Red Hot Poppy Roses and ice cold Jizz Jazz

I'm getting ready for another trip to New Hampshire, and it's too damned hot to move. Today's high is expected to be 100 degrees. It was OK this morning; I mostly stayed inside, only venturing outside to turn the sprinkler on. My theory is that my roses are going to have to rely on Ma Nature for water for the next few weeks, so I might as well keep things as plush and comfortable for them as I can.

(Now that I think of it, this will probably backfire. After I've made things too easy for them when they were young, they'll probably go through a particularly sullen period in their adolescence, and when I get back from New Hampster, I'll probably find that they've run away from home and are living with an unemployed musician and hanging out at the Dunkin Donuts on Clark and Belmont late at night trying to look cool and edgy, and wishing they had enough money to pay for a tattoo. Still, I feel it's my duty to do what I can to provide them with a happy childhood.)

I also cooked and cleaned up the kitchen, and cooked and cleaned up the kitchen again, and baked a fresh apple coffee cake to wipe out the apple supply and cleaned that up, and lord, I wish I could sit in front of the air conditioner with a mojito in my hand, but I have to do laundry and make lists and pack and do last minute bill-paying, letter-writing, and paperwork-filing before I go off to stuff myself with lobster and pretend that Newtopia doesn't exist.

I hope where ever you are, it's cooler than it is here. Sit back, drink something cold and yummy, and catch up with other, better blogs. This one is pretty much a wash today, but you'll probably like my tenant's, where Jess will tell you everything you need to know about Diet Pepsi Jizz Jazz, or Mamarazzi, where Susie Sunshine took on Mel Gibson's latest encounter with not-so-cool cooling beverages. My goodness, alcoholics can be such scamps! He should have stuck to Diet Pepsi Jizz Jazz.)

Red thumbnails

I'd like to make one thing perfectly clear. I don't pick my tenants based on the color of their templates. It means absolutely nothing to me that thumbnails in shades of red look great on this blog. Nothing, do you hear me? I mean, yes, I'm obsessed with questions of style, and yes, the stacked-up fashion and shelter magazines around these parts will topple over and engulf me at any moment, but for me it's all about the writing.

If you can write clearly (most people can't) and if I find your writing amusing (funny is better) or compelling, then you have a chance at the catbird seat over there on the left.

Jess, of Apropos of Something, is a groovy writer. (Also, his template is awesome; there's a lot going on in his blog, but it's laid out well. And yes, it's red. I love red, but that's not why I chose him.)

What's going on over there? Well, lately he's been doing 100 facts in 100 days, one thing at a time. He's written an interesting review of that skeevy old adopted-daughter-seducing pervert Woody Allan's latest film, and if you scroll down a bit, you'll find a tender and heartfelt obituary. About his 11-year-old sneakers.

Check it out. The red thing? Total coincidence. I swear.

The Mama-s and the Papa-s

I wish Britney Spears would fall off her platforms again. Or something.

Today's my day to post on Mamarazzi, and let me tell you, being a Mamarazzi contributor isn't nearly as glamorous, fun-filled, and champagne-swigging as you'd think. Every time I upload my Friday post, I feel the same way I feel when I walk out of the dentist's office. "Woo hoo! Six more days before I need to do THAT again."

Then, around Wednesday morning, I begin to become concerned about what the hell I'm going to post on Friday. "Oh, that's OK; I have plenty of time," I assure myself.

Before you know it, I'm scouring all the internet gossip sites, hoping that Britney has dropped a baby, Donald Trump has gotten divorced again, or Pam Anderson's tits have (having miraculously changed size again) floated out of her wedding dress, and are believed to have been assumed into heaven. And people are gathering and praying the Rosary where her tits were last seen.

No such luck this morning. All I found that was really smoking-hot, freshly-breaking news is a rumor that Halle Berry might be pregnant. Based, no doubt, on an unflattering paparazzi photograph taken while she was doing a backbend at an early morning Yoga session following a night where she drank four beers and ate an entire garbage pizza.

I mean, please. So Halle's belly is a little bloated. It happens to all of us. (All of us except Nicole Ritche, Paris Hilton, the Olson twins, Kate Hudson--fill in the lollipop head of your choice.)

