I've got a new tenant. (Is she paying for the tolls to Illinois?)

This week I'm renting out the old homestead to Miss Ann Thrope, who has been blogging since--get this, you posers--2001.

Miss Ann is a legend, and not just in her own mind (although she's probably that, too--she admits to being narcissistic.) She's one of the bitches who reviews blogs on I Talk Too Much. Her reviews are pitiless. Pretty much. I mean, she has moments where she doesn't lash her victims into a bloody froth. But they are few.

She's cranky, narcissistic, funny, evil, and hyper-critical. And red-headed.

But all you need to know is:

1. I read her blog regularly. And I'm pretty goddamned picky.
2. I'm flattered that she would rent from me. I'm a cheap landlord and I tend to get quite a few bids for renting space, but Miss Ann is famous.
3. If she doesn't get enough clicks, she'll hate me and my blog. And I'll never be able to hang out with the cool chicks.

Please click on the little thumbnail over to the left and tell Miss Thrope that Poppy sent you.

OK, so I relented and finally went on some fucking rides. Happy?

We managed to get our sorry butts over to the Magic Kingdom today, where we went on some rides. Not nearly enough, if you're a Disney fanatic like Joke, but enough for us.

Disney update: I am thin. OK, I'm not thin by real world standards, but by Disney standards I am practically sylph-like. This is really sad when you consider that I'm at nearly an all-time non-pregnant high. But there are some very chunky women in these parts. (I may move here.)

In other news, the rides were fine, except ... meh. Rides shmides. We've done it all before. We really needed to experience something new and different. And this proved to be something of a challenge, considering that this is the sixth spring break we've spent at Disney World.

So today we had breakfast at the Main Street Bakery. Yay us! Also, I checked out some of the penny peep shows in the train station. I hit paydirt with "Bouncing Burlesque" and "In Old San Francisco," which was a story about white slavery, featuring some offensively stereotypical Chinese dudes slobbering laciviously over some silent film star white babe. Who knew political incorrectness still flourished at the House of Mouse? Nobody, that's who. Because nobody except me ever bothers to look at the penny peep shows.

Other than that, same old same old.

So for the Poppies, it's has become all about the shopping. In this way we do Disney right. Because Disney is all about separating people from their money.

Now a lot of the time, this means people spend a ton of money on Disney stuff, but the Poppies are shopping over-achievers, and that simply isn't enough for us. Like today. Sure, I bought not one, but two Disney charms for the charm bracelet I don't even own yet. But wait--there's more. We went to the Japanese department store in Epcot tonight and bought green tea and Pokemon toys, and I am now the proud owner of two big packages of Japanese bath salts. And a Speed Racer license plate frame for the minivan.

Now, I'm sure I could buy Japanese bath salts at the local Japanese food store, but that isn't the point, is it? I sort of suspect that Disney won't be happy until it manages to sell me Clarabelle Cow calcium supplements and Minnie Mouse brand tampons. Only then, or when I'm forced to declare bankruptcy, will Disney let my wallet out of its tractor beam.

What I bought on my spring vacation.

Blackbird went shopping, and so did I. She got a pair of black pants.

I'm not in a part of the world where I'd want to buy a lot of clothes. But I did do some shopping:

I got a red Walt Disney World baseball cap with Minnie Mouse on it.

And a bottle of Jardins des Bagatelles Eau de Parfum.

And a bottle of pink Guerlain makeup-removing lotion.

And an Imperial Jade ring, emerald green, semi-translucent, set in 14K gold with two little twinkling diamonds.

And four cloisonné pins of places we went at Walt Disney World. With a new lariat to display them. Because that is the kind of dork I am.

I also bought three Star Wars light sabers, but amazingly enough, they weren't for me. But the laminated Star Wars tag that says "Pod Racer"? Is totally going on the rearview mirror of my minivan.

The stuffed Minnie Mouses (mice?) and the Chicken Little DVD were also not for me.

But The Best of the Best of Georgia cookbook is mine, all mine.

Spring break with the family? Call 1-800-DET-OXME

It's not that I don't love my husband and children to death (honestly, strapping them into the minivan and driving slowly off a dock into some deep water seems pretty appealing at times, but MOSTLY it's a lovefest around here, OK?)

But.

Driving to Disney World? From Chicago? Takes most of two days. We left Chicago at 6:30 a.m. on Saturday and arrived in Atlanta at 8:00 that night. The next day we left at 10:00 and got to our hotel at Disney about 6:00 p.m. That's a lot of driving. And I did more than my share.

In fact I drove from Chicago to about halfway through Kentucky before we stopped for lunch and I let my husband take over.

So can I blame all the driving for my becoming an alcoholic? Let's see, there were two frozen Margaritas in Atlanta, and two Mai Tais last night, and today, a Vermouth Cassis at lunch and a glass of wine, and tonight? Two more glasses of wine ... if I were Joke's sister, I'd be donating my own liver to science.

