I'm sorry, cool people. I tried.

I really did.

I tried two internet radio station thingies. The first, recommended by Badger, and a second, recommended by Chatty B. Tawkin.

These are the kind of stations where you type in the name of a group you like, and using artificial intelligence software, they match your preference with other people's preferences, and start playing things that are sorta kinda like the stuff you like.

They were both abysmal failures. I tried typing in XTC, since I like their extraordinary lyrics, interesting harmonies and arrangements, and super clean studio sonorities. When that yielded not a single group I liked as much as XTC, I tried Todd Rundgren. But Todd is such a stylistic mishmash that the stuff coming down the pipe sounded random, and not in a good way. So then I tried NRBQ, my favorite group that you've probably never heard of. Their music is sort of laid back in a bar-band way, tuneful, catchy ... but still no dice. I pretty much hated all of their recommendations.

So then I tried telling the stations that I liked Frank Sinatra. But that meant that they thought I'd like Dean Martin, and I don't. Then I tried Rudy Vallee, figuring that I pretty much like all music from the 1920s and 1930s, at least a little bit. But that ended up being annoying, too.

I think the problem is that I mostly don't like 90 percent of the available music in the world. And the stuff I like eludes classification.

So I headed over to Live365. This appears to be internet radio for picky bastids. It doesn't use AI. Instead, you search for stations run by geeks who like the kind of music you like. You can type in "Purcell" or "Duke Ellington" or "Hootie and the Blowfish" (if you must) and up will pop a list of stations that play those artists.

I ended up buying an annual subscription.

Right now my playlist contains the following stations:

Canuckteach Hot Jazz, currently playing Mildred Bailey singing "I thought About You" with the Benny Goodman Orchestra

Early Music.net, currently playing See where she sits (William Turner) by The Consort of Musicke, dir. Anthony Rooley

Radio Dismuke, which is currently playing "Hi-Diddle-Diddle" by George Olsen and His Music

StarlightTeahouseAudio, currently playing "I Only Have Eyes for You" by Eddie Duchin

and for listening when I'm playing board games with my children:

PIRN (Pokemon Internet Radio Network) which is currently playing "Splendid Collection (Karaoke)" by Sachiko Kobayashi

So if you're a picky bastid like me, you might want to check it out. There's one drawback, though. Unlike regular radio, you know exactly what song is playing as it plays. There's a way of clicking through so you can either download the song or purchase the CD from Amazon. And I've already purchased a Bob Crosby CD and a collection of pieces by Spanish composers of early music. And I'm afraid this is only the beginning.

This was the week that was

Sunday

Poppy attended a dreary brunch for the tiresome yet blue-blooded old ladies organization. To avoid saying anything outrageous, Poppy allowed herself nothing but Diet Coke to drink. As a consequence, Poppy became exceedingly bored. Poppy finally escaped the brunch, heaving large sighs of relief. She celebrated by attending two Sunday afternoon open houses of two houses for sale in her neighborhood. Poppy rapidly became demoralized by the state of her own house, aka That Shack in Winnetka.

Monday

Poppy took the girls in for their mammogram. She suffered the general indignity, using what she remembered of her Lamaze breathing techniques to ward off any discomfort. She then required retail therapy, and headed to the hospital giftshop for the purchase of useless Valentine's themed tchotkes. She spotted Heath Bars in candy display and decided to buy one.

Tuesday

Poppy discovered that the hospital gift shop sales assistant packed an extra Heath Bar in the bag. Poppy briefly contemplated returning the swag to the hospital gift shop. As it is a 20 minute drive, Poppy decided to forget it, so she destroyed the evidence in a most efficient manner.

Wednesday

Poppy atoned for not passing the Heath Bar exam by becoming a gym bunny. She spent an hour in yoga class and then spent an hour on the elliptical with Fiddledeedee. Later that day she spent another 45 minutes on the exercycle. She also spent $200 at Ulta. Even though the mammogram hadn't hurt all that much, and anyway, that was two days ago.

Thursday

Poppy took her first born to a "neurobehavioral" place for six hours of testing. She headed to the gym. She took her first spinning class, and valiantly refrained from blowing chunks all over the studio. She then headed over to ellipticals for an hour of fast stepping accompanied by Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on CD. She then picked up Draco Harry her son, and took him back to Health club for lunch in the cafe, where she was spotted by her spinning class instructor. After the instructor heard about the hour on the elliptical, the instructor granted permission for Poppy to eat whatever Poppy liked for lunch. Poppy complied.

Friday

More testing for firstborn equals more gym time for Poppy. This time it was a yoga class followed by some time on the stair climber. Unfortunately, the battery ran down on Poppy's daughter's Bratz CD player, thus shortening stair climbing time, as it turns out stair climbing alone is not sufficiently amusing to hold Poppy's attention. Friday evening Poppy's daughter made her stage debut. Poppy reluctantly relaizes that the Diva behavior is now justified; Popette is a star. A STAR, people.

TTLB bean counters take notice: I'm a MAMMAL, not a fish.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Poppy!

