelation dawned. Whoops, I forgot to r.s.v.p. "No," I started to answer. And she turned away and walked off.

The hell? OK, Emily Post would be displeased with me for letting the class cocktail party invitation get buried on my desk ... but this is something that one of the room parents takes on as part of the job of being room parent. This is not a real party. In fact, "Class Parents' Party" is an oxymoron.

And then it occurred to me. This woman has two children, one in each of my children's grades. The older one is about the dourest sixth grader I've ever seen. The younger is described by my same-aged child as "my best enemy."

In other words, my kids don't like her kids. And? Big surprise? I don't like her.

Now, for years I've been figuring that a kid with neurobehavioral issues probably sprang spontaneously from the loins of nice, normal parents. However, years of unconscious observation on my part suddenly yielded yesterday's big insight: Weird parents tend to have weird kids. And weird kids? Tend to have weird parents.

Just so you know, my kids are weird. I have the paperwork and IEPs and therapy bills to prove it.

Now you know what you can expect from me.

P.S. About the grumpiness ...

that I alluded to in my last post?

I'm pretty sure it's not PMS. I mean, I really am currently drowning in a vast mountain of laundry with thousands of other non-glamorous activities in the offing (IEP meetings! Need to schedule OB/GYN appointment! The vacuum cleaner is broken!) So I have every reason to be crabby. Non-hormonal reasons. It's not because I'm a girl.

But still. When I went through the candidates for the catbird seat, what jumped out at me?

Chocablog.

A blog. About chocolate! How genius is that?

The latest entry is about a Lindt Creme Brulee bar that sounds so delicious, I'm starting to chew my laptop. Check it out!

The Monday Mean

I'm grumpy.

If this post had a subtitle, it would be "I Hate the Night Life." We went out Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. I'm feeling exhausted and curmudgeonly.

Here's another subtitle: "Too Much Music!" On Friday night it was the opera, on Saturday and Sunday I spent hours rehearsing and singing, and on Sunday night it was a Music of the Baroque Mozart fest.

Thank God, just like everyone else, Mozart can only have one 250th birthday. On December 31st I'm going to shout "Happy New Year!" and immediately sign the official document declaring a Mozart moratorium for the indefinite future. I might make an exception for an opera or a piano concerto, but this twiddly-pooping "Divertimento" crap needs to head back to the back burner where it belongs.

I say we wait until he turns 300 before indulging in another world-wide all-Mozart, all-the-time Marathon. At that point I expect to be dead, which will mean one less elderly curmudgeon grousing that the program print is too small, leaving her walker where people will fall over it, and falling asleep during the concert.

All that by way of saying, holy shit, the audience last night was OLD. I'm not claiming that my hair is naturally its current color, but if I stopped dyeing it, at least it wouldn't be white. Last night it didn't look like a concert so much as a convention of Snowy Owls.

Not that I have anything against old people. Not at all. I hope to become old myself, at some point in the very distant future. But last night looked like a Rolling Stones concert, circa 2020.

To increase my grumpification (no, Blogger, you're right; that's not a word. Bite me) the laundry situation around here is dire. I'm doing two loads a day--wash, dry, fold, put away--and then it will occur to me--what about the sheets?

I'm thinking of making everyone sleep in sleeping bags.

In a tent in the back yard.

(If they shower outside and dry off by rolling in the grass, I won't have to deal with the towel situation, either.)

The Friday Meme (I know it's Saturday. Shut up.)

Via Badger, Blackbird, and Suse.

1. Flip to page 18, paragraph 4 - in the book closest to you right now, what does it say?

The book is The End from A Series of Unfortunate Events. There are no paragraphs on Page 18, which is just so typical of that tedious Lemony Snicket person who should just SHUT UP and tell the goddamned story.

(In case you're wondering, my son must have left the book on my bedside table.)

2. If you stretch out your left arm as far as possible, what are you touching?
My bedside table. I am all about the wireless DSL laptop in bed, man.

3. What's the last program you watched on TV?
How Clean is Your House?

4. Without looking, guess what time it is.
9:00 p.m. Whoops! Silly me. It's 9:00 A.M. Time to get up! No, really. It's time!

"Hurry up, please, it's time."

T. S. Eliot

Damn. Even T. S. Eliot can't get me up.

5. Aside from the computer, what can you hear right now?
A siren, the television going in my son's room, HVAC, my husband blowing his nose. And now the toilet seat just banged down. Aren't you glad you asked?

6. When was the last time you were outside and what did you do?
Last night, coming home from the opera.

7. What are you wearing?
A pair of pink Lilly Pulitzer cotton broadcloth pajamas.

8. Did you dream last night? If you did, what about?
I've been told by people who claim to be dream experts that I dream every night. I'd like them to prove it.

9. When was the last time you laughed?
Last night walking to the apartment door from the elevator.

10. What's on the walls, in the room you're in right now?
Two framed black and white photographs.

11. Have you seen anything strange lately?
A cab driver who didn't pick us up last night was acting very strange. I'm glad we didn't get in his cab OR YOU MIGHT NOT BE READING THIS.

12. What do you think about this meme?
Eh.

13. What's the last film you saw?
Master and Commander.

14. If you became a multimillionaire, what would you do with the money?
Pay off the house, sock some away for the kids' college funds, give a lot to charities, travel, invest, buy myself a shitload of jewelry.

15. Tell us something about yourself that most people don't know.
My husband had to talk me into getting married.

16. If you could change ONE THING in this world, without regarding politics or bad guilt, what would it be?
I would invent a clean, cheap source of energy.

17. Do you like dancing?
Yes. I would rather do it than watch it, except for ballet. Modern dance creeps me out.

18. George Bush?
Cheer up. In only two more years someone better will be on deck.

19. What do you want your children's names to be, girl/boy?
They have them already.

20. Would you ever consider living abroad?
Yes. I owe it to my heritage to discover what my emigrant ancestors were running away from.

21. What do you want God to tell you, when you come to heaven?
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Oh, and before I forget--your father is playing piano in that bar over there, and he Me to tell you to get over there as soon as you show up, because he needs a vocalist who can really sing Gershwin."

22. Who should do this meme?
The boys on my links list. Stop stalking me and get to work!

Where I been, girl!

Because I know you've been wanting to ask me "WHERE YOU BEEN, GIRL?"

And because you're so young, Internet, I thought that rather than tell you, I'd show you. Like a picture book. Except with copyright infringement.

You're so young, Internet. You won't remember the Suzy Homemaker doll


but I always wanted one.

Little did I know that I would become one. With, ooh, look! The dishwasher!
And the washing machine!


So that explains part of where I been. I was playing with my doll and wondering why she wasn't better at doing the laundry and the dishes.

Then there was a trip to Chicago to sing here. In a drawing.



(It's the best I could steal from you, Internet.)

And on another day, another trip to Chicago, to go here


(No, not the skyscraper. The old, pretty building) to look at this


and this


to determine whether it would be good for a cocktail party. For 200 people. (It was thought to be too large.)

And then back home to help my kids learn this:


In this re-enactment of Wednesday afternoon, Poppy Buxom is being played by Pat Morito.

And then last night! Four hours at the local fire station to do this


except in English. Which, you'll be glad to hear, is my first language (although you'd never guess it from this blog.)

And that's where I've been.

Oh, and I forgot one thing--I'm really not here, today, I'm here.