And this will really kill Joke. Not only did we not go on a single ride today, but I got Fast Passes for Joke's favorite ride (Test Track) which we've never bothered to go on before, but we got the passes and then blew the ride off--why? Because we were hanging around the France portion of the World Showcase. Buying berets and Guerlain perfume and chatting up the waiters.

Oh, and you know how fussy he is about what people order in restaurants? Well, my latest craze will really bother him. I just order the cheapest entree that doesn't break any of my dietary rules. Like right now, I don't eat white flour. So that leaves pasta out of the question. So tonight I got some vegetarian thing. It was way cheaper than anything else on the menu, it didn't contain white flour, and it was delicious. OK, maybe you have to really like lima beans, but luckily, I do. And hey who cares what's on the plate as long as there is a lot of ethanol in the glass?

Joke is probably writhing in agony right now. In fact, he's dying.

So what should we all drink at the wake?

See, this is the kind of thing I'm trying to escape.

Yesterday I checked my email and found, along with the pleas from the widows of Nigerian politicians, offers from many, not-very-competitively priced on-line pharmacies, and penny stock offers, an email from a teacher at my child's school.

Which I'm going to cut and paste into a blog entry here so you can see why I think it's a GREAT IDEA to pack up the minivan and head to Walt Disney World for many days of sun and heavy drinking exciting chances to pose for photographs with Minnie Mouse.

But then my husband had to go and try to spoil it by saying "oh, but what if she find your blog?" So I figured I'd edit her email so as to avoid detection. To wit:

To: Mrs. Buxom
From: Mrs. Doofus
Date: Two days before Mrs. Buxom's vacation is supposed to start
Subject: More torturous bullshit to ruin your vacation, if not your entire life

Hi! The next worthless piece of shit we're making the kids all read together will be A Family Apart. I would like to send home a copy to listen to on tape and a book to follow along with. Your son, who heavily outweighs me in the brains department even though he is one-third my age, told me that you are going to Walt Disney World for spring break, so I am not sure if you will have time or would like to listen to this. I totally understand if it's not your idea of big fun to listen to this well-meaning yet basically idiotic tripe, but I thought it might be a great way for your amazingly intelligent son to get a head start and make the reading easier when he returns as he will already be a little familiar with the story. Please let me know if you are interested and would like a copy of the book on tape.

To: Mrs. Doofus
From: Mrs. Buxom
cc: Mr. Buxom
Date: Almost immediately upon receiving the above
Subject: Your brilliant idea to ruin my vacation

Well ... I don't know. Is it one of those stories where a blind kid and an illiterate aboriginal embark on a raft to hide from Nazis, or is it actually sort of fun? Because the tape player is in the car, and we'll all have to listen to it. And some of us are rather discerning critics of children's literature.

There's no emboldening in the text of my email because that is exactly what I said. See? I'm not exaggerating for humorous effect when I say I'm obnoxious.

Because I cc'd my husband and like me, he's a total geek, he did an Amazon search on the title in question.

To: My Darling Wife
From: That Stud Muffin She Married
Date: Almost immediately upon having received the above
Subject: Shyeah, right. As if!

This first book of the Orphan Train Quartet tells the story of Frances Mary, 13, eldest of the six Kelly children. Life in New York's grim 19th century slums consists of hardship for the poor but honest Kelly clan. When widowed Mrs. Kelly feels that she is no longer capable of providing for her children, she sends them west on the Orphan Train, to be adopted by farm families. Frances masquerades as a boy in order to be adopted with Petey, the brother she promised her mother she would protect. The practical difficulties Frances faces blah blah blah. Since Frances and Petey are adopted by a couple with strong abolitionist sympathies, it should come as no surprise that Frances, just days after her arrival on the farm, finds herself helping two runaway slaves on the Underground Railroad. Though the plot is predictable and sometimes overly sentimental, and the Kelly family lapses into stilted Irish syntax, the rapid succession of high-spirited adventures make for lively reading. Ages 10-up.

I was sure he was a joking. I mean, come on, right? Orphan trains and slums and runaway slaves? I figured he had found an on-line description and tinkered with it. But it turns out it wasn't a joke. They're really going to read this.

And what a sprightly little volume this must be. I mean, holy shit, when I was in fifth grade, we were all "wanh wanh" when some mean man whipped Black Beauty. But I guess the youth of today has progressed way past feeling sorry for maltreated animals; they want to feel sorry for all the ills of all the world. Either that or they're such hardened little shits that you have to have physical disabilities, racism, and Nazis, or don't even call it a children's book.

And if I didn't act fast, I'd have to listen to 17 hours of this drek on the drive to Orlando.