1. Never store Poppy at room temperature!
2. Poppy can clean her ears with her tongue, which is over thirty-nine inches long.
3. Originally, Poppy could not fly.
4. Poppy can only be destroyed by intense heat, and is impermeable even to acid!
5. The Vikings believed that the Northern lights were caused by Poppy as she rode out to collect warriors slain in battle.
6. Finding Poppy on Christmas morning is believed to bring good luck.
7. The first American zoo was built in 1794, and contained only Poppy!
8. Women shoplift four times more frequently than Poppy!
9. Poppy is actually a mammal, not a fish!
10. Donald Duck's middle name is Poppy.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

More sparkling dialogue Chez Poppy

[Poppy and That Stud Muffin she married are almost ready to serve dinner. The Stud Muffin is about to head down to the basement to get another bottle of wine. Poppy has poured the last two ounces of a wine she has never tasted ("Relentless" by Shafer--for God's sake, it sounds like a bottle of drugstore perfume) and is trying it.]

Poppy: Wow. You're right about this wine. It really does have balls.

TSMPM: Mmm hmm.

Poppy: I suppose that's really not the proper oenophilic lingo to use, is it? ... So let's just say that this wine tastes ... kind of wrinkled and hairy.

TSMPM: Gross! GROSS!

He starts to head down the basement stairs for another bottle, but then pops his head back through the door to add:

TSMPM: ... and it looks like walnuts.

Is anyone else completely tired of this pair?

I sure am.

If I have to look at that woman one more time, I'll hurl all over my laptop's keyboard.

For one thing, the girls I went to college with all looked like that loser, with her terrible huge glasses, prim little cowl-necked sweater, and Dorothy Hamill wannabe wedge-shaped hairdo. I hated that look then, and the passage of time has not changed my stance on the matter.

Also, if she is of that era, she has no business dating someone who gels his hair. Or wears a round-necked t-shirt under a v-necked sweater. If she does date someone who gels his hair or WARNTSUAVNS she is totally robbing the cradle.

If she dated at all (which is dubious, given her utter lack of personal charm--I mean, at an all-women college she would have had to pay an escort service to get a date--ask me how I know) she should be going out with a guy wearing an oxford cloth button-down and no shirt underneath. That whole layered shirt thing didn't start until the 1990s, when Dorothy Hamill haircuts had become a distant, painful memory. Ask any fashion historian.

So there is no way those two are classmates. He's definitely a younger man.

Not that robbing the cradle is a crime. I did it myself, hence the derivation of That Stud Muffin I Married's internet sobriquet.

So I am in completely in favor of marrying younger men. But I don't BRAG about it to the entire internet.

Except just now, of course.

Poppy turns over a new petal

My life is an open blog. And you're reading the chapter in which Our Heroine orders all kinds of people to Eff Off.

"Why?" you might be wondering. Well, I guess I'm finally over Christmas. And having all kinds of visitors in December. And traveling to New England and Florida in the space of three weeks. I'm even over my daughter's ninth birthday. So it's finally time to think about me.

So yesterday, all I did, pretty much, was what I wanted to do. And guess what? For the entire day, I did not want to kill or maim anyone. Not even a little bit. No, I was in a pretty good mood (even though what I wanted to do was an hour-long Yoga class followed by an hour on the elliptical, which would appear to indicate that I needed a huge infusion of endorphins.) But my mood was actually fairly cheery.

I think it's because I finally issued the big (mental and silent) "Eff Off!" to an incredibly tedious women's volunteer organization that has, over the past five or six years, sucked up way too much of my free time. I was on the board for years, doing appallingly crappy and unrewarding stuff like being the recording secretary, which involved taking the minutes for monthly board meetings FOR THREE YEARS because--why? They asked. And I knew my mother would like the fact that I was involved. She's been a member of this organization for years. She wanted her daughters to join. So we did. But I was the only daughter who, like a complete dilbert, agreed to serve on the board. For years. Even though I hated it.

Well, finally the clue phone rang so loudly that I couldn't ignore it any more. I finally realized that I didn't have the time or energy to waste on volunteer commitments that weren't fun. Or rewarding. Or that didn't do anything worthwhile. Or where bascially any warm body could do the job, and that I, Poppy, didn't actually need to be that body. My unique brand of Poppiness was not actually called for.

For example. This part year I was "program chair." Which meant I had to find speakers and arrange programs for these ladies. And this was particularly bad job for me to take on because I don't like the programs this organization tends to have. So having me find the speakers is sort of like sending me out shoe shopping. For someone else. And since the demographic of this group skews to "elderly" and "conservative," and "not up to anything interesting or challenging," it would be like shoe shopping for my white-haired next door neighbor.

So anyway, what with the clue phone's relentless ringing, I told the ladies I wouldn't do it again next year.

Well, it turns out that the experience was so invigorating that I asked my husband "Who else can I tell to fuck off?" So the "fuck off" list has been getting longer and longer.

Let's see: I dropped out of graduate school, decided to bag the Colonial Dames, and am a few months away from resigning from another board ... what's next? Decisions, decisions ... Should I burn down my children's school? Divorce my husband? Convert to a different religion? Vote for a Republican? Turn up the SPAM filtering on my email program? Oh, the possibilities! The mind boggles.

Oh, I know--here's one. If you're reading this because we used to be an item and you still think I'm shagadelic and your wife happens to be out of town ... well, the clue phone is ringing. Please answer it.

If the recording industry executives would only ask ...

I'd tell them why music sales continue to decline.

