Colonial Poppy

We're in New Hampshire all week. As usual, it's wonderful. So much cooler than Chicago, and I mean that in every sense of the word.

But it's not exactly a dream vacation, either.

"Oh, good," I can hear you thinking. "We were afraid we wouldn't get our minimum daily adult requirement of whining."

Fear not, gentle readers.

See, this part of New Hampshire is deeply, deeply historic. Many of the houses in this town date to the late 17th century. And in the spirit of the locale, I'm afraid I've become a Colonial New Hampshire reenactor.

First of all, the kitchen has been gutted. Which I knew had happened, but that was literally months ago, and I figured some measurable progess would have been made since January. I forgot that to a normal contractor, fighting little problems like rotted out windowsills, obsolete electrical systems, and mold behind the drywall trump little matters like countertops, cupboards, and a stove. Or a sink, for that matter.

And. While the drywall, windows, electrical system, new grounded outlets and all that crucially important but not very exciting stuff was being taken care of, and they were waiting for the new cabinets to arrive--not to mention the floor--the contractor decided that they might as well paint the master bedroom.

Which means that not only do we not have a kitchen, we don't have a bedroom. Which means that That Stud Muffin I Married and I are sleeping in one of the beds in my daughter's bedroom. (You know, the way you wonder how Colonial families were always so big. How did they manage it? Because honestly, this girl doesn't go to sleep. And even if she did, ew.)

So there is an almost Early American level of family togetherness going on around here. We live, eat, and entertain ourselves in the large room on the ground floor that you moderns call "a living room." If we want to cook, we have a fireplace. If we want to wash dishes, I wait until no one is looking, then lick them clean, wiping them dry with a dish towel.*

So, no kitchen and no master bedroom. There is no cooking, which is good, and yet, there is also no fwomping, which is not so good. So what am I doing for fun?

Not much internet stuff, the internet being a 20th century phenomenon, and not historically accurate for the Colonial period.**

No ... when I'm in New Hampshire, I keep house. I marvel at the low, low prices at Wal-Mart. I rejoice in the lack of a sales tax. And I eat Yankee soul food. I've been here a day and a half and have managed to eat two lobster rolls, a cup of clam chowdah, some local draft beer, and a scoop of black raspberry ice cream--and I've got five days (and as many pounds to gain) left.

* I'm kidding. We're using paper plates, OK?

** Actually, I left my laptop's AC adaptor in Chicago, so I barely had time to post my weekly Mamarazzi entry before the battery died. I'm now stuck using my husband's laptop. When I can pry him away from Snood.

I ... Smell ... Varmint poontang. And minty-fresh gum.

You know, when a girl has a metric ton of thank-you notes to write, the last thing she needs is to discover that her home has been overrun by varmints. Chipmunks, to be precise.

It's driving me crazy.

So in comes the exterminator--whoops, I mean "pest control" man. And he sets traps. Not mean chipmunk-killing ones, no, not at all. We have feelings around here, people. We're sensitive. No, he sets those catch-and-release ones. And? It's $110 for the initial visit, and $55 every time the exterminator takes away a chipmunk. Well, this morning there were two, and tonight there was another one, and by morning, there may be yet another one. You know the old saying: a chipmunk here; a chipmunk there, and pretty soon, it adds up to real money.

You see where this is heading, don't you? It's heading over the hill to the poorhouse, unless I take a detour back through the internet and get a few of those traps I just showed you. And maybe some coyote urine, which apparently, chipmunks find distasteful. (And I'm sure they're not the only ones. Oh, goody. I can hardly wait to post on my shopping blog about buying that.)

In other news, I'm reaching the end of my second-to last audiobook. I'm listening to Stewart O'Nan and Stephen King's Faithful. When I need to switch to something G-rated (because those guys swear a lot, and I don't approve of swearing when my kids are around) (yes, I swear in my blog, but like most people, my kids couldn't be bothered to read it) I'm listening to Three Men on the Bummel, which is, praise be, as funny as Three Men in a Boat. Then I've got In the Company of Cheerful Ladies by Alexander McCall Smith, and then--I'm out of audiobooks. And this is really serious, because I can't decide which of the following three is the most addictive:

1. Diet Coke
2. Eclipse Peppermint sugarless chewing gum; Spearmint is also excellent
3. Books on CD

But for a while I was out of the first two and running low on the third. Today I went to the grocery store and stocked up on gum and Coke--I also joined an audiobook club. Which means I won't be sitting on the front stoop drooling all over myself. But it was a close thing, people!

"I washed me 'ands and fice before I came, I did!"

