1. The problem with obssessively entering every single Blog Explosion Battle of the Blogs is that you frequently get your ass kicked. At least, if you're me, you do.
2. I'm not here today, I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of Tom Cruise again. Actually, Suri. Well, to be exact ... Suri's ... oh, just go read it for yourself.
3. What are the odds that I'd get another gifted writer for a tenant? They are slim, at best. But I did. Jennifer, the author of this week's blog, In Place of Incandescence, (which I totally can't spell) has remarkable range, being at turns eloquent, witty, and wry. (Sounds like a law firm, doesn't it?) She's writing about New England autumns v. Chicago autumns, checking out plasticized peepees, and using Marguerite Duras as cheap substitute for Latoya Jackson or any of those pricey Psychic Hotline babes. Her blog being so much better than mine, I suggest you head over there and check it out. Click on the little thumbnail. Tell her Poppy sez she's da shizzle.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
I giga-love it.
I'd like to introduce you to my new love.
The Panasonic giga-herz googleplexing cordless phone.
See, after a few weeks of mysterious "low battery" warnings, I had finally had it with the old cordless. "Old crappy cordless phone with one lousy satellite handset, are you telling me that after a full month in the charging cradle, you still don't have enough juice? You are? Well, fie upon you, former favorite Christmas present!"
So I went to Costco and bought this sweet, sweet set of phones. This house is old, and there aren't that many telephone outlets. And the ones we have aren't located all that conveniently. My daughter? Who doesn't have a phone? Has an jack in her bedroom. I? Do not. And in the upstairs and downstairs hallways, the phone jacks are positioned under those old telephone niches that old house fanatics probably drool over. There aren't any electric outlets anywhere near the niches, so I put candlestick phones in them, which is historic-looking, but inconvenient.
But with my new set, I can have a phone next to my bed, and another one next to my favorite chair in the living room. And when the phone rings, I don't have to put down my book or magazine or laptop and haul ass to answer it. I can just sit there, gaining weight, and reach out and touch someone!
But wait! It gets better! All three handsets have speaker phones. How cool is that? Go ahead; put me on hold. I'll just keep sitting here, reading.
These phones also have audible caller ID. That one was new to me. Instead of having to go squint at the read-out, you sit around listening to the phone mispronounce very familiar names in its goofy computer-generated voice. It truncates long names, too.
So far I have heard it trying--and failing--to master the correct pronunciation of "The WOE-man's Atha-letic ..." and "The law firm of ..." and not managing to get to the end of the name. And you really need to hear what it does to the name of a famous department store: "See Ears and Row-mumble."
All I need now is to program it the way you can program cell phones with a unique ring for each person. That way my phone will let me know that "Your p-sy-cho hose-beast mother-in-law" is calling. Or "Pick up, you loser; it's Joke!"
The Panasonic giga-herz googleplexing cordless phone.
See, after a few weeks of mysterious "low battery" warnings, I had finally had it with the old cordless. "Old crappy cordless phone with one lousy satellite handset, are you telling me that after a full month in the charging cradle, you still don't have enough juice? You are? Well, fie upon you, former favorite Christmas present!"
So I went to Costco and bought this sweet, sweet set of phones. This house is old, and there aren't that many telephone outlets. And the ones we have aren't located all that conveniently. My daughter? Who doesn't have a phone? Has an jack in her bedroom. I? Do not. And in the upstairs and downstairs hallways, the phone jacks are positioned under those old telephone niches that old house fanatics probably drool over. There aren't any electric outlets anywhere near the niches, so I put candlestick phones in them, which is historic-looking, but inconvenient.
But with my new set, I can have a phone next to my bed, and another one next to my favorite chair in the living room. And when the phone rings, I don't have to put down my book or magazine or laptop and haul ass to answer it. I can just sit there, gaining weight, and reach out and touch someone!
But wait! It gets better! All three handsets have speaker phones. How cool is that? Go ahead; put me on hold. I'll just keep sitting here, reading.
These phones also have audible caller ID. That one was new to me. Instead of having to go squint at the read-out, you sit around listening to the phone mispronounce very familiar names in its goofy computer-generated voice. It truncates long names, too.
So far I have heard it trying--and failing--to master the correct pronunciation of "The WOE-man's Atha-letic ..." and "The law firm of ..." and not managing to get to the end of the name. And you really need to hear what it does to the name of a famous department store: "See Ears and Row-mumble."
All I need now is to program it the way you can program cell phones with a unique ring for each person. That way my phone will let me know that "Your p-sy-cho hose-beast mother-in-law" is calling. Or "Pick up, you loser; it's Joke!"