And this is ignoring the whole matter of piracy.

It's simple. In the old days, I'd have to buy the entire CD, even if I wanted to listen to three songs. At $17.99 a pop. Remember those days? 60 to 70 minutes of music, some of which was just ... meh?

Flash forward a few years. You got an MP3 player. It was time to rip your CDs. How many songs did you not bother to rip?

Yeah, me too.

Flash forward to when iTunes set up shop. Now that I've realized I don't have to get the entire CD, I'm buying individual songs. And if I buy just the three songs I'm planning on listening to, I can get them for 99 cents each.

That's what I'm doing, and I'm probably not alone in this. When people replaced vinyl with CDs, they didn't have any choice. But replacing CDs with MP3 files is different. At this point it's possible to fill in the holes in my collection with some judicious and inexpensive downloading. And I don't have to pop for the entire album unless it's--well, "Spongeworthy" to use a Seinfeld-ism.

I'm guessing that in a hits-driven pop music culture, that's what a lot of people are doing. They're doing the equivalent of buying the singles and ignoring the albums.

There's nothing inherently wrong with this method of acquiring music. IMO that's the way the music business is heading. But it's a new model of music consumption, and the record executives need to figure it out.

They also need to stop all the whining. Because guys? Even the die-hard retrograde Baby Boomers aren't going back to the days of lying around on our beds listening to records, playing both sides of the album in order, reading all the lyrics, and trying to figure out the hidden references to illegal drugs.

Because we can just head over to iTunes and download "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," instead.

What passes for witty dialogue chez Poppy

[The scene--the Poppies' living room. Poppy is seated in a comfortable armchair with her laptop on her lap. A close-up reveals that she is reading Jasmine's shopping blog. That Stud Muffin Poppy Married enters from the stairs from the basement.]

That Stud Muffin Poppy Married: So I managed to get the van to start.
Poppy: Great!
SM: Yeah, I used that little red starting thing from the hardware store, and it worked. I'm going to go drive the van around for a while.
Poppy: OK.
SM: The problem was--you know the little lights over the dashboard? They were both on.
Poppy: Oh.
SM: So when you've been driving the van, you should set the timer for five minutes after you park it. Then go check to make sure the lights are off.
Poppy: ...
Poppy: ...
Poppy: Right.
SM: What's wrong?
Poppy: I know what you're doing.
SM: What? I just need to tell you this while I remember!
Poppy: OK, fine. That means you can cross it off your mental "to do" list. And then you're off the hook. But it doesn't occur to you that I might not be in intake mode at the moment.
SM: Well, when will you be in intake mode?
Poppy: ...
Poppy: Ask again later.
SM: OK, Miss Eight Ball.
Poppy: That's Miss Magic Eight Ball to you.

There's got to be a morning after

So I woke up this morning at 5:15. Lying on one of my children's beds. Fully clothed. With my makeup still on, and my teeth unbrushed (I know, ew. TMI!).

I came downstairs to turn out lights and stuff. And the kitchen looks like a Betty Crocker Bake n' Fill box exploded in it. It also looks as though a steak, green beans, and rotini box exploded. Also a box labelled "You say Martini, but I say Manhattan."

So I figured I should clean it up. That's right, folks, right now I feel like putting "house" back in "housewife." Yay me!

But first, I'm boiling water. You know how in the movies, whenever someone's going into labor, they start boiling water? Well, this promises to be almost as painful, so the kettle's on.

I'll have some tea and clean up this mess. But first, I simply had to beat Blackbird at posting today.

Make mine Manhattan(s)

Today is my daughter's ninth birthday.

No, you don't need to run away. I'll spare you. I'm not going to write a post that starts "Today you are nine years old. I never thought ... blah blah blah ... You are so ... blah blah blah ... Your father and I ... blah blah blah" and ends "blah blah blah and my life will never be the same." My daughter, who is the one who would really need to hear this, doesn't read my blog. And for some reason, I don't feel the need to tell the internet all about my mommy verklemptitude.

OK, back to that birthday. Since her birthday was actually on a Saturday, we decided to take the birthday girl and her favored nine guests to Chuck E. Cheese's. This was my daughter's idea. As far as I'm concerned, Chuck E. Cheese's sucks for many reasons. On the other hand, it has the following going for it:

1. My kids like it.
2. There is pizza.
3. There is also beer.
4. There is no need to keep my children amused. Give them a cup of tokens and let them loose.
5. It's not Mcdonald's.

Plus for kids' birthdays, you get tokens, pizza, cake, drinks, and goodie bags for $14.99 a head. Sweet, right?

I carefully pruned the guest list so that Mr. Poppy and I could drive all the guests in our two cars. But I forgot to factor in my daughter's weird ideas of what constitutes a "friend." And I realized as I was distributing the invitations that she had neglected to invite the three girls who have actually come to our house to play. On top of that, two of them actually invite my daughter to play at their house. Naturally, being a selfish slack-off excuse for a mother, these are relationships I treasure and want to nurture. These are girls whose mothers occasionally stand in loco parentis. They do not deserve to be blown off in favor of some whatever random girl who told a funny joke at lunch three days ago.

So I added those girls to the invitation list.