Honestly, I'm so tired of the paparazzi and their rumors. Yes, I depend on their horrible photographs for my career as a Mamarazzi writer ... (I did mention that I write for that supremely snarky site, did I not?) But it's gotten to the point where you can't let your stomach muscles relax for a second--not even when you're on the toilet; the paparazzi are finding pregnancies everywhere. I'm waiting for them to announce that Oprah is pregnant. Hillary Clinton? Pregnant. Brooke Astor? Who is 104 years old? Pregnant. Me? Pregnant. You? Pregnant. Even if you're a man. YOU'RE PREGNANT, you just don't realize it yet.

So anyway, today I had to post about the weird, creepy wax figure Madame Tussaud made of Sholie Pitt. Or whatever her name is. Check it out. But please, be gentle with me. Sometimes I just can't seem to come up with the funny. But it's OK. I'm going to pray to Pamela Anderson's tits to heal me.

Such a Tizzy.

So today I had plans to have lunch with Sarah O. (scat) of Lemon Life, in a lovely restaurant in Erewhon, except the whole thing was predicated on my children going on a post-camp field trip to a water park, and it's pouring rain.

And since I don't know Sarah O. personally, and don't have her phone number, and couldn't call her, I wasn't absolutely certain that she'd retrieve her email cancelling the lunch date. And I pictured her sitting in a lovely restaurant, weeping into her Perrier (or iced tea, or Diet Coke) wondering what happened to Poppy.

So I did the only thing I could do, which was stalk her. See, she's selling her house. And that meant that I could find the address. And with her last name and address, I could get her telephone number. So I did. And I called the number, only to discover that it's a fax line.

So I did the only thing I could do, and faxed her that I wasn't coming.

At that point, I heard from the camp. The field trip to the water park is on; they just hope that my kids don't wander into the pool and get hit by lightning.

That meant I needed to re-stalk Sarah, re-email and re-fax her, cancelling the cancellation. Which I did.

So, it's 11:00 and I'm exhausted, but I need to go get dressed into something waterproof or at least water-resistant or at least something that won't make me look like some Palm Beach heavy drinker's DTs* and head up to Erewhon to meet--or get stood up by--the unknown blogger I've been stalking all morning.

*(Cue "Pink Elephants" song from Dumbo.)

the Top 5 Reasons I selected this week's tenant:

5. Mia is a designer. Her blog looks great. You can buy designs from her.

4. She lives in Portland, Oregon, which has been hit by a terrible heatwave. I mean, we're dealing with high 90s here in Chicago, but that's normal. She's got over 100 degrees in that town that's supposed to be a haven of cool, mossy shade and mildew growing in your sneakers overnight. Click on that thumbnail before her computer melts.

3. Gorgeous photographs of a beach getaway.

2. When she can't think of what to blog, she's capable of posting an old Wham! video.

1. Her subtitle cracked me up.

The 10 Commandments of Newtopia

I am Newtopia, premiere suburb of Chicago's North Shore. Thou hast arrived, thou lucky woman! Abide by my commandments:

1. Thou shalt be grateful unto smugness for thy Newtopian abode; thou shalt have no other residences before it. (Thou mayest own property elsewhere, but thy heart and thy dollars belong to me.)

2. Thou shalt be fecund, and if not naturally so, thou shalt spend the price of a BMW to produce thy biological children. Or thou mayest adopt.

3. Thou shalt move to town when thy eldest child is two or three.

4. Thou shalt own at least two cars. They shall not be domestically-made, for American cars art anathema to Newtopia (with the exception of a GMC or Ford SUV, a Jeep, a Town and Country mini-van, or a PT Cruiser.)

5. Thou shalt be blonde. And thin. (But thou knewest that.)

6. Thou shalt keep thy figure, and, it is hoped, thy husband--even if it does mean letting him buy the ragtop Mercedes to tool around in in good weather.

7. Thou shalt keep thy house in on-the-market condition at all times.

8. Thou shalt keep thy yard landscaped, weeded, mown, mulched, pruned and trimmed to within an inch of its life. (But thou needest not do this work thyself, as it would ruin thy French manicure.)

9. Thou shalt decorate thy house lavishly for all secular and Christian holidays, removing thy decorations promptly when the holiday is over.

10. Thou shalt move out when thy youngest child graduates from high school (or maybe college) heaving a sigh of relief as thou watchest the Coldwall Banker agent place the "For Sale" sign on thy beautifully-kept front yard.

If you can read this, you have something better to do.

I found an on-line test that's supposed to show whether I spend too much time on-line. See, right away this test has to be totally stupid, because I already know I do.