One of life's challenges--to which I find myself rising rather ineptly--is the matter of etiquette. The way I see it, there is a central problem with etiquette, which is: you can know the forms perfectly well, but that doesn't make adhering to them any easier or more enjoyable.

Take the little matter of thank-you notes. Having gone to a metric ton of parties lately, I owe a metric ton of thank-you notes. And I have every intention of writing them. But ... I keep finding other things to do instead. Like folding laundry. Or rearranging my bookshelves. Or (God help me) reading etiquette books.

Have I ever mentioned that I have a sizable collection of etiquette books? I own multiple editions of Emily Post (with Mrs. Post, the older the better--she starts off much more opinionated, but in the latest edition, her daughter-in-law is practically conciliatory. And conciliatory? Is Just Wrong.) Oh, and then there's Amy Vanderbilt, and Vogue's from the 1940s. And the New American Etiquette, printed during World War II, and containing an entire chapter on military etiquette. And Debrett's Modern Manners, in case I ever end up in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. I have funny ones, too--and why not, as there is something inherently comic about finger bowls--P. J. O'Rourke's, and J. P. Donleavy's. And countless others. A shelf-and-a-half of the things.

But that doesn't get those thank-you notes written.

Perhaps if I took a picture of the books and mailed a print to each of the women to whom I owe thank-you notes?

No?

Well, no wonder I'm only 68 percent Lady.

You Are 68% Lady

Overall, you are a refined lady with excellent manners. But you also know when to relax and not get too serious about etiquette. And you have been known to fart.

Are You A Lady?

Millennium Me

I'm having a lazy Saturday, recovering from a strenuous week of socializing, and gearing up for more.

Last Saturday: Joffrey Ballet black tie benefit in Millennium Park;

performance in the Pritzker (Gehry-designed) Pavilion:

followed by a dinner dance in a huge tent.

Ordinarily I loathe and despise amplified classical music. This is because, unlike Joke, I know lots and lots and LOTS about classical music. But I have to say, the engineers did a superb job designing the sound system for the Pritzker Pavilion.

I was wearing--among other things--these:

and ended up taking them off, not because those are three inch heels, but because the heel strap kept slipping down, which made the shoes want to fall off my feet. I was thisclose to splashing into the Crown fountain:


But cooler heads prevailed.

Monday: evening board meeting followed by dinner out with That Stud Muffin I Married in a gallery on the 12th floor of a building overlooking--you guessed it--Millennium Park.


Thursday: Parkways garden party and luncheon in--no, really--Millennium Park--picture this:

with this:and you have it. Lovely, lovely day, and 700 ladies, 690 of whom were wearing the most amazing hats.

That evening, another black tie benefit, a salute to Balmoral and Queen Elizabeth's 80th birthday. There was tartan. And a piper. And champagne. And I won a door prize.

Friday: dinner out with fiddledeedee and her husband. The most. delicious. shrimp and corn chowder followed by boiled 1 1/4 pound lobster, drawn butter, new potatoes, with fresh berries and whipped cream for dessert.

Tonight: 40th birthday party and roast for a dear friend's husband.


Alas. I have nothing to complain about. And complaining? Is what this blog is all about. But how can I complain without sounding like Marie Antoinette or some such. I can't. So I will shut up before a bunch of French peasants burst into my apartment and cart me off to--it's inevitable, isn't it?--Millennium Park, where the Bean will have been replaced with the Guillotine.

Seventeen Reasons to Hate Black-Tie Events

1. My husband and I are going out for the evening. My husband is attired in faultless black-tie, looking cool, calm, and collected as he sits in front of the computer, plays Sudoko, and drinks tequila on the rocks with a wedge of lime. It's a little over an hour from departure time. Time to get ready.

2. I get into my killer new underwear; first, the new bra. Yank, yank, tug, yank.

3. Now the new Spanx "foundation garment" i.e., GIRDLE. It's 18 percent spandex. Just trying to pull the damned thing over my hips makes me break into a sweat.

4. For the past hour, I've been walking around with foam rubber toe-separators between my toes. I decide my pedicure is sufficiently dry. Time to pull on a pair of pantyhose.

5. OK. Hose on. My body, from the shoulders down, now completely mummified in nylon and spandex. Meanwhile my husband is enjoying his Sudoku. And tequila.

6. It's time to roll my hair up on the hot rollers.

7. Did I mention that today's high was 94 degrees?

8. OK, the hair is up in the rollers. (For a neat, smooth, frizz-free look, wrap each section of hair in tissue paper before you roll it. This is my only beauty secret. You're welcome.)