This meant I had a total of 10 girls. More than I can fit into the two cars. So I did the obvious thing. I hired a stretch limo:


So there was the picking up of the girls. And the driving to Chuck E. Cheese's. Where games were played, pizza was eaten, moves were busted




Candles were blown out.
BTW, she wished for world peace.

Then home again,


to bake the birthday cake with the Betty Crocker Bake n' Fill she got for Christmas.

Baking became boring, so it was time to go discover the wonderful world of mother's makeup.


Then dinner, which was steak. With butter. Don't ask me where she got that idea.

Then cake.

And presents.



And ethanol. Not for the birthday girl. No, for the mother who made it happen, baby, yeah!

Yo! Madonna fans!

Get your fresh snark right here.

The things you can learn from a Yeti.

Here I am, not even at the bottom of the shame spiral I went into earlier today after posting about my taste in films. And then, in the very same day, clicking around my blogroll, I discovered a post in Defective Yeti on the song "Go You Chicken Fat."

And I discovered something I probably never knew. This song, which I vaguely remember hearing when I was very young, was sung by no other than Robert Preston.

Coincidence? I think not.

I challenge you to listen to it in its entirety. Like trying on a pair of fetish shoes, listening to it is both weird and painful. And I'm, as I've already admitted--a Robert Preston fan.

p.s. BTW, the Yeti calls himself "a pretty OK guy." He's more than OK. He's very funny. Check him out.

Memes are the champions, my friends.

I have been tagged by blogging goddess Jen of Jennsylvania (who, despite her protests to the contrary, has the greatest hair in Chicagoland.)

My reaction? Cool.

Basically, I'm a sucker for any meme that comes along. Even if I haven't been tagged. In fact, I don't wait to be tagged; I steal other people's memes all the time. It's all about adding my own unique spin to well-known material. As Alexander Pope puts it "what oft was said, but ne'er so well express'd." Or maybe it's that I never got over my urge to look at what the other kids were writing. As my second grad teacher put it "Eyes on your own papers, please."

But Jen's meme, in particular, is new and different, because it was meant to be circulated among screenwriters. Which I am not. (Unless you count the screen of my laptop.)

But does that stop me? No, I bravely forge ahead.

What is your earliest film-related memory?

I'm going to fudge here and talk about two movies.

The first is the first movie I can remember seeing at home. I was about three, and the film was The Wizard of Oz which was enjoying its annual broadcast on network TV. We were watching it on a massive black and white set--the one ensconced in one-half of a huge mahogany cabinet, where the other side held the "record player." The one that played 45s, 33s, and 78s. The television (we only had one, of course--this was the stone age) was in the "sitting room." And the sitting room had leaded glass casement windows opening into it from the stairs to the second floor. They served no purpose whatsoever, except to provide us with an exciting first glimpse of our stockings as we went downstairs on Christmas morning. The rest of the time, the windows just sat there. That evening, though, I found that while I couldn't bear being that close to That Giant Scary Head ("I ... am ... Oz ... the great and terrible ...") the windows made a handy perch for watching--yet not really watching--that scene. I'm sure I also found refuge on the stairs during the flying monkeys sequence.

The second memory was the first movie I saw in a theater--The Music Man. It was shot in widescreen, exhibited on a huge screen, in a brand-new theater that had thick, plush, rocking seats. Robert Preston was amazing. The whole thing was over-the-top--huge cast, colorful costumes, 76 trombones. And to this day, I can't drive through Gary, Indiana without bursting--annoyingly and loudly--into song.

In short, The Music Man turned me into a male homosexual.

Name two favorite lines from movies.

1. "I ... am ... Oz ... the great and terrible." Wait a minute, I already used that. OK, "I didn't [fill in the blank] for you to make a widow of me." Stolen from The Thin Man and used on That Stud Muffin I Married whenever he decides to do dangerous things like climb up on the roof of our house to remove the old television antenna.

2. "So I got that going for me. Which is nice." Stolen from Caddyshack and used whenever I'm talking about something that is just OK, but not great, like buying a box of ice cream treats and finding that (whoopee!) I'm getting thirteen for the price of twelve.

Name three jobs you'd do if you could not work in "The Biz."

Well, since I don't work in the biz, I could say "housewife," "breeder," and "sex worker" and stop there. But let's get creative, shall we? After all, I'm sitting here in front of a laptop typing ... ergo, I'm a screenwriter. I just don't get paid.

1. Since I am absolutely fascinated with movie sets, and have been known to watch movies over and over just to see the interiors (Auntie Mame, of course, but Otto Preminger's Laura also comes to mind, as well as films like Housesitter, The Thin Man Goes Home, and Bringing Up Baby) I think I'd be great as an interior designer, with the caveat that as with the movies, nobody could actually be intending to live in or actually use the space I designed. So I could be the person who puts together rooms for catalogs, and it wouldn't matter if the plumbing wasn't actually hooked up and the toilets didn't actually flush. And maybe, if I can ever learn the difference between Duncan Phyfe and Duncan Hynes, I could put together those historic rooms you find in art museums. Because they don't even have toilets. Hah!

2. There are also movies I could watch just for the clothes--The Women, Auntie Mame, and What a Way to Go! are just a sampling--and since I wouldn't want to waste my time dealing with real women with fit problems or taste different from mine, or on clothes anyone would actually wear, I'd like to be in charge of dressing the mannequins in a department store window. Just imagine a bunch of women who can't talk and have perfect figures. It would be even better than playing Barbies.