This site had tests for various flavors of on-line addiction: gambling, eBay, cybersex, and cyberporn, but I went for general, overall on-line addiction, because let's face it, between the hours I spend playing on-line poker, the vast sums I spend on eBay, the countless times I have uploaded nude photographs to "Am I Hot or Not" and then sat watching the results come in in real time, not to mention the times I have joined an "Older Men R Hot" virtual hot tub over on Yahoo chat and pretended to be a nineteen-year-old just to mess with the heads of a bunch of drooling old perverts--well, my point is that my internet addiction is multifarious.

And anyway, does anyone else out there agree that maybe, just maybe, the owners of the website in question (netaddiction.com) aren't the most original thinkers? And/or are completely stupid? I mean ... on-line help for on-line addiction? Does Alcoholics Anonymous hold meetings in a bar?

Anyway, I took the test, and I scored "normal." So right away, you know the test is useless.

But for a good laugh, and in case you haven't wasted enough time on line, you can take the test by clicking here.

Oh, and my favorite question is this one:

3. How often do you prefer the excitement of the Internet to intimacy with your partner?

I mean, OK, if the question means "How often do you prefer the witty repartee of your blogging buddies to a meaningful 'discussion' with your husband about whose turn it is to take out the recycling?" ... well, maybe that's OK.

But if that means what I think it means, ew.

This time, Kate Hudson gets it.

I'm over at Mamarazzi, viciously skewering Hollywood starlets with itty bitty titties.

A Tale of Two Spidies

(That's "Spy-deeze," as in Spiderman's nickname.)

See, here's the thing; I love my blog readers, I love you blog writers out there ... but sometimes, (with apologies to Myrow and Gordon):

You make me feel so old;
You make me feel un-apropos;
And every time you start to blog,
I get brain fog, just like a dying dog.

I'm not one of those bloggers who feels pressed to confess my real name, my weight, my children's names, etc., etc., but I will admit that I'm no spring chicken, so would you do me a favor and stop freaking out that you're turning 30? OK? Is it too much to ask--even of a pipsqueak whose mother's milk is still wet on his lips because he is, in case I forgot, due to my impending Alzheimer's Disease--about to turn 30???

Thank you.

So, because I'm not going to upload a scan of my driver's license, here is the proof, if any is needed, that I am not Generation X or Y or Z or even Generation A-prime. I'm a baby-boomer. I didn't watch this on Saturday morning; I watched this.

Mine is the first, the original Spiderman--not that other one, and certainly not the live-action ones starring what's-his-name--you know--that whippersnapper who probably isn't even 30 yet either.

p.s. For you Ramones fans--I didn't watch this one either. But I would have liked it. I like this one, too.

The 10 Greatest Unsung Inventions of the 20th Century

1. The cordless phone. Everyone is all "oooh, cell phones are so cool," but no one is remembering the days when you were stuck at the phone, immobile, watching your life pass before your eyes while someone blathered on and on. But with a cordless phone, during a conversation of the same length, I can make three beds, empty the dishwasher, load the dishwasher, get the mail, sign for a package, pick up the living room, throw a load of clothes in the washer--basically anything you can do with one hand,* I can and have done while holding a cordless phone.

2. Books on CD. With books on CD, I have the best of the old and the new. I rip a book, upload it to my iPod, and thanks to this 21st century technology, I can listen to someone read aloud. I listen while I'm making beds, emptying the dishwasher, loading the dishwasher ... is this sounding familiar? Audiobooks are the new crack.

3. eBay. In bringing together the collector and the source, eBay has singlehandedly made more successful matches than e-Harmony and My Space put together.

4. Radio. Sure, we have podcasting now, and some of you scoffers may call traditional radio outmoded, but the best way to watch a baseball game is still with the television sound off and the radio on.

5. The humble blender. Now we need never go without wonderful yummy slushy drinks.

6. Transitional lenses. Now we can be blind as a bat, and no one will be the wiser.

7. The canning process that makes Pub Draft Guinness possible.

8. White boards. Although a couple of generations of children have missed the opportunity to clap erasers for the teacher.

9. Cold cereal. Think about it. Without cold cereal, Life, as we know it, would be impossible.

10. The ATM card. You say your drug dealer will only accept cash? No problem.

* No, not that.