Monday, August 28, 2006
Confuse-a-coon.
So, the first day after we returned from a month out of town was one of rare putridity, at least, as regards the local aromas.
I came downstairs in the morning and my first thought was to clean out the turtle enclosure. Oh dear; Vodka the Turtle Sitter left about a ton of turtle kibble in there, and in burrowing about, Toby the turtle mixed the kibble into the chunks of orchid bark that cover the bottom of his enclosure. So the question was, could I clean the kibble out of the bark? A sink full of water, sphagnum moss, orchid bark, and turtle kibble later--mmmm, savory!--I discovered that I couldn't. I threw out the soggy turtle enclosure flora, cleaned the turtle mess out of the kitchen sink, and fed the turtle some diced banana.
Then it was on to the refrigerator to get milk for my morning tea. Oh dear. "Something inside / has died / and I can't hide / and I just can't fake it." So then there was the massive purge of the stuff in the refrigerator that had gone all smelly. Plus anything that was past its expiration date, or had become at all questionable.
So then all this malodorous matter, stuffed into kitchen-sized trash bags, needed to go into the garbage can outside. And that's when I realized that my bungee cords have disappeared--the bungee cords that are the difference between the garbage staying in the can where it belongs, and the local raccoon population training for the Raccoon Olympics in my driveway, knocking lids off garbage cans, rolling cans down the hill, bursting open plastic trash bags, and strewing the contents all over my driveway. So that when the neighbors go out to fetch the morning newspaper, they discover that the Cubs have lost again, and: I like PG Tips teabags, my son likes ribs, my daughter doesn't eat her bread crusts, and nobody eats eggshells. Not even raccoons.
Accordingly, a few minutes ago I was out back in the pouring rain (did I mention that in addition to today's other joys, it rained all day?) jury-rigging a Raccoon Repelling device with chains and twisty ties and telephone cord and a couple of bull clips. Let us hope that the washing bears (did you know that the term for raccoon is "washing bear" in almost every language except English? Neither did I. Isn't Wikipedia grand?) are frustrated in their attempts to get at that richly aromatic melange, that sewage-y Sargasso Sea in my garbage can. And get their furry butts over to someone else's garbage can to dig through someone else's garbage. For a change.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
OK, here's the good news
I got up at 3:30 a.m. in New Hampshire, and was in the car heading to Newtopia, Illinois by 4:30.
We survived 17 hours in the car and waaaaay too much coffee and fast food, and the turtle is in fine shape.
The bad news is that when I walked into my kitchen, I was crushed by the stack of catalogs and magazines that had accumulated.
I foresee a busy day tomorrow.
We survived 17 hours in the car and waaaaay too much coffee and fast food, and the turtle is in fine shape.
The bad news is that when I walked into my kitchen, I was crushed by the stack of catalogs and magazines that had accumulated.
I foresee a busy day tomorrow.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
You know the jokes where the guy always has good news and bad news?
This morning I did my last volunteer shift at the Moffatt-Ladd house.
Then I went on a last shopping trip down Bow Street, ostensibly to look for a gift for my friend Vodka, who has spent the month turtle-sitting my son's turtle. I bought her an olive green t-shirt and one of Sweet Grass Farms Fragrance Sticks sets. I picked the New England Woods scent. It's a heavenly blend of evergreen/balsam/pine smells.
I also bought a big navy-blue hoodie that says Portsmouth. For me.
Then I went home to pack. It's 67 degrees. We're leaving tomorrow at 4:00 a.m. to do the 17-hour drive back to Newtopia. School starts on Tuesday.
What's the good news?
Then I went on a last shopping trip down Bow Street, ostensibly to look for a gift for my friend Vodka, who has spent the month turtle-sitting my son's turtle. I bought her an olive green t-shirt and one of Sweet Grass Farms Fragrance Sticks sets. I picked the New England Woods scent. It's a heavenly blend of evergreen/balsam/pine smells.
I also bought a big navy-blue hoodie that says Portsmouth. For me.
Then I went home to pack. It's 67 degrees. We're leaving tomorrow at 4:00 a.m. to do the 17-hour drive back to Newtopia. School starts on Tuesday.
What's the good news?
Friday, August 25, 2006
When the questions outnumber the answers, it's time to go home.
1. How does New Hampshire get away with not having a sales tax?
2. What's with all the Subarus?
3. Is it possible to get tired of lobster?
4. People around here appear to eat an enormous amount of super-premium ice cream. Why aren't they fatter?
5. Why are families, who appear to demand long-term, unquestioning, unswerving love, so much ruder and harder to get along with than people who would, if asked to describe their relationship with me, employ the phrase "we're just good friends?" I'm just asking.