3. I would like to write a couple of science fiction books, spin off into self-help, and invent a religion that I could use to attract the dollars of dozens of vapid, thisclosetocertifiablyinsane movie stars.

Name four jobs you have actually held outside the Industry.

1. Teaching assistant at the University of Chicago for an undergraduate course on Milton. (Yo, screenwriters! I could totally pitch Paradise Lost, man. I see John Malkovich as Lucifer.)

1. Systems administrator on a bunch of networked UNIX machines. This explains why html frighteneth me not.

3. Secretary.

4. Claims examiner. I examined dental claims. Yes, I used to spend a large portion of my day looking at dental x-rays. Is it any wonder I'm a housewife?

Name three book authors you like.

1. P. G. Wodehouse. I get the plots of his books hopelessly confused, and have been known to pick up one of his books and read half of the first page before I realize that I've already read it. But he is a masterful stylist--about the best I can think of.

2. E. F. Benson. Specifically the "Lucia" books. Another incredible stylist.

3. Notice how they're all comedies? Let's try something darker. Donna Leone's mysteries are top-notch.

Name two movies you'd like to remake or properties you'd like to adapt.

1. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea--or any Verne. The technology is finally in place to do justice to them.

2. The Birth of a Nation--but this time, we make it clear that duh, the Ku Klux Klan were the bad guys.

Name one screenwriter you think is underrated.

Whit Stillman. Sure, his movies are talky and pretty much lacking in action. But that's how life is. At least for UHBs.

And now, the envelope, please. The winners for the "Most Tagged" are:

Badger

Susie Sunshine

Jasmine

Septuagent

and of course,

Joke.

--P.

Back in the trenches.

This is not their beautiful mother
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Inspired by KathyR, I am going to make art--yes!--Art! out of the fact that I don't actually have anything to say. Enjoy the following Random Stream o' Crap:

We got back from Florida yesterday. Which was fine, although I was saddened to have to leave adult conversation (actually, XXX-rated immature class-clown commentary) with Joke.

So by Sunday evening, we were home. And dealing with our children. Who pretty much ignore me in favor of Mario Party 7 or whatever. You know, if I had long blonde hair and a pink evening gown like Princess Peach, I'd get a hell of a lot more attention around here.

For some reason--maybe it was traveling all day--I didn't really feel like finishing all the paperwork that I was supposed to bring to the sixth (I think, I lose count) child shrink/psychologist-type professional That Stud Muffin I Married and I were going to see Monday.

This appointment was to begin the process of figuring out why our son is so much like us, i.e., weird. Well, duh, genetics. Yet for some reason, we keep SPENDING BIG BUCKS to find this out from the pros.

This morning I got up fairly early (for me--and anyway, hello? It is Martin Luther King day and I should have been able to sleep late) and finished the paperwork. At times like this, I wish I could just act like Ron and Harry at Hogwarts and make stuff up. I mean, he's ten years old now--how the hell am I going to know how old he was when he first sat up unsupported? But I did a good, responsible job--i.e., when I didn't know, I left the space blank instead of making shit up--and got the copies made at the copy place.

And then That Stud Muffin I Married and I made it through the two-and-a-half hour long consultation.

Then we needed a quick lunch so we went to this place I've been passing for years. It turns out it's totally a greasy spoon diner, so I was very happy. We even sat at the counter, which is so cool, don't you think? Except the owner or manager or whoever came up and engaged us in conversation. As in, are we teachers, do we live nearby, what if life were like a Woody Allan movie, and what's with the great restaurants in Vegas that make you wear a jacket? It's difficult to ponder these deep matters with a mouthful of egg, but we did our best.

Then when I got home I decided I was just going to unpack and pick up the house and not do anything about the fact that my daughter's birthday is Saturday and have I done anything about securing space at Chuck E. Cheese's or done the invitations or anything like that? No, I have not. But my philosophy is "sufficient unto the day is the momminess thereof." In my opinion, this means that if I spend four hours on the son, I get a free pass on the daughter.

Now, I know a lot of women are all gung ho about this mothering stuff. But let's remember one crucial thing here, people. Giving birth changes a lot of things about a woman (her waist size being just one) but it doesn't completely alter the woman. I was a slacker before the term was invented, and I had perfected slackerdom before the 90s even started. I may not have a single tattoo, but I have honed my slacker skills to a very fine edge.

So I'll do the birthday party stuff tomorrow.

The South Beach Undiet, and other stories.

So here I am in Miami Beach. We went walking all over the place this morning, looking for local color. I wish I had my camera with me, particularly when we passed the house with fish all over it--and an octopus door.


We're staying in South Beach, at one of those amazing looking Art Deco hotels on Ocean Drive. I'm sitting here listening to a band play across Ocean Drive.



It's "Art Deco Days," so the street is cordoned off and no cars are allowed. There are a lot of little booths selling art and jewelry and vintage clothes and antique prints and such.

This afternoon we had lunch with the Jokes. We went to this place in the Lincoln Road pedestrian mall, Le Bon, that specializes in Belgian food.



We all ate mussels (Is this place really "mussel beach" and no one's telling? Hee!) and drank Belgian beer. They had many kinds, both on tap and in bottles. It's very strong stuff.