Badger's Ology Meme

GRUB-OLOGY

* What is your salad dressing of choice? I rub the salad bowl with the cut side of a garlic clove; add the salad ingredients; add a splash of Extra Virgin Olive Oil; toss; add a very small amount of something sour (any one of a variety of vinegars, but sometimes lemon juice)); toss; add salt and pepper; toss.
* What is your favorite fast food restaurant? I hate fast food.
* What is your favorite sit down restaurant? I don't know. I really don't like to go out to dinner that much. On the other hand, I love being waited on. I guess Cracker Barrel. Or Warren's.
* On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant? I leave 20 percent or more if the service is good (or if I'm buying something really cheap; it seems silly to leave someone fifty cents) and less if the service sucked.
* What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of? Bread.
* Name three foods you detest above all others. Cremora; those chocolates that have a jelly filling; salmon. The first two are fairly easy to avoid, but that last one is stalking me.
* What is your favorite dish to order in a Chinese restaurant? If Taiwanese, steamed buns with barbecued pork. If regular, Ma Po Tofu.
* What are your pizza toppings of choice? At home, I like goat cheese, if I'm feeling chichi. Otherwise, I like vegetables, especially broccoli. Or anchovies. No meat.
* What do you like to put on your toast? Butter and raspberry jam.
* What is your favorite type of gum? Eclipse sugarless peppermint.

TECH-OLOGY

* Number of contacts in your cell phone? Maybe a dozen.
* Number of contacts in your email address book? Maybe forty.
* What is your wallpaper on your computer? The regular blue background. I need to be able to see.
* What is the screen saver on your computer? The record cover art for everything I've downloaded from iTunes, which means that Lord Peter Wimsey novel covers are duking it out with Al Green, Marilyn Horne, and Marilyn Monroe.
* Are there naked pictures saved on your computer? Yes, but they're not of me.
* How many land line phones do you have in your house? Six.
* How many televisions are in your house? Three.
* What kitchen appliance do you use the least? Coffee maker.
* What is the format of the radio station you listen to the most? Pre-thirties jazz and swing.
* How many sex toys do you own that require batteries? That depends--are we talking about things like massagers or wink-wink-nudge-nudge "massagers?" Actually it doesn't matter; I guarantee that anything battery-operated I own that designed for my pleasure has been stripped of its batteries and isn't working, because someone needed the batteries for a toy.

BI-OLOGY

* What do you consider to be your best physical attribute? My left hand.
* Are you right handed or left handed? Right.
* Do you like your smile? Not really, so I do a lot of scowling, instead.
* Have you ever had anything removed from your body? A couple of teeth. A couple of bumps from my face. A boy. (The girl came out by herself.)
* Would you like to? Sure. Need anything? Help yourself.
* Do you prefer to read when you go to the bathroom? Yes. I loathe being bored.
* Which of your five senses do you think is keenest? Touch, which makes me a fun date. The rest of my senses haven't performed particularly well since I was in high school.
* When was the last time you had a cavity? Cavities? Who gets cavities any more? Cavities are for newbies. Me, I have crowns replaced, and the dentist "cleans up" the icky stuff before installing a new one.
* What is the heaviest item you lift regularly? It's a tie between a mug of tea, a glass of wine, and my laptop. (Not really. Actually, I juggle a lot of suitcases.)
* Have you ever been knocked unconscious? Nope--not even when they were removing the boy.

MISC-OLOGY

* If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die? I don't know. I'll have to get back to you about that. At some time in the indefinite future.
* If you could change your first name, what would you change it to? What--you don't like Poppy? I like it--it's flowery without being fulsome.
* How do you express your artistic side? By cleaning up other people's messes, but leaving my crap all over the place.
* What color do you think you look best in? Red.
* How long do you think you could last in a medium security prison? That depends. Do I get to be butch, or do I have to be femme?
* Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake? Sure. You know those caps at the end of a ballpoint pen that are so fun to remove with your teeth?
* If we weren't bound by society's conventions, do you have a relative you'd make a pass at? Well, I have a cousin I used to think was kind of cute. But no, I wouldn't. On the whole, I didn't make a whole lot of passes even when I was younger and cuter. Why would I risk rejection now to commit incest? Anyway, I'm married.
* How often do you go to church? Whenever I want to, and sometimes when I don't.
* Have you ever saved someone's life? Nope.
* Has someone ever saved yours? Yep.

DARE-OLOGY
For this last section, if you would do it for less or more money, indicate how much.

* Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for any amount of money whatsoever? No.
* Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100? Yes, if I were drunk, it was a joke, and the poor girl didn't read too much into it. I'm no heartbreaker.
* Would you have sex with a member of the same sex for $10,000? No, but not because I'd think it was icky. I mean, we're talking someone I'd find cute, right? But no, because I'm no ho, and anyway, I'm married.
* Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000? NO WAY. Sick bastid.
* Would you never blog again for $50,000? Maybe.
* Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000? Frankly, I think the magazine would pay me to keep my clothes on.
* Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1,000? Yes, if I were drunk, it was a joke, and the poor bottle didn't read too much into it.
* Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000? Why anyone pay me that kind of money when the state of Texas does that for free?
* Would you shave your head and get your entire body waxed for $5,000? That's not enough money. I'd do it for a million dollars, though.
* Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000? Sure. Hell, I'd be ripping someone off by going that high; I'd do it for a lot less.

Blackbird's 5 Things Meme

Stolen from blackbird, who stole it from Sassy Lime...

5 things in my closet

a shoe box of sewing supplies
a hanging shelf people use for sweaters, except mine is full of scarf boxes
two hat boxes containing two kick-ass hats
Tom Cruise
lots of shoes, stored, whenever possible, in their original boxes

5 things in my fridge -

organic 2 percent milk
left-over Thai food
Smucker's natural peanut butter, creamy not chunky
white wine
12 oz. cans of Diet Coke because I hate the way it goes flat when you buy bottles

5 things in my car

CDs for the children
two broken Hunter Douglas blinds to return to the store to return to the factory to repair and then rehang ourselves, God damn it.
Nintendo GameBoy Advance SP recharger
my cell phone recharger
A StarTours badge hanging from the rear-view mirrir identifying the driver as a Pod Racer

5 things in my purse

a red leather lipstick case with a mirror and a good, all-purpose shade of lipstick (currently Maybelline Wet Shines Diamond in Mauvey Rocks)
black leather Versace wallet/checkbook combo that my husband, who thinks I have elegant taste, brought me from Rome. Filled, needless to say, with Felix the Cat checks.
small red filofax
prescription sunglasses
pink Razr cell phone

Why do you seek the nasty among the nice?

I'm over at Mamarazzi today. Making fun of Tom Cruise. (Yes, again.)

Lobster trapped

On Saturday night That Stud Muffin I Married and I went to a Bring Your Own Lobster party.

I've never been to a lobster boil in Illinois, so I commend my hostess on her originality, but the evening left much to be desired. In fact, I couldn't wait to leave.

First of all, we were asked to bring live lobsters, and the two lobsters I bought cost me $50. Then there was the babysitting, which probably cost another fifty. And for $100, That Stud Muffin I Married and I could have gone out to a nice dinner, a lobster dinner, even--and the conversation would have been better.

Well, of course it would have been better. In terms of percentages, I would have been able to dominate as much as 85 percent of the conversation, my husband's contributions being to order the meal, pick the wine, laugh at my jokes, and pay the check. Whereas, at this BYOL party, I was forced--out of politeness--to let other people talk. And that can be such a problem at times.

Now, during the course of the evening, I alluded once or twice to Mamarazzi, and it's quite possible that one of these dinner guests will find his or her way over there, and then to this blog. For their benefit, I will now provide a precis of What Not to Do While at a Dinner Party:

1. Do not ask people personal questions designed primarily to elicit socio-economic information. This is a naked attempt to discover people's social class, and the intelligent among them will either resent it or find it silly. Or both.

Forbidden questions include: "Oh, you grew up in the Erewhon area? Where did you go to school?" "Where did you go to college?" "Oh, so you live in Oz? Where, exactly?" "Your house in Utopia--is it on the water?" "Is your place near that country club--what's the name of it again?"

For the record, when people ask him where he grew up, That Stud Muffin I Married takes enormous pleasure in answering "Indiana" or "Indianapolis," because in the Chicago area, Indianapolis is almost completely connotation-free. He really enjoys the blank stares he gets.

But me? I was in shock. I've been asked fewer questions at job interviews. It was unbelievable. What ever happened to "Seen any good movies lately?" or "How 'bout them Cubs?"

2. Do not warm up to people based on their answers to questions you shouldn't have been asking in the first place. This will make them realize that they've passed muster with you. And they will find you really pathetic. So pathetic that their eyes will well over with tears of pity for your sad little snobberies. And they will want to weep. Or laugh. But being well-behaved sorts, they will wait to laugh until they're in their car.

And then, a few days later, they will blog about it.

When in doubt, go for the chocolate

Whoops, I'd forgotten to mention this week's tenant. Usually I look for something funny ... but when I was offered the chance to rent space to a blog THAT IS ALL ABOUT CHOCOLATE (with REVIEWS! AND RECIPES!) I figured I'd be even more idiotic than usual not to take it on.