9. Rollers-cum-tissue paper are in place. Wow, hot rollers are hot. And they must stay in place until they are completely cool. Right. Time to spackle my slightly sweaty face.

10. OK, hair still in rollers, full face of make-up now in place. Stick foundation, stick blush, powder, powder blush, lip pencil under the lipstick, gloss, two coats of mascara--the works. I look like a recently embalmed Bride of Frankenstein. My husband is still playing on-line Sudoko.

11. I climb into my dress, and get my husband to zip it up. I discover, to my horror, that the new bra shows.

12. I pin the cute little bolero jacket closed with a brooch, that miraculously, coordinates beautifully with my outfit. However, it isn't enough to tamp down my bra, which keeps popping up like a damned jack-in-the-box, so I decide to augment the pinnification with safety pins. I rummage around in various trinket boxes for safety pins, and find only two, which I use to pin my bra inside my dress. ("Down, boys!")

13. Now it's time to fiddle around with contact lenses. Insert; blink; tear; insert; blink; tear.

14. And of course, there is the blinking/tearing damage to my makeup, which I must now repair.

15. Add jewelry. Apply fragrance.

16. Shoes on. Whoops, the slingbacks are too big and they keep slipping off my feet.

17. Unroll hair. Finger comb. Apply several quarts of hairspray. Stuff lipstick, compact, comb, handkerchief, and cell phone into tiny, useless evening bag. Pry husband away from Sudoko and tequila. Leave for party.

I ask you. Is this sort of thing supposed to be fun? Why do the guys have it so easy? This is so not fair.

p.s. I'm recovering today. I need my rest, people! But check out my latest entry over on Mamarazzi.

p.p.s. That Stud Muffin I Married says my Mamarazzi entry is really mean. UPDATE: Actually, he said it sounded really mean, but when he read it, he thought it was really funny. But I'll let you be the judge of that.

The Longest Day

I survived the kids' week of no school and no camp, and I'm neither gibbering nor frothing at the mouth, which, if you ask me, is miraculous. There is only so much GameCube a sentient adult can listen to before her reason deserts her, and it occurs to me that I might possibly have passed that point. At any rate, when I look in the mirror, this is what I see --------------------->

Camp started on Monday, so I get a reprieve from GameCube from 9:00 to 12:00 every day, during which time I get to work out, run errands, achieve new miracles in housecleaning ... or read the paper while consuming gallons of tea.

Meanwhile, my social life has received a massive shot in the arm. It has been a giddy whirl of ladies' luncheons and black tie evenings, for which, unfortunately, I have nothing to wear because I am so damned fat, no doubt from sitting around listening to my children play GameCube.

For example, tomorrow I'm going to a garden party to benefit the Chicago Park District. Ladies are requested to wear hats. I'm envisioning a scenario where a matron sits at one end of a long table pouring tea, and she asks me "One GameCube or two?" but I realize that probably isn't going to happen.

Time to stop typing and roust the kids out of bed for camp. I'd better go get some more tea before I Nintendoze off ...

Poppy Checks some Train Wrecks

After a lovely dinner of sushi, my son spent the evening playing a Sonic game on his Nintendo. My husband spent the evening working on Sudoku puzzles. My daughter was, I have no doubt, playing with her Hi Hi Puffy Ami Yumi dolls.

As for me--I was bucking the whole Japanese trend, because I was working on something for Mamarazzi.* Which makes me not merely a rugged individual, but a Snarkarazza. (Or some such--my Italish has gotten horribly rusty.)

Wait a minute. Haven't you checked out Mamarazzi yet? Get over there prontissimo, Gentle Reader-san!

* Well, OK, I had to check out Larry King's interview with various Men of the Cloth on the subject of "What, Me--Gay?" and then surf back over to the train wreck that was Britney's interview with Matt Lauer. I had to.

Well we got no class / And we got no principles / And we got no innocence / We can't even think of a word that rhymes / so we'll stick in a recipe.

School's Out for Summer. Today was the last day.

The kids were only at school for an hour. One hour. Why do schools do these things? I joked to my son when I dropped him off this morning that I had time to go home, drink a cup of tea, and go back to get him. At least, it started as a joke, but it turned out to be a prediction. I was just finishing the morning paper, looked at the clock, and whoops, it was time to go get the kids.

Oh--and yesterday? Was a Teacher's Institute Day. So we didn't have school. Other than play Nintendo, yesterday we did--gift bags. My daughter, I'm afraid, didn't really understand the principle, so we gave bags to all her teachers from Junior Kindergarten to Third Grade. My son has a lot of Special Ed-type helpers, none of whom I had ever heard mentioned until last night, but as far as he was concerned, they all deserved a bag.