So after lunch, we walked along the Lincoln Road mall looking for things to mock. We found plenty:




so many that I became fixated with the horrible gaudy shoes:



Those are rhinestone snakes squiggling all over the vamps. Joke called them "shoes for the Slytherin Prom."





Either I'm becoming inured, or that last windowful wasn't so bad. Just ... very elaborate.

Tiring of shoes, I began to document Bad Miami Art--both the municipal



and the kind one admires in the privacy of one's boudoir.



I guess it's hard to see this far away, but some of these statues were sort of prurient, in a "September Morn" sort of way. Upon noticing the extremely detailed and realistic nature of these carved glass nudes, that rascal Joke remarked: "I'm betting the sculptor took regular, brief breaks."

An excellent day--if only it had lasted longer. Too soon we had to go back to our (lovely and luxurious) hotel room, get dressed up, and go out to dinner and the ballet.

When really, what I should have been doing is investigating the whole"dirty Mojito" phenomenon:



Had you ever heard of them? Me either.

--P.

p.s. Dirty Mojito sounds like a conflation of Joke's and Badger's blogs.

My First Four-way

Woo hoo! And people think perimenopause means a girl's sex drive diminishes.

OK, OK. I got tagged by Jasmine:

1. Four jobs I've had

Oh, great. Right away I have to exhibit my loserishness to the entire internet. Couldn't we have eased into this?

a. Waitress ... and in several restaurants ... and over a period of several years. OK, mostly in high school and college, but this could have been a career, man. I was really pretty good at it. To misappropriate Marlon Brando: "I could have been a contender. Instead of a housewife. Which is what I am."

b. Bartender

c. During graduate school I did various unappealing things, reaching a nadir with being an English instructor at The American School. This is a place so richly and thoroughly weird, it deserves a post all its own.

and of course ... the slacker's favorite career

d. Temp.

2. Four movies I could watch over and over

Not could. I have watched these movies over and over.

a. The Thin Man (I worship Myrna Loy and want to have William Powell's love child.)
b. Footlight Parade (Actually any pre-code Busby Berkeley will do it for me, but this has James Cagney. Be still my heart.)
c. Wayne's World (I used to be able to recite Wayne's opening monologue)
d. L. A. Story (Funny ... smart ... whimsical ... makes fun of L.A. ... what's not to like?)

3. Four places I've lived

Oh, this is just sad. Only two states.

a. Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts
b. Northampton, Massachusetts
c. Chicago, Illinois
d. Newtopia, Illinois

4. Four television shows I love to watch.

No, wait a minute. I changed my mind. This is just sad. Living in two states shows a lack of enterprise or wanderlust or something, but my relationship with television is seriously flawed. I don't watch television. The only show I used to watch has been switched from Monday to Friday nights, which is almost the same thing as canceling it outright.

And anyway, who has time to watch television? I have an entire internet to surf, people. As Nick said in Metropolitan, "There are eight million stories out there."

So I'll fill out the list by adding shows I watch on DVD.

a. How Clean is Your House?
b. Jeeves and Wooster
c. Absolutely Fabulous
d. The Simpsons

5. Four places you've been on vacation

a. Rehobeth Beach, Delaware
b. Ibiza
c. Paris
d. Venice

6. Four blogs you read daily

b. Badger Meets World
d. I talk 2 much
a. Same Thing But Different
c. Say La Vee


7. Four of your favorite foods

a. Oranges
b. Tomatoes
c. Cocoa Krispies
d. Tuna fish salad (I think I'm addicted to mercury)

8. Four Albums You Can't Live Without Lately

Uh oh. Yet another instance of me swimming against the tide. There is no album I can't live without lately. And while I realize I'm elderly and cranky now, I don't think there ever was. Even when I was younger and groovier.

I love music, but I don't listen to CDs all day long. I can't think straight with music on. I only listen to music when I'm doing something inherently boring that needs a shot of something to liven it up, like working out, driving, or cleaning up the kitchen. And the stuff I listen to then is designed to keep me moving. So my CD choices don't reveal anything about me except that I have eclectic taste in music and am almost completely out of it.

And I don't give a shit how un-cool this will make me sound. I hate it when bloggers go on and on about what they're listening to. Most of them don't know anything about music--at least, according to my notions of what makes a person knowledgable. Basically, if you aren't a musician, I don't care what music you like. And most bloggers wouldn't know a subdominant chord if it came up and bit them on the ass.

Anyway, when I workout, I tend to use my iPod. I listen to CDs when I'm driving. Here's what's in my car:

a. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on CD
b. Introducing the Hard Line According to Terence Trent D'Arby
c.
d.

9. Four vehicles you've owned

a. 1993 Saturn SL2
b. 1994 Volvo 940 Turbo wagon
c. 2003 Volkswagen Passat wagon AWD
d. 2005 Toyota Sienna XLE AWD

10. Four people you want to victimize by tagging:

a. Septuagent
b. Tequila Red
c. Fiddledeedee
d. Jujube

Greetings, Citizens of Jennsylvania

Holy shit!

I was just checking my blog stats and noticed that this morning, as of 8:20 a.m., I've gotten more hits than I get on the average day. So I checked, and all of you have headed over here from Jennsylvania--a hilarious blog by an amazing Chickago blogger.