Oh, and he (?) is writing from England ... so the reviews are of Cadbury products and such. Which means my drooling is mixed with hopeless longing, along the lines of

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

leaving me wondering whether that chocolate can really be as good as it sounds. So check out it out--click on the chocolate box over there on the left.

What's Your Hell Like?

I swiped this from Badger because I don't have an original thought in my head. I have to steal. For which I will be going to hell. And this is what it will be like:

Drinks in my hell:

• Scotch
• faux martinis made with sweet liqueurs
  
• non-Diet Coke
  
• gin
• cognac
  
• any combination of hard liquor with anything carbonated--say, Scotch and Diet Moxie
• instant coffee with Cremora and Sweet and Low
  

Food in my hell:

• seared tuna
  
• margarine
  
• kiddy breakfast cereals
  
• bologna
• Doritos
• casseroles made with cream of anything soup
• baked beans
• Jell-O salads
• salads with marshmallows
• Circus Peanut candy
• Wonder Bread
  

Occupations in my hell:

• proctologist
• endodontist
• podiatrist
• customer service representative
  
• sommelier
• the person who stands at one end of a chunk of road construction telling drivers when they can proceed
• clown for children's birthday parties
  

Music in my hell:

• The Eagles
• America
  
• Chicago
  
• Three Dog Night
  
• Gordon Lightfoot
  
• Heavy Metal
  
• "smooth jazz"
• Schoenberg
• Alban Berg
• William Bolcom
• John Tavener
• Muzak
  

President in my hell: He's not dead yet.

Authors in my hell: Ayn Rand; Norman Mailer; John Updike; Philip Roth; Christian Metz; Barbara Cartland; Ann Coulter

Husbands in my hell: Rush Limbaugh; Tom Cruise; Michael Douglas; Ted Kennedy; Newt Gingrich; Dr. Phil; Donald Trump

Only activities allowed in my hell:

• undergoing mammography
  
• cleaning the basement
  
• listening to Rush Limbaugh
  
• taking children to McDonald's
  
• taking children to Chuck E. Cheese
  
• going to the Secretary of State's office for a new license picture
  
• having teeth cleaned. Or drilled.
  
• being weighed
  
• going to a benefit or wedding with a loud band, bad food, and a bunch of total strangers at your table--and then a few of the guys start smoking cigars
  
• taking the car in for service and having to wait in a waiting room with a television blaring
  
• watching shopping channels
• long turbulent flights with screaming children and someone using a barf bag nearby
  

Copying Joke. Again.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother with blogging. I really don't belong on the internet with you young coolios. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big dork. I eat the wrong food; I drink the wrong liquor, and I listen to the wrong kind of music. Also, I don't watch enough television. No penetrating insights about Lost or Survivor or anything like that will be happening around here. I'm too busy watching thirty-year-old programs, like Lord Peter Wimsey dramatizations from the 1970s.

Anyway. If you've had the chance to marvel at the uber-coolness of the playlist Joke put together for Number One Son's ninth birthday, you'll have a good laugh when you see this playlist. It's the stuff my son asked me to download/rip to iTunes. The son who joins me and That Stud Muffin I Married for marathon Lord Peter Wimsey watching.

This is what he likes to listen to:

Eye of the Tiger, Survivor
Theme from Ghostbusters, Ghostbusters Soundtrack
I Like to Move it, Madagascar Soundtrack
Scooby Doo, Where Are You? Cosa
The Monster Mash, Boris
Treehouse Of Horror V (Medley), The Simpsons
Werewolves of London, Warren Zevon
Dracula From Houston, Butthole Surfers
Ghostbusters II Theme, Run D.M.C.
It's Raining Men, The Weather Girls
Halloween, Misfits
Witchdoctor, Ray Stevens
Feed My Frankenstein, Alice Cooper
Vampire Love, Misfits
Kitten on the Keys, Liberace
Un Bel Di Vedremo, Puccini: Madama Butterfly
Theme from The Munsters
Witchy Woman, The Eagles
Hey Juliet, LMNT
Linus and Lucy, Vince Guaraldi Trio
Fur Elise, Vince Guaraldi Trio
Sign Your Name, Terence Trent D'Arby
Shuffle Off To Buffalo, Ruby Keeler, Clarence Nordstrum,
We're In The Money (The Gold Diggers Song), Ginger Rogers & Chorus
Young And Healthy, Dick Powell, Toby Wing & Chorus
Honeymoon Hotel, Dick Powell, Ruby Keeler & Chorus
Shanghai Lil, James Cagney, Ruby Keeler, & Chorus

So. Joke's son is bopping around to that surf/ska/punk stuff I've never heard of. Probably playing along on the electric guitar. Whereas my son is cracking up to Ginger Rogers singing "We're in the Money" in Pig-Latin. And will, I have no doubt, figure out how to play it on his cello. Of course, that's not the most embarrassing item on this list; that would be "Witchy Woman," by the Eagles--something I only got because it was for my Halloween party playlist. And now ... my son has decided it's a Good Song.