So we bought, and I stuffed: ten bright red bags with coordinating red tissue paper and big shiny red bows; 11 purple bags with purple tissue and purple bows.

Isn't it lucky that I had exactly 42, count 'em, 42 boxes of Gevalia coffee to put in the bags? All because my husband and I are too lame to cancel our monthly delivery even after we switched to tea. I call that serendipity.

Each bag also got half a dozen home-made cookies. My daughter and I tweaked the recipe from Baker's Chocolate, so I'll provide it here. This is the cookie version of a brownie, or maybe a truffle. Or maybe flourless chocolate cake. This is--seriously--a lot of chocolate. So I'll call them

Almost Flourless Quadruple Chocolate Chunk Cookies

8 ounces of Semi-Sweet Baking Chocolate (60 percent, if you have it)
3 ounces of Unsweetened Baking Chocolate
6 ounces of White Baking Chocolate, coarsely chopped into chips/chunks
12 ounces of Semi-Sweet chocolate morsels
1 stick of butter
3 eggs
1 and 1/4 cups granulated sugar
2 tsp. vanilla
2/3 cup flour
1/2 tsp. Baking Powder
1/4 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Put the unsweetened chocolate, semi-sweet chocolate, and the butter in a large microwave-safe bowl. Zap for two minutes, stir, and zap for another minute. Stir. Maybe zap again for a minute. Stir until completely smooth. Cool while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

Beat eggs and sugar in large bowl with electric mixer until very well blended. Pour in chocolate and butter mixture and vanilla. Mix well. Blend in flour, baking powder, and salt. Sir in white chocolate chunks and semi-sweet chips until well mixed.

Drop by rounded tablespoons onto greased baking sheets.

Bake for 10-12 minutes. Cookies should still be moist, but not gooey. Cool on the pan for a few minutes. Remove from baking sheets and cool completely.

Note: because there is no liquid except for melted butter, melted chocolate, and egg yolks, you'll find as the batter sits, it starts to become increasingly solid. So for the last two batches, I roll the batter into balls before placing them on the cookie sheet. This keeps the cookies attractive.

I don't want to brag, but these are truly amazing. And I don't even like chocolate all that much. I mean, I like it, but it's not a substitute for sex or anything like that.

Yesterday I doubled the recipe, so much chocolate was unwrapped and melted or chopped. Yes, I should have taken pictures, either of the cookies being made or of the Teletubbie-colored gift bags, but once again, the battery on the digital camera was dead.

We had a mad rush to get to school this morning, carrying the 21 gift bags. There were too many to carry, so I went over early and dropped two big trays of gift bags off, then went home to get my kids and take them around to distribute the bags. The teachers were very touched; I think a lot of them were very surprised. (Especially the kindergarten teachers.)

In other news, one of the other mothers told me this morning that she had six girls in my son's class over at her house yesterday, and they voted for their favorite boy. My son was the winner.

This might be my last peaceful summer.

What I'm doing when I'm not making fake motivational posters or whining about the weather.

I'm out in the yard, gardening my fingers to the bone. To the bone, people.

Sunday was sunny, warm and perfect, so after I dropped my mother off at the airport, I went to one of the local garden centers and brought home a car load of plants. Then I tore out some phlox that was trying to take over the perennial border and added six shrub rose bushes. I also divided some sedum and stuck it into some bare spots.

Monday took a bunch of nicotiana, petunias, and some trailing thingie with blue flowers for the twenty-foot long window box in the front of the house. And started filling the boxes.

Tuesday I cleaned off the back deck and got rid of everything that had died.

Wednesday ... I don't remember Wednesday. I think I watered stuff.

Thursday I went to a different garden center and brought home a bunch of forget-me-nots for the shady area that apparently didn't care for last year's Coral Bells experiment. Also some common sage for a sunny spot that used to have hostas until the poor things burned up in last summer's drought.

Today I came home with six more rose bushes. So if the weather cooperates, I will get a bunch more plants into the ground tomorrow.

But it probably won't.

See, I'm back at my computer now, having run around and closed all the windows because it's chilly. And it might rain. Which is OK weather for putting plants into the ground, but not so great for the "chicks night out" garden party a friend of mine is throwing. Every year she rents a tent, gets the caterer, and invites 80 of her favorite girlfriends for cosmos and yummy nibbles. Last year her yard was a vast ocean of Lilly Pulitzer, bare tanned legs, and highlighted blonde hair.