There are some sacrifices this mother is not willing to make. And I would rather send my son away on the orphan train to live with abolitionists and Nazi teetotalers than have to spend the 20+ hours of a drive to Orlando listening to that fucking book. (Although I'm sure I'd derive some amusement from listening to the "Irish" accents and the stilted syntax, faith and begorrah.)

From: Poppy Buxom
To: Mrs. Doofus
Date: Right the hell away
Subject: That clever idea you had to expose my entire family to a pile of stinking bat guano in the guise of children's literature

Um ... you know, the DVD player and the dumb-ass Wallace and Gromit DVD I bought for the ride are starting to look

really

fucking

excellent. So I think we'll watch that instead. OK? And maybe some Disney movies, too.

Have a great break!

p.s. Only kidding. We'll actually be watching Shoah, The Killing Fields, The Night Porter, and The Deerhunter. See you in April!

Oh, and another thing ...

... Hey, relax, I'm done ranting. For now.

No, I just wanted to prove how dynamic and visionary I am by pointing out this week's tenant, Useless Advice from Useless Men.

This is seriously one of the funniest blogs I've ever read, and if you were here right now, looking at the bomb site that is my house, you would realize that praise means a lot, because I obviously read a lot of blogs. (I mean, I'm sure not spending a lot of time cleaning, OK?)

So just overlook the dust bunnies and click over there, on the left. You'll enjoy it--promise.

Confession: I've faked it. Many times, too.

Well, I took the DNA test Badger wrote about recently. And I discovered that not only am I not particularly feminine, I am absolutely lacking in empathy. Probably to a pathological degree.

Dynamic Visionary

See that little teensy maroon box at the bottom of the square? The one you can barely see? That represents how much empathy I have. I'm surprised it even showed up, because I scored zero.

So color me unsociable, but I just can't stand it when people piss and moan. All someone has to do is start complaining or crying, and I hate her. Unless she makes it funny.

Not that I don't piss and moan myself, but that's hey, that's an utter lack of empathy for you--we unempathetic types care deeply about our own problems and not at all about yours. Sorry; that's just the way we are. (Well, I'm not really sorry. Actually, I couldn't care less that I don't care about your problems.)

So ... if and when you've whined about your life in my presence, and I've acted sympathetic? I deserve an Oscar, man, because I was acting. Unlike former President Clinton, I do not feel your pain; I'm probably way too busy ignoring my own pain, trying to make it funny, and GETTING ON WITH THINGS.

Honestly, I've had friends who get into the endless soul-searching, the asking me for my advice, the bitching, kvetching, the pissing-and-moaning, the calling me up in tears ... and after a while I feel like I could be replaced with a robot that was programmed to make soothing remarks every two minutes.

I mean, OK, OK, I realize that Person A.'s ex-husband is a needle-dicked psycho alcoholic non-child-support-paying bastard.

Or yeah, maybe leaving the husband and two children under the age of five wasn't the recipe for long-term happiness Person B. had envisioned. But how sorry am I supposed to feel that these people have not only the amazing ability to make one bad decision after another, but an equally well-developed ability to spend decades in tedious post-mortems on how and why they fucked up their lives?

Honestly. Boo-fucking-hoo. Take up jogging, will you? Or yoga. Or something. Just. stop. whining.

Better yet--be like Jen--make it funny and write a book about it.

I mean, is it too much to fucking ask that people at least try to be a little bit entertaining?

Mens Juvens in Corpore Senex. Or something.

You know the Latin saying "mens sana in corpore sano?" I.e., "a sound mind in a sound body?" Hah!

What we've got going on here is a young mind in an old body. As in thinks-like-a-toddler, looks-like-a-granny.

Because while Yoga has become something of a joke, and getting in and out of a low, soft armchair elicits a lot of loud groaning noises, making me sound like the 2,000 year old man, the evidence that my mind is getting younger and younger is beginning to pile up:

1. Yesterday morning, I started off as a teenager: I began the day sullen, mopey, and completely reluctant to get out of bed.

2. My mental age plunged rapidly. After Yoga, I went to Costco, where I bought a boxed set of Thin Man movies on DVD. And then pouted because I couldn't start watching them right away. At this point, I estimate I was about eight.

3. By the afternoon I was picking fights with some Brownies who wouldn't do what I wanted them to do. My mental age had dropped to four.

4. Someone blocked my driveway when I was trying to get back in. I stuck my tongue out at her. Thus reaching toddler status.

5. While dinner cooked I sat in a chair with a blankie in my lap. At this point, I was down to one. Barely.

6. After dinner I had to get the children to bed. My husband discovered me on my son's bed, curled up in the fetal position. Mental age? Eight months' gestation.

7. Soon after that, I went to bed. I had no choice. I had to go to sleep before I turned into a zygote.

The Power of Ethanol

Last night That Stud Muffin I Married and I went see our final opera of the Lyric Opera season, Gluck's Orpheo ed Euridice.