I'm telling you, I'm a dork. And apparently, we're breeding them over here.

Move along--nothing to see here.

Sigh.

What the masses opiate themselves with around here

When inspiration palls, what does the weary blogger do? Steal someone else's ideas, that's what.

So I guess the new thing is lists--playlists, inventories of one's bar, etc.

Herewith, my summer bar inventory:

Tequila (all 100 agave, of course):
Herradura
Corzo
1800 Reposado
Don Julio An~ejo
Cielo

Gin:
Beefeater

Whiskey:
big ass bottle of Jim Beam
big ass bottle of Crown Royal
Jack Daniels
Woodford Reserve
Maker's Mark
Johnny Walker Black
Jameson

Rum:
Bacardi silver
Mount Gay

Vodka:
lemon flavored Stoli
Grey Goose

Misc.
Pernod
Casanis Pastis
Romana Black Liquore di Sambuca
Averna Amero Siciliano
Morlacco Sangue liqueur
Carpano Punt e Mes
Martini and Rossi dry and sweet vermouths
Poires d'Anjou
Grand Marnier
Creme de Cassis

The opened bottle of red wine on the dining room table:
Norman Vineyards 2003 Paso Robles Zinfandel "The Monster"

In the icebox:
Pimm's No. 1
Lillet
Joseph Drouhin Chablis 2004
Robert Michele Muscadet 2001 Les Trois Fils
Samuel Adams Boston Lager
Moet & Chandon White Star n.v. champagne
Diet Coke
food

And now, a word of explanation. If anyone around here offers you a drink, check for dust on the bottle. Some of those bottles could be really, really old. Like a decade old. Now, I know the whole idea with booze is that it doesn't go bad. But still. You have been warned.

Why all the retro, vintage, antique (insert your favorite eBay euphemism for "dusty old") booze? Easy. Nobody will drink it, yet throwing out liquor is like getting rid of books. It simply can't be done, people!

But nobody here drinks vodka. I swear that bottle of lemon flavored vodka is older than my oldest child. The Grey Goose is for when my father-in-law visits. The rum inventory seems thin; I think we drank up the interesting rum, and then moved on. Rum was a summer 2004 phenomenon. Nobody around really drinks gin, except in a martini, and we aren't doing martinis lately. Nobody drinks whiskey around here in the summer, but That Stud Muffin I Married made a Sam's run lately and couldn't resist filling out the collection so as to be ready for fall.

So that explains about half of the inventory. Now for the rest.

The wine is my husband's business; if it's made of grapes, I'll drink it. The aperitifs are also his thing, circa summer, 2005. Except for the Lillet and the vermouth. (And again--I'd watch it if I were you. You can trust the vermouth, but I don't remember how long that Lillet has been in the icebox.) The anise-flavored things are also his; I find the idea of Good and Plenty on the rocks completely horrible. So is the tequila, which I only drink as a margarita. His summer 2006 drink is tequila on the rocks with a wedge of lime--hence all the tequila. He has to at least try anything that looks vaguely interesting.

My summer drink since whenever is either white wine or a vermouth cassis; sometimes a beer. Or Diet Coke, which truth be told, I'd just as soon be drinking a lot of the time.

P.S. It occurs to me that this entire post could be replaced with a photograph captioned "It's my husband's fault."

If this is TGIF's, where's my foofy drink?

Three things:

1. We got back from New Hampshire last night. I won't say our house is at sixes and sevens this morning--it's more like eights and nines. As in, I sent my daughter off to her Friday morning camp trip-to-the-beach with no bathing suit. I can't find it.*

2. Have you checked out Fidget's blog yet? Please do!

3. I don't have much to say today; I shot my wad over at Mamarazzi. And if you think I'm a crude customer over here? Over there, I'm writing about Paris Hilton. Check it out!

*She is wearing sunscreen, though. Because I only wanted to win Bad Mommy of the Month. Not Bad Mommy of the Decade.