This year I think I'm wearing a sweatshirt, and I'm debating the idea of wearing socks under my hot pink slides.

So Internet, don't feel flattered that I'm not out in the yard gardening, getting myself covered with dirt and sweat and neglecting you shamefully. I'm only back blogging because there's weather to whine about. And I'm all about the whining.

Oh--Blackbird has reminded me to post a picture of my favorite plant for show-and-tell Thursday (which was changed from Friday without my permission):

Golden Flame Honeysuckle. The plant is two years old, and it's s growing up a downspout and filling up an awkward empty spot near the front door.

I'm in Zone 5, and I highly recommend it. It's totally cold-tolerant, leafs out in May, bursts into giddy amounts of pink and orange flowers in June, looks great for about two weeks, and does all of this for almost no care at all.

That's it behind the George Vancouver shrub roses (from the Canadian Explorer series--cold tolerant to Zone 3, people!) and to the left of the still-empty window box and the Japanese Maple:

When it warms up a bit, I've got my work cut out for me. Until then, I've got to slip into some mukluks and head off to a garden party.

Reality is for stupid people

More sage advice from Poppy
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

OK.

I know this is lame.

I know it's the easy way out.

But honestly, I've got a very luscious glass of red zinfandel next to me. And I'd like to continue drinking it, even though that would mean I would be killing brain cells that I have no business offing. Because they are sorely needed.

Which is sort of like being in the habit of doing drugs, man.

Not that I'd know anything about that. Good lord, no. I swear. The last time I did a line? Was my best friend's wedding, and she made me do it. What can I say? She was a total Bridezilla who insisted that her Maid of Honor snort at least one line of coke or she wasn't getting into the limo.

So ... I find myself breaking the law in a vain attempt to get my best friend to act respectable.

Can I just say how glad I am that the eighties are over?

Coming soon--to a newstand near you.

My creation
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

And subsequently, to coffee tables. With brown rings on my cover from where somebody used me as a coaster.

Because--tah dah!--my blog has become a magazine. Soon I'll be found on newstands everywhere, nestled coyly between Town & Country and Martha Stewart Living. Or maybe Simple Living and Old House Interiors.

I mean, why blog when you can publish a glossy magazine?

OK, I made this last February. And then forgot to post it. Or something. And I came over to my flickr account looking for a picture of That Stud Muffin I Married making pasta to prove to Joke that of course making fresh pasta at home is easy. My husband does it.

And then I became distracted (and gee, that never happens. Hey, maybe I should check my email.) And found this. And decided to use it as an entry.

Anyway, here it is.

Sooner or later I will post an entry about my mother's visit, and how we went to Abraham Lincoln's house in Springfield, not to mention Abe's Presidential Library. And didn't even have a single argument.

But seriously, I need to check my email. I mean, it's been what--four minutes?

Show and Tell Thursday: My Least Favorite Piece of Furniture.

Where to begin? There is so much to hate.

But this maple chest of drawers is my latest pet hate. It's bulky. It's heavy. The finish is shot. The handles keep falling off.

My mother gave it to my sister at a time when my sister had almost no furniture. By the time I was moving to Chicago, it had been relegated to my sister's basement, and my mother instructed me to pick it up on our way west.

We've had it for about 20 years.

It's in a funny part of the house, an awkward passageway between the living room and the sunroom. It sort of serves as a music room. The stereo is there, also the piano and my son's cello. And a toy piano, just for fun. Also the bar, for when the fun gets to be too much for me and I need a drink. And that antique cherry drop-leaf table--the one with the picture of my father in his Coast Guard whites. It deserves a better home, but I don't have anywhere to put it. So this weird, undefined space also serves as the Poppy Home for Unwanted Furniture. There's way too much furniture crammed into it.

In fact, I have a big bruise on my hip where I bashed into this pointy part of the piano lid just the other day, when I was trying to sidle between all these pieces of furniture.

I would have put the chest out on trash day, except it's too heavy for me to move by myself.

And anyway, in my family, you're not allowed to give away anything my mother gave you. She is quite likely to ask for it back, either for herself, or for one of my siblings. If you don't still have the item in question ... her eyebrows drop in a really frightening way. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! The scary dropped eyebrows! I'm telling you, my bowels turn to water at the thought.

If I throw it out, donate it to the rummage sale, or otherwise get rid of it, I'll be disowned or worse.

Worse being that my mother decides to come live with me.

Speaking of which, she's coming to visit today. I'd better go dust the fucking thing.