Before the opera, I had a Vermouth Cassis and two glasses of pinot grigio. During Act I, David Daniel's non-stop counter-tenor warbling inspired me with little more than the desire to close my eyes and maybe take a little schnooooooze. So during Act II (which was better than Act I) I decided that I must have gotten a wee bit smashed at dinner, since falling asleep at the opera is not one of those things I tend to do. (In fact, I tend to not fall asleep in public. Ever. Which makes plane rides to and from Europe almost as interesting as the way my totally sleep-deprived and jet-lagged self acts upon arrival.)

And anyway, of course I don't fall asleep at the opera! I am a voice-studying, regularly-opera-going Intellectual.

But then! The opera being short (only one and a half hours with no intermission) we ended up back at the Hotel Intercontinental to hear Mark Burnell sing and play. AndI had two of the hotel's fabulush Manhattansh.

With the dazzling clarity produced by half of my first Manhattan, I realized that I hadn't been drunk at Orfeo; I had just been kind of bored.

After my second Manhattan (and honestly, those things are nearly as big as the toilet you'd be upchucking into if, unlike me, you didn't have a hollow leg) I regaled my tablemates with some of my favorite all-time anecdotes and opinions, during which time, I also demonstrated that I am a fucking pottymouth.

And then I went home, where I don't remember seeing the babysitter or getting out of my clothes or washing my face or brushing my teeth, so! Obviously that was when I got drunk.
And not before the opera at all.

Wow, I'm glad I straightened that out.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

I'm getting way too many indications that despite my many admonitions to cut it the hell out, my children, a/k/a Those Giraffes I Spawned, are growing up, up, up.

(For the record, screaming "Stop. Growing. NOW!" has proven to be completely ineffectual.)

1. Cuddling with my son last night, my nostrils found themselves flaring in distaste. "What the hell is that stench?" I wondered to myself. "Did I forget to put on my Lady Speed Stick this morning?" I did a quick pit sniff, but I was OK. "Crap," I thought, "It's him." So I had to teach him all about washing every day and putting on pit stop.

2. My daughter, who is even younger, but in some ways more developed, has been using pit stop for about six months.

3. My son is singing a solo in a school play. They had a rehearsal today. As we left school this afternoon, about six girls went up to him to tell him how well he sang. (I rushed him out of there before they started screaming and throwing their training bras at him.)

4. Then we went to buy new shoes. He's wearing a size 8. He's in fifth grade and his feet are two sizes bigger than mine. In fact, I think they might be as big as his father's.

I've given the matter a lot of thought, and I've decided the time for action has arrived. So I'm sending away to the Acme Anvil company for a couple of anvils. I figure I'll tie them to the children's heads and make them walk around like that every day, for say, an hour or so. It will be good for their posture, and more important, it will teach them to grow. Ha! But this is not harsh of me. After all, they both had palette expanders installed a couple of weeks ago, and every night I have to take a little wrench and crank this thing in their mouth one turn. So if installing metallic upper jaw devices is OK and has the blessing of the American Orthodontic Association (even though I bet my children will end up with huge honking upper jaws like the Simpsons) then it's OK to acquire growth inhibitors from the same company that supplied Wile. E. Coyote with his equipment. So there.

This week's squatter, or, Vargas versus Viagra

My current tenant is Kimi of Kimi's Confessions. Look over there on the left--see the cute black and hot pink thumbnail with the martini glass? Yeah, that's it.

You have to click on it if only to check out the great pin-up she's got on her title area (or whatever the cool kids call it--the place where I have Felix the Cat.) She's got a Vargas girl or that-other- famous-pin-up-artist's-last-name girl who is a total babe.

Oh, and Kimi's latest entry is on how she's going to win the bad mother contest because she drugs her daughter. Check it out, all ye who feed your kids cold medicine when you need a good night's sleep, because this is a woman with balls. She does it, and she blogs about it. Talk about honest! Dooce (who?) has nothing on Kimi.

Back to the pin-up.

Do you ever wonder how disappointed guys must get when they see their first naked woman and she looks so disconcertingly unlike a pin-up? I'm not talking about the way pin-ups always have perfect bodies, flawless faces, and exquisite grooming. Or the way pin-ups are always posing cutely when in real life women are picking their teeth or their noses or painting clear nail polish over a big fat run in their stockings. No, it's more the way that pin-ups don't have visible veins, or freckles, or pores, or hairs, or pimples, or scars, and their skin is the same color all over, just like a dolly's. No one looks like that in real life. Except maybe Sean Young in Blade Runner.

I wouldn't be a guy for anything. Real women are so hideous, if I were a guy, I'd be impotent.