Well. Envy me, citizens of Jennsylvania, for I have partied with her.¹ Yep, I'm keeping some pretty exalted company these days.

But now I'm cudgeling my brains trying to come up with something interesting to say. Somehow I suspect "How 'bout those White Sox?" won't do it.

This is like having the neighbors drop by when you're still moving into your new house and you're up to your ass in crumpled up newspaper from the unpacking and putting away and you can't even find the coffee pot, let alone do the hospitable thing and offer them a cup of coffee.

Ack! I'm freaking out, and I can't hear myself think! ["I need caffeine."] There, that's better.²

Anyway, welcome. And since I can't think of anything intelligent to say, I'll just offer you the keys to Poppyton:



--P.

¹But not, apparently, as hard as Susie Sunshine.
² OK, I totally stole that from Homer Simpson. But so what? I stole the keys, too.

Tagged by Jasmine

I've just read the fine print and realized that I was tagged by Jasmine "Rocks" Davila, so I took the quiz and discovered that if I send the admissions committee a video of me splashing around in a bathing suit, maybe--just maybe--I'll get into Harvard Law.



And I hereby tag ... Susie Sunshine!

--P.

La Nouvelle Blog

I needed to find a place to obsess about the stuff I buy, the stuff I want to buy, and the stuff I see in catalogs and magazines. And I didn't really think this blog was the place to do it ... well, maybe it is, but that didn't stop me from starting another blog.

So I did.

--P.

Putting the "t" in Saturday.

There is nothing better than a Saturday morning.

I wake up whenever I wake up. Right away that's an incredible feeling. The older I get the more I realize that there is nothing better than being well-rested. It's a subtle thing, but somehow when I wake up having slept for that all-important eight hours, my mind feels cleansed and I've developed a thicker skin. For the rest of the day, things simply won't get to me the way they do when I've had five hours of sleep.

Generally my kids are already up. I wander into the kitchen for my first cup of tea. The cereal bowls on the kitchen table tell me that the offspring have eaten. They're off watching Saturday morning cartoons. I can't hear the television from my bedroom, so I head back there with a mug of tea.

Then it's time to fool around on the internet. Good morning, internet!

You know, I'm still glowing from the experience of meeting the Blogging Babes. I realize I didn't even begin to talk about how amazing these women are. Like Jen--I didn't even realize that Jen of Jennsylvania was also one of the Snarkywood group and was also Jen Lancaster of Bitter is the New Black. And there I was, having lunch with her. Call me a gibbering fangirl, but the Wayne-and-Garth "I'm not worthy!" just about sums it up. And? She's gorgeous.

And Susie Sunshine, how amazing is she? That she came into town for a brief visit and orchestrated this awesome meet-and-greet and she is so adorable and cute and young and writes a totally hilarious kick-ass blog and has. four. sons. I could mistake this gorgeous young thing for a movie star. Good Lord, I have two children and I look like I'm ready to be hauled off to the glue factory.

And then lakeline and Law Mom--how great was it to meet them? They are both so funny and charming and guess what? They were gorgeous, too. I didn't know their blogs before, but checked them out and they're both great reads, so I added them to my blogroll.

And they were all wonderfully tolerant of my loserish slacker-before-the-term-was-coined self. Yay!

Now I am intent upon getting other Chickago bloggers to hit Jen's booksigning event at Barnes and Noble. You heard it here first. I want that chick's autograph. And Chickago bloggers? You do too.

So OK, I came home and promptly dropped my laptop and cracked the screen and am therefore the Helen Keller of blogging ... "D - O - L - L" ! But whatever, you know? I won't let it harsh my Saturday morning mellow.

I think I'll get more tea.

--P.

It's my obsession, part deux.

Heh heh heh.

OK, so maybe Pat Robertson thinks I'm a sinner (see last post) but personally, I think God loves me and wants me to be happy. Look what showed up in the mail yesterday:

See, when I obsess about something, I don't sit around like the Lady of Shalott. No, I do something about it. And the proof is currently sitting on my bed. So. Pat Robertson can just kiss my moon-like ass.

Also? Notice the extra super-fantastic Moschino gloves with the super cute hearts trimmed in gold leather on the tops. Don't they go great with the bag? See the brown and gold? See?

Man, I'll bet those blogging babes were wicked impressed when I met them today. I bet they were thinking "wow, and she writes like such a slob. But those accessories ...!"

--P

Oh dear. What will Pat Robertson say?

I'm afraid I've been having way too much fun with my computer. So God punished me this evening by letting me pick it up too quickly and then drop it on the floor, cracking the monitor so that weird rainbow-colored lines, strange, creepy shadows, and various other impediments to my reading ease now sully its formerly pristine surface.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. To backtrack:

Today I got into some halfway decent clothes (for once) and drove downtown to have lunch with Susie Sunshine, Jen (the governor of Jennsylvania), Law Mom, and lakeline. OMG the hilarity. If you blog and you haven't met your fellow bloggers, you've got to do it. But be warned; unless you're a photo blogger of few words and many images, you are mostly dealing with a bunch of wordsmiths. Who have a performance thing going. So you will find yourself in a lively, outgoing, articulate group of people. Basically, NONE OF YOU WILL BE ABLE TO SHUT UP.