In which I emerge ... briefly.

OK, things are getting almost dire around here. Today I haven't gone outside at all, except for about a 20 minute walk around the yard, to feed the mosquitoes, and as a little side venture, imagine what attractive--or even competent
--landscaping would do for our yard.

Other than that, I sat around reading gardening books. Reading about gardening is wonderful, and so much less exerting than actually doing it. Today I was reading Peter Beale's Roses and Katharine White's Onward and Upward in the Garden. Both are absolutely heavenly, and complementary, too; Katharine's opening essay on how gardeners sit around during the cold months going through seed and plant catalogs, designing impossibly beautiful gardens in their minds will prompt me to put her book down (because it has no luscious illustrations) to reopen Beale's Roses and drool over the pictures and descriptions. When I've had enough of the beautiful pictures, I head back to White's book.

Both of these writers impress me, and not just for the way they write. They both make me feel like the Little Match Girl, except that instead of peeking into rich people's windows, I'm peeking through the garden gate. Of the two, White impresses me more. I know I wouldn't be able to grow 80 percent of the roses Beales discusses. He's writing for an English reader, and the English, though excellent in many ways, do not have the character, the moral uprightness (or perhaps it's the masochism) to garden in the harsh conditions of the New World. They went around the world conquering it and feeling smugly superior to the soft, lazy tropical types they conquered--but they wouldn't find them here. "Yankee ingenuity" was a phrase originally invented to describe those poor souls who came over to this part of the world to try to grow food in a landscape characterized by stony soil, harsh weather, and murderous mosquitoes. And that's why I am in awe of White. White gardened in Maine, after all, and I bow to her abilities; I lack the knowledge, experience, money, professional staff, and--mostly--the ability to get out of my chair and do it.

But I do enjoy conjuring up my gardens in the sky.

But enough about me. Let's deal with real world issues, like people who pay large sums of Blog Explosion credits to rent a space here. This week's victim is Fidget, the author of Finding Yourself Despite Yourself. She's just written a hilarious entry on why her children eat popsicles in the bathtub. And finger paint with shaving cream. Go check it out--the pictures are priceless.

And now I'll leave you with some luscious illustrations of views, houses, gardens, and even flowers that are not mine, except in my imagination:

Call me "La Sonambula"

Which, if you didn't know it (and if I spelled it correctly) is Italian for "sleepwalker." (That's "sleep," not "street," she hastened to add.)

Anyway, that's what I am these days. A sleepwalker. Not because I'm sleep-deprived. It's because I'm a sleep glutton. I'm pigging out on slumber. I don't think I've gotten this much sleep since I first spawned, lo these many years ago. When I stay up late at night, I'm not feeling guilty; I'm selfishly watching as many old weird movies as I want--plus all the DVD extras--rejoicing in the fact that I can sleep as late as I want next morning.

We are a bit more than halfway through our New Hampshire visit, so I think it's fair to post a review. This is the greatest vacation of my entire life. My entire life, people. Precisely because we haven't done anything much. Which--because I'm a sloth--is the way I like it.

There are only two things I want from a vacation: the first is the chance to sleep late. The second is to not clean the kitchen. Everything else--shopping, sight-seeing, walking around looking at quaintness, drinking exotic drinks, eating exotic foods--is gravy.

This vacation has been perfect because we don't even have a kitchen to clean. Dinner is salads or sandwiches on paper plates and boom! done.

Suffice to say, we haven't done much. We manage to get out for some kind of outing every day, but it's modest. So, first day, we went to the nearest clam shack and had lobster rolls. Second day, we headed in to Portsmouth, went to Harpoon Willie's down by the water, had more lobster rolls and some locally-brewed beer, and to Annabelle's for yummy super-premium ice cream. Third day we drove up to the Yorks, had dinner at Foster's Clam Bake, and ice cream at The Scoop--I tried out the Grape-Nut Custard flavor (don't worry if this seems inexplicable--it's a Maine thing.)

Today we drove to Boston to have lunch with my in-laws. On the way to the Taiwan Cafe, we walked past the Swan Boats and duck statues in the Public Garden, and the Frog Pond in the Common. I know, I know--how strenuous. I must have burned a good 40 calories strolling around.

Otherwise, I'm sitting around reading P. G. Wodehouse, or one of the monstrous stacks of magazines I bought. Or playing Uno with my family. Or watching the Red Sox. Or watching DVDs.

As they say around heah, it's a wonduhful life.