So check Kimi's blog out, but keep your big mitts off that pin-up, because she's my new Lezbean girlfriend. Flawless robo-babes with Veronica Lake hairdos are hot.

The t-shirt and the little blue dress

Well, the book signing I went to for Jen Lancaster's Bitter is the New Black was fabulous. The signing and discussion broke up a bit early, I think, because every single book was sold. Like Jack and Mrs. Sprat, we licked the platter clean.

I showed up wearing my silly word cloud t-shirt from Snapshirts, and everyone kindly oohed and ah'd for me. That was nice of them because I basically looked pretty sloppy. I only wore the stupid thing because it was freakishly warm that day, and the thought of wearing the cute, pulled-together outfit I had in mind had me breaking out into a hot sweat, because it involved a long-sleeved turtleneck sweater made of merino wool.

Jen was looking very glam in a peach colored sweater with fur(ry) trim* and lots and lots of cool bloggers/commenters were there: Susie Sunshine, Texas Carol, Wendy, The Other Jennifer, a Michelle who mistook me for Poppy Mom or Tall Poppy or maybe yet another Poppy, but that's OK because I had her confused with Michelle Agnew.

Note to self-aggrandizing bloggers out there: it's easy to set everyone straight when you're wearing a word cloud t-shirt with the name of your blog on it. My t-shirt allowed me the opportunity to clarify that while I am a Mom, I am not Poppy Mom, but Poppy Buxom. "See?" I said, as I stuck out my word-cloud-clad rack for the fifteenth time, "It says right there, 'The Opiate of the Masses.' See? See?" As you may already have surmised, I'm not simply an endless source of amusement on your computer screen; in real life I'm as irritating as a toddler who wants to tell you all about the dream he had last night RIGHT NOW while you're trying to talk to an adult.

So anyway, not that I have difficulty not being the center of attention or anything, but while I was expecting Jen to have a lot of fans around, one of Susie's fans showed up, too. I was very proud of myself because I only acted a little bit jealous that Susie had a fan and I didn't. And when bitter tears welled up in my eyes, threatening at any moment to flood the bookstore, Wendy very kindly informed me that she had me bookmarked.

It's unfortunate that That Stud Muffin I Married and I had decided to go to the opera instead of heading over to Jen's for the book signing party, because the opera sucked so badly that we left before it was over. And we were too depressed over the tale of the decadent Viennese aristocrats set to extremely ponderous and unmelodic music to get much enjoyment out of life, so instead of hopping into a cab and heading to Jen's only to act like BIG FAT BRING-DOWNS we headed north on Michigan Avenue where a jazz musician I know was filling in for the regular pianist at one of the bars in the Hotel Intercontinental.

So we sat there, abusing Richard Strauss and listening to Mark play Gershwin and between the music and the two enormous Manhattans I downed, we managed to become composed enough to wend the rest of the way home without buttonholding perfect strangers and complaining about FOUR HOUR operas IN GERMAN with big-ass ponderous orchestras and static productions and no discernable melodies that cost $175 a ticket even though they're NOT EVEN BY WAGNER.

Did I mention that the tickets cost $175 each?

You know, the life of a culture-vulture isn't easy. Or cheap.

* I have started, but not finished, the book, and while I can tell you Jen's opinion of Pottery Barn sofas and Coach briefcases, I'm not sure of her opinion of real vs. faux fur trim. I am, however, fully convinced that she will approve of this remark being placed in a footnote. Her book has so many she's going to get stalked by footnote fetishists.

Another blogger meet-up, this time with a celebrity component

OK, everyone, you should start envying me immediately (hey, you slow-pokes over there, get moving) so you're in full envy mode by the time I finish my next sentence.

I'm getting ready to go to a book-signing at Barnes and Noble in Chicago where I will buy eight signed copies of Bitter is the New Black and hang out with author Jen Lancaster, who is, aside from Dooce, the only blogger I can think of who uses her real name on the internet,)* and if that isn't enough to turn you St. Patrick's Day green with envy, the lovely Susie Sunshine will be there, too.

Jen also invited me to what I'm thinking will be the single coolest party of my life, but I can't go because I have tickets to Der Rosenkavalier at the Lyric Opera and I already blew that opera off once, so I really should go to that, or Strauss's feelings will be hurt. And it being a four hour opera, we will most probably not make it to the party, even though Jen said we could.

I'm expecting that you're about forty shades of green by now, and I don't blame you a bit, because for a big dork, I have about the coolest life ever.

* And I don't mean to make fun of Mormons, but what were they thinking, naming her Dooce?

Izzy's Meme

My tenant has posted a meme. And so what if it lowers the property values, I'm answering it here. You're tagged if you want to be.