6. I have a clothes dryer I like to call Michael Drayton (because I'm a smartypants former English Major). Here's the deal: everything seems to be jogging along quite comfortably, and then without any warning whatsoever, the dryer breaks up with me--deciding, apparently randomly (although it might have something to do with the phases of the moon or its hormones or some such) "Nay, I have done: you get no more of me." It then stops working, and sits there, holding a load of hot wet clothes, looking sulky. Is this as rare a situation as I think?
7. If the answer to Question 6 is "yes," then how lucky am I to own what is perhaps the only Michael Drayton dryer in existence?
8. What, if anything, would its value be, if I decided to eBay it?
9. Is this why my daughter never has any clean underpants?
10. Is the Red Sox recent losing streak my fault? Or should I blame the dryer?
2. What's with all the Subarus?
3. Is it possible to get tired of lobster?
4. People around here appear to eat an enormous amount of super-premium ice cream. Why aren't they fatter?
5. Why are families, who appear to demand long-term, unquestioning, unswerving love, so much ruder and harder to get along with than people who would, if asked to describe their relationship with me, employ the phrase "we're just good friends?" I'm just asking.
6. I have a clothes dryer I like to call Michael Drayton (because I'm a smartypants former English Major). Here's the deal: everything seems to be jogging along quite comfortably, and then without any warning whatsoever, the dryer breaks up with me--deciding, apparently randomly (although it might have something to do with the phases of the moon or its hormones or some such) "Nay, I have done: you get no more of me." It then stops working, and sits there, holding a load of hot wet clothes, looking sulky. Is this as rare a situation as I think?
7. If the answer to Question 6 is "yes," then how lucky am I to own what is perhaps the only Michael Drayton dryer in existence?
8. What, if anything, would its value be, if I decided to eBay it?
9. Is this why my daughter never has any clean underpants?
10. Is the Red Sox recent losing streak my fault? Or should I blame the dryer?
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Foodie Trends in Barcelona
Actually, this isn't going to be about foodie trends in Barcelona. I have no idea why anyone would think that this blog would be the place to look for information on foodie trends anywhere at all--let alone in Barcelona--but that is the single most popular non-perverted search phrase that brings people here.
So I thought I would start things off this evening by setting the record straight. While it is possible that there are many Foodie Trends in Barcelona, there aren't any here. For example, tonight I ate lobster for dinner--Homarus Americanus, that is, nothing Spanish about it--with salad, bread, and a slice of chocolate cake that I baked because it was my sister's birthday.
And that's what I really want to talk about, you Barcelonian foodie trend poseurs.
My sister-in-law and nephew came by for a visit this afternoon, and literally minutes after they left my mother showed up, and then my brother, and finally my sister and her entourage. And it was loud. LOUD, I tell you. My brother? Honestly, he drowns out every other conversation in the room. So everyone gets louder and louder so as to be heard. And the result is that my ears are running blood.So now, we will have blogging for the deaf. AND NOW, WE WILL HAVE BLOGGING FOR THE DEAF.
And Blackbird wants to see my toothbrush holder. AND BLACKBIRD ... oh forget it. FORGET IT.
New paragraph.
OK, here it is ... not my picture, of course. It's stolen from drug- store.com. But this is what I use. The Sonicare Elite Pro whatever, with the very fast brushing, and the humming, and the beeps, and the toothpaste slobbered down your front because how do you make it stop so you can get rid of all the foam it makes?
I figured, hey, I keep it in its stand, so why bother to take a picture?
But I'm not lazy. I'M DEAF.
So I thought I would start things off this evening by setting the record straight. While it is possible that there are many Foodie Trends in Barcelona, there aren't any here. For example, tonight I ate lobster for dinner--Homarus Americanus, that is, nothing Spanish about it--with salad, bread, and a slice of chocolate cake that I baked because it was my sister's birthday.
And that's what I really want to talk about, you Barcelonian foodie trend poseurs.
My sister-in-law and nephew came by for a visit this afternoon, and literally minutes after they left my mother showed up, and then my brother, and finally my sister and her entourage. And it was loud. LOUD, I tell you. My brother? Honestly, he drowns out every other conversation in the room. So everyone gets louder and louder so as to be heard. And the result is that my ears are running blood.So now, we will have blogging for the deaf. AND NOW, WE WILL HAVE BLOGGING FOR THE DEAF.
And Blackbird wants to see my toothbrush holder. AND BLACKBIRD ... oh forget it. FORGET IT.
New paragraph.