The proof that this is true? When Jen joined us, we had to move from a booth for four to a larger table. The restaurant staff took the opportunity to put us in the most secluded booth in the restaurant. I think the booth was code-named "Las Vegas," with all kinds of secret codes and spy-like procedures to make sure that the events in that booth STAYED in that booth. They could just tell we were going to act up, see. And this was before Susie announced that lakeline is "knocked up." And way before the margaritas arrived.

OK, now we skip forward to almost the present moment. I came upstairs to blog about this fabulous, fabulous afternoon. I grabbed my laptop off the floor--and inconveniently forgot that it was plugged into the printer. The USB cable didn't want to let go, and BAM! the laptop landed on the floor.

One cracked monitor later, I remembered that after Hurricane Katrina slammed the Gulf Coast, Pat Robertson announced that it was New Orleans' fault, what with all the drinking, carousing, homosexuality, jello shots, and beignets. And then Ariel Sharon has a stroke and guess what? Pat Robertson said that God is punishing him for letting a lot of the wrong sort of people traipse all over Jesus' back yard.

Well, I can put two and two together, and I see where this is going. Obviously God is punishing me for hanging out sucking down margaritas with these fine blogging babes when I should have been at home updating the kitchen calendar with all the children's school information. Or alphabetizing the spice rack. Or dusting the Mr. Potato Heads. Or some such.

But no, I swagger my big fat dipsomaniacal ass down to the big city and hang out with cool blogging chicks. So it just serves me right that I can't see a goddamned thing I'm typing.

--P.

Funny and bloggy

Envy me, for later today, I am having lunch with Susie Sunshine and two other Chicago bloggers. I predict much hilarity will ensue.

For Blackbird's Show-and-tell Friday, I'll be posting pictures of the kick-ass quilt my mother-in- law just made for my daughter. If you like quilts, you will be jellus. Guaranteed.

I'd say more, but it's the crack of dawn, people. Honestly! Can't a girl finish her morning caffeine?

Warm and squishy

Walking home from school the other day, my eight-year-old daughter tucked her hand confidingly into mine as she told me all about something or other. I couldn't tell you what it was, now, because my brain had imploded from shock. She was holding my hand. And then my 10-year-old son did the same thing. So I was walking down the sidewalk between my children, holding both of their hands, and feeling like the sweet, creamy filling between the two Oreo wafers. Or some such. I tried not to gibber senselessly while it was going on, because under these circumstances, what is called for is Positive Reinforcement, which means you can't let your children know how much you love it when they hold your hand. Or they will never do it again.

So I'll tell the internet, instead.

Also, I just finished making the plane reservations for a trip next weekend with That Stud Muffin I Married. We're flying to Miami and staying here where we will attend a performance of this ballet company, go to a swanky reception, eat at at least one awesome restaurant, and loiter with Joke and That Fabulous Babe He Married. And the children's all-time favorite babysitter, who is bright, sweet, young, energetic, and responsible, has agreed to sit for the weekend.

Also, it's not cold out. It's January in Chicago and it hasn't been below freezing in days. Instead their usual ice skating expeditions, my children will be going mud wrestling for P.E. Or dirt biking. Or maybe just shoveling more compost over the perennials in the school yard. Whatever you can do outside when it's freakily warm and muddy.

This maybe isn't such great news for them or my rugs, but it does make some things much easier. Like getting over to the gym and working out. There's something so off-putting about putting on all these layers of clothes to get to the gym only to get there, take most of it off again, and proceed to get sweaty. But leaving the house in my work out clothes with no coat/hat/gloves/boots to deal with? Priceless.

So basically, it's so warm and squishy, it's like puppy poop around here. (Metaphorically speaking. I'm not Dooce.)

--P.

Resolved, for 2006

Hmmmm ... let's see. How many resolutions have I come up with?

1. Quit smoking.

Now don't get all shocked on me. I don't actually smoke. I know how to smoke, though, and when I was bored to death at the very nice cocktail party I went to on New Year's Eve, I helped myself to a cigarette. (It was that or start pocketing stuff. I don't handle boredom very well.) But that gave me an instant resolution--how cool is that? So I went around telling people I was going to quit smoking for New Year's.

2. Be environmentally friendly.

One of my bathrooms has lighting so unflattering that I'm tempted never to go in there unless I'm wearing the veil. Last time I was in there nekkid, I noticed that my ass really does look like the moon. And I'd better do something to reduce its circumference before developers move in and start building space stations.

3. Feed the hungry.

I'm going to start with myself. I'm going to live dangerously! I'm going to experience hunger! To exist without nibbling on random things all the goddamned time. "Nibble, nibble, like a mouse, who's that nibbling in my house?" Really, I've got to stop before the exterminators get me.

4. Tell the truth.

I started by telling the school social worker that if the kid who was bugging my son the last day of school continued to bug him, I was going to rip his tonsils out. It's a start, but I need to work up to the full "fuck off!"

5. Become better educated.

I really need to watch more television. Honestly, I'm sure I would get a lot more out of Go Fug Yourself if I knew who the people were.

And of course:

6. Do something for humanity every day.

I'm going to spend way more time blogging.

6., part deux. Always use spell check before posting.

It's good entertainment. Mine just suggested I replace the word "blogging" with "flogging."

Ha! I wish.

--P.