1. What is your favorite word?

I was an English major, so there are way too many. I like these two because of their Latin roots: quintessential, (of the fifth essence, i.e., heavenly matter, unlike earth, air, water, or fire) and mundane (having to do with earthly matters, from the word "mundus"). The problem with being interested in etymology is that I tend to stick to the original meaning of a word, and don't use it in the way everyone else does. Which makes me sound pedantic (another favorite) or pretentious (yet one more.)

2. What irks you every time you hear it?

Irregardless. No. such. word. AND it's a double-negative. People? The word you're looking for is "regardless."

3. Name the first concert you ever went to.

My first concert was classical music--my parents took us to hear Van Cliburn. My first rock and roll concert was The Rolling Stones 1969 "Get Your Ya-Yas Out" concert. Yes, I'm old. (As bloggers go, anyway.)

4. Name a song you'll never get sick of hearing.

"Pump it Up" by Elvis Costello. It the quintessential driving song. It think I should install it as a sound chip on my accelerator.

5. What song, album, or band influenced you most as a teenager OR what song/album is the soundtrack of your youth?

The soundtrack of my youth would be a tie between Led Zeppelin's self-titled first album and Neil Young's After the Gold Rush. My older sister owned both and played them constantly. I've never bought them, but I know every word to every song--even when I don't know the song titles. That's pretty much the definition of a soundtrack, I think.

How to Save Spend Time Blogging

It's 10:30 a.m. and I've already spent too much time on-line today. Nobody can find anything around here, so a major house-pick-up session is in order. Then there's the laundry. And I've got to pull together dinner for tonight because it's a new babysitter, and she deserves to have things made as easy as possible. Then there are the various errands. And the phone is ringing off the hook, and what with these interruptions and chores hanging over my head, I just can't afford to hang out with you guys today.

The solution? A two-fer.

First of all, Blackbird wants to see our eyes for show-and-tell Thursday. Now I realize I'm supposed to be posting a photograph of the large, expressive, laughing green highlights of my own lovely face, but I also know I won't be able to find the bucking cord that connects the camera to my laptop. Either that or the bucking camera's bucking battery will need charging, and again, I have no time for this today.

But good old internet--while with one hand it taketh, with the other, it giveth of its bounty:

Voila! My eyes. Sort of. So that's taken care of.

Now the other thing I need to do is call your attention to Moonshine, the excellent blog of my excellent Blog Explosion renter, Izzy, who--what a coincidence!--blogged recently about how the internet

is

sucking

her

down a rabbit hole of seemingly infinite time-wasting. As you can see, I found the topic good enough to steal. (Izzy, please remember that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Please feel flattered.) Izzy has also written great entries recently about the perils of consignment store shopping, the importance of being told one is babe-alicious, and--wait--there's more! She's a Crazy/Hip Blogging Mama of the week, her 100 things entry rocks, and she has an awesome links list. Go check her out!

Just click on the little black thumbnail to the left. Please do it. Or I'll have to post more pictures of Tom Cruise demonstrating that he finds Nicole Kidman babe-alicious. And you know you don't want to see any more of that.

P.S. I used spell check right now. Can you spot the change I made, based on the spellchecker's suggestion?

P.P.S. Can somebody explain why the bucking spellchecker on Blogger doesn't recognize the following words: "Blog," "blog," "blogged," or "Blogging"? That's totally bucked up.

The Good New/The Bad News

I'll start with the good news; I beat my son at chess today.

OK, he's only 10 and just started learning to play in January. FINE. I'm a bit more than ten, but I was an English major, I can't be bothered to balance my checkbook or think logically, and I only started learning to play last week. So fuck you, I'm impressed with myself.

On top of that, I only gloated a little bit. In front of him, that is. But on the internet it's ALL GLOATING, ALL THE TIME. So let me just brag about the way I totally kicked his scrawny fifth grade butt.

In fact, on the strength of this impressive victory, I might enter another Blog Explosion Battle of the Blogs challenge tonight, because who knows? Maybe I'm on a winning streak! And I'll be able to gloat some more! Yay me!

The bad news is that my daughter had to come home sick from school today. Because her stomach hurt. Again. Now, those of you who have been paying attention will remember that we've just gone through this. And since she was just vying for Little Miss Upchuck, 2006 last week, I thought maybe ... just maybe, she was faking it. But the school nurse assures me that there are several strands of stomach bug virus floating around at the moment, and it's very like that LMU has caught a second variety.

So let's keep our fingers crossed that this is a very mild variety of stomach bug, because nobody wants to go through this again, when the memory of last week still sears.

Joke's giving away a Hitachi Magic Wand!

All you have to do is answer the following questions, all culled from his blog entries, and the Hitachi Love-a-matic is yours. Here goes!

1. What is the best brand of products to preserve leather? Some fancy crappe I don't own.
   
2. My alcohoroscope shows me to be what sign? You are a "Bloody Aries," and I'll thank you not to make me swear.
   
3. What do I like to drink in those teeny tiny Petrossian glasses and what do I enjoy eating as an accompaniment? Jello shots; Corn Dogs.
   
4. What's my Myers-Briggs personality type? YT;TYA (You think; therefore you are)
   
5. What do I use to clean the burners of the porn grill? Your wife's Sonicaire toothbrush. Take THAT noisy annoying appliance!
   
6. How long did I actually have (in the physical sense) the car that sucked? Three minutes. And then you heartlessly threw it away. You cad.
   
7. What Rat Packer am I? Joey Bishop, a/k/a The Fifth Rat Packer.
   
8. What, in my opinion, is the worst part of living in SoFla? Being in the south and having to listen to New York accents.
   
9. Who is the artist being honored (in absentia) at JokeFest2006? Ooh, ooh! I think I actually know this one! Jimmy Buffet.
   
10. How many "tuxedo-able" bow ties do I own? Wait a minute; which ones are we counting here? The kind you have to tie yourself, or the normal kind?
    
11. What is my most heretical recipe? Food processed Elmer's Glue au Joke.
    
12. What is the title of the first book I recommended on this blog? are You there, God? It's me, Joke.
    
13. Do I consider myself a metrosexual and why or why not? No, you consider yourself a petrosexual.
    
14. How many turkeys did I grill for Thanksgiving 2005? Stop calling your family names, you big meany.
    
15. What did I spend 1/1/05 doing? Nursing a hangover like everyone else.
    
16. What scary thing did my 8 year old ask Santa for? My daughter.
    
17. What's wrong with MOST organic milk these days? It comes in plastic jugs. But not, thankfully, Pamela Anderson's.
    
18. What airline couldn't get us from "here to there" Delta Delta Delta couldn't help ya, help ya, help ya.
    
19. What do I call the day in which Poppy and self became pals? Our drivelversary. Just don't ask me the date.
    
20. What is my medical directive to my wife/children? Give. me. your. kidneys. Now!
    
21. What holiday was the subject of a LONG and hilarious blog entry that, sadly, Blogger ate? I'm not sure, but I think it was St. Prisca's Day, (July 8th) which for reasons that aren't exactly clear, you spent at Disneyland.
    
22. How did I describe the ::cough, cough:: Cupid garden statue TFBIM got? (BONUS! What happened to that statue?) "Oh my God, it's adorable!" And then you drove to the outlets in Naples and bought a lot of little outfits for it.
    
23. Which relative vexes me telephonically the most? Your great-great-great grandfather. He never calls.
    
24. How many times has an Italian car left me stranded? None. But can we say that about the female passengers?
    
25. What did I consider (at the time) to be better than sex? Suckling at your mother's teat.
    

mesmerizeDDD

Because I'm evil, I forwarded this to That Stud Muffin I Married as soon as I read about it in Suburban Bliss.

He confessed to having been totally mesmerized.

So I promised him I'd jog around the bedroom naked later on. Otherwise he'll spend all day in his office staring at bouncing boobies and he won't get anything done at work and the bank will foreclose the mortgage and take away our house.

And I won't have any place to store my sports bras.

Because you just can't get enough of the witty dialogue around here

I was sitting on my bed with my laptop--yes, still--and I heard a sound through the closed bedroom door that was vaguely familiar, if you can call "familiar" a sound that I would describe as "somebody backstage in a teeny tiny theater making thunder noises with very small pieces of metal."

Then I realized that it was the sound of the measuring part of a tape measure being pulled out.

Poppy: I hear measuring going on out there. You're measuring!
That Stud Muffin Poppy Married: Yes, that's right. I'm measuring. I admit it.

(Pause)

Poppy: So ... would you say you have the normal six inches, or is it more?

OK, now, I knew that was not what he was doing. You see, a while ago, when we first started on this whole "we need an addition" idea, That Stud Muffin I Married bought some CAD software. So, actually, I knew he was measuring to get the numbers to plug into his laptop so he can totally redesign our house. You know, because on the odd Sunday afternoon, while normal guys are fixing hors-d'oeuvres for their Academy Awards™ soirees, my husband, (who I should mention is actually an attorney,) is getting all dressed up in his architect drag.

Which of course, me being me, reminded me irresistibly of a Monty Python sketch where Eric Idle is in drag, so when my husband walked into the bedroom, I quoted Eric Idle and said:

Poppy: My husband's an architect.

I am old, out of it, and apparently, legally blind.

I just opened my browser and glanced at a headline on Yahoo News.

"McCarthy's 'Dirty Love' Wins 3 Razzies"

Immediately I thought that Paul McCartney, in the mistaken belief that a song sounding exactly like "Tainted Love" (OK, I have an ear worm now--you?) would get people to forget all about the fiasco that was Liverpool Oratorio, had written a song so bad that he was awarded three packages of cheap candy.

Which, serves him right and all.

But still--I suspect that my title is 100 percent accurate.

Marriage: The Great Ass- Horizon-Broadener

Here's the map of the states I'd been to before I met That Stud Muffin I Married:




Here's a map of where I've been since I met him:
create your own visited states map or check out these Google Hacks.



I will not, however, post before-and-after pictures of my ass. Unless real money is involved.

The Sounds of Silence.

One of the great things about blogging is how quiet it is. Even if I'm using a desktop with a fan that makes a nerve-rattling humming noise, mostly that's all I hear--that and the occasional woodpecker-like burst of rapid typing or some lackadaisical clicking sounds.

In vivid contrast with yesterday, when two contractors, each vying for the exciting money-making-like-unto-setting-up-one's-own-private-mint job of renovating the basement of the Poppy's house, tearing off the ugly-ass attached garage, adding a two-story addition, and building a new garage.

I didn't realize, when I scheduled these appointments back-to-back, that these guys would be making a pitch for our business. And they wouldn't just talk about construction and design issues; no, like other salesmen, they'd start talking about their families and the local school system and the Red Sox and the 1972 MG they unearthed in a client's garage and MY GOD WOULD THEY PLEASE. JUST. SHUT. UP.

After FOUR HOURS of this non-stop blathering, I managed to shoo the second guy out of the house. I then informed That Stud Muffin I Married that in my opinion, conversation seemed, at the moment, a bit extraneous:

Poppy (closing the door): Thank God he's gone. Why do these guys go on and on like that?
TSMPM: He really seemed to want our business.
Poppy: Well, fine. But honestly, my ears are running blood. I need to sit down and drink some tea and check my email or something. Anything that doesn't involve talking.
TSMPM: Good idea. (Pause) Want me to cook dinner?
Poppy (her voice rising rapidly to an ear-splitting scream): I thought I told you to shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!

Can you believe he cooked dinner anyway?

Me neither.

Just call me a Black Widow.

This week I've had a child home sick from school three out of five days. On top of which, my husband was out of town for much of the week. Which means I've been even more housebound than usual.

I've definitely made the most of my time here. I've done laundry. I've neatened and organized. I've polished every piece of silver in the house. I've used my vast library of housekeeping books to discover that the Good Housekeeping spot-cleaning potion is actually pretty good at getting "biological stains" (their term, not mine) out of carpeting.

My husband just called to say he was coming home early. Which is nice.

But if he tells me he's going to the office this weekend, I will kill him and then eat him. Because you might not have realized this--after all, I don't post that many pictures--but I'm actually a black widow spider. Check it out:

Black widow spider

Black widow spiders generally live in minivans, PTA meetings, orthodontists' waiting rooms, kitchens, station wagons, laundry rooms, McDonald's, and other dark places. They are found throughout the Chicago area, especially in the suburban regions. Only the female spider is dangerous to humans.

What does a black widow spider look like?
The black widow spider has long slim legs and a large round tail segment (abdomen). Including its legs, the black widow generally measures from 66 inches to 67 inches in height. Red markings, usually in the shape of a poppy, are found on the underside of the belly. (Some scientists refer to them as "stretch marks.")

What are the symptoms of a bite?
A black widow spider bite has a pale area surrounded by a dark red ring (actually, these days it's either pink or plum--it depends on what the black widow is wearing that day.) The black widow's husband then develops pains in his back hair, razor stubble, toenails, Speedo, penis, and hairline. Other symptoms include snoring, puttering, obssessing about cocktails, holing up in his study, the inability to put anything away, grumpiness, the inability to ask directions, and an almost uncontrollable urge to lie down on the living room sofa after a heavy meal. Young children and the elderly are at almost no risk of developing symptoms from a black widow spider bite; she can't be bothered. She saves her venom for her husband.

How dangerous are black widow spider bites?
If a black widow spider bites her husband, do not panic! Unless you are he.

TMI Alert! or, The Stomach Bug Count-Down

10: Times I have washed my hands so far this morning.
9: Age of the child with the whoopsy stomach.
8: Nothing (as in, she ate nothing this morning).
7: Long days in this week marred by stomach whoopsies.
6: Extra hours she'll be home today.
5: Separate food items prepared and packed in my son's lunchbox while feeling a bit unwell myself.
4: Outlets checked before I successfully found a three-prong outlet for the wet/dry vac.
3: Number of times my daughter has thrown up in her life.
2: Number of times my daughter has thrown up this week.
1: Number of times my daughter has thrown up today.

0: Number of times I had morning sickness while pregnant with my children.

The answer is clearly don't give birth--just stay pregnant.

p.s. Blackbird informed me that my site is loading really slowly. So I won't post any pictures. But I was totally going to. What? The carpeting on the stairs is so colorful!