OK, here it is ... not my picture, of course. It's stolen from drug- store.com. But this is what I use. The Sonicare Elite Pro whatever, with the very fast brushing, and the humming, and the beeps, and the toothpaste slobbered down your front because how do you make it stop so you can get rid of all the foam it makes?
I figured, hey, I keep it in its stand, so why bother to take a picture?
But I'm not lazy. I'M DEAF.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
In a Granite State
This morning the granite guys came and installed the kitchen counters. They are beautiful, just gawjous, and I took pictures, but I'm too lazy to go find my camera and connect it.
I had a break from visiting relatives today. That was good.
I did another volunteer shift at the Moffatt-Ladd house. I also went a little crazy in their gift shop, which was fun.
I tried to watch that Zorro movie with Catherine Hobag-Jones, but I couldn't hack it. Maybe if I were eight years old and hadn't already been exposed to every single hero-with-a-secret identity cliche, not to mention other Zorro movies, not to mention The Count of Monte Cristo and Star Wars and The Karate Kid, maybe I could have stuck it out. But all those cliches, and Catherine Hobag, too? Not even the sight of Antonio Banderas with his shirt off could overcome my nausea.
Yes, I have nothing much to say tonight. Do yourselves a favor and check out Mamarazzi. Or my tenant. Have you checked out Mommy Off the Record
yet? No? What do I hav to do--bust up your laptop?*
* Not an empty threat at all, since I just destroyed another one. That makes three. And the third one was a Sharp, running Windows, so none of your cracks about Apple computers, Joke.
I had a break from visiting relatives today. That was good.
I did another volunteer shift at the Moffatt-Ladd house. I also went a little crazy in their gift shop, which was fun.
I tried to watch that Zorro movie with Catherine Hobag-Jones, but I couldn't hack it. Maybe if I were eight years old and hadn't already been exposed to every single hero-with-a-secret identity cliche, not to mention other Zorro movies, not to mention The Count of Monte Cristo and Star Wars and The Karate Kid, maybe I could have stuck it out. But all those cliches, and Catherine Hobag, too? Not even the sight of Antonio Banderas with his shirt off could overcome my nausea.
Yes, I have nothing much to say tonight. Do yourselves a favor and check out Mamarazzi. Or my tenant. Have you checked out Mommy Off the Record
yet? No? What do I hav to do--bust up your laptop?*
* Not an empty threat at all, since I just destroyed another one. That makes three. And the third one was a Sharp, running Windows, so none of your cracks about Apple computers, Joke.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Mommy off the Record
See the little yellow box over there? That's Mommy off the Record's blog. And may I just say that I picked this blog for the writing. Not the color. See how it's not red?
So you know it's quality blogging. Because I don't really like yellow very much.
Anyway, Mommy Off the Record has been renting from me for almost a week, and she has been really, really patient while she waited for me to pimp her blog. So guess what? I clicked over there, read her entry entitled "Make of Me a Sanctuary" and practically cried like a baby. Totally verklempt was I.
Oh, and The Ten Commandments (of Blogging Sanely) was a great read--wry, gracefully written, with an inner wisdom that belied its wise-ass brattiness. (Or something like that. It's late, OK?)
I mean it. This is a great blog. I'm adding it to my blogroll right now. And not the high-tech click-on-the-blogrolling-button way, but the low-tech, open-my-template and-start-farting-around way. So--again--you know this is a quality blog.
So please, click the little yellow box. Give Mommy Off the Record big clicky love.
So you know it's quality blogging. Because I don't really like yellow very much.
Anyway, Mommy Off the Record has been renting from me for almost a week, and she has been really, really patient while she waited for me to pimp her blog. So guess what? I clicked over there, read her entry entitled "Make of Me a Sanctuary" and practically cried like a baby. Totally verklempt was I.
Oh, and The Ten Commandments (of Blogging Sanely) was a great read--wry, gracefully written, with an inner wisdom that belied its wise-ass brattiness. (Or something like that. It's late, OK?)
I mean it. This is a great blog. I'm adding it to my blogroll right now. And not the high-tech click-on-the-blogrolling-button way, but the low-tech, open-my-template and-start-farting-around way. So--again--you know this is a quality blog.
So please, click the little yellow box. Give Mommy Off the Record big clicky love.
In which, Humpty Dumpty-like, I invent a new meaning for a word
I love my family. I even love my husband's family. Sort of. But this coming week we are having visit after visit, and I. have. had. it.
Last night my brother, my sister, and her entourage joined us for dinner. (For "entourage" read "spouse or spouse-like person, plus all offspring."
Talk talk talk laugh laugh laugh, big fun, right?
Today my father-in-law showed up to spend the day and night with us.
Thursday my mother, my other brother and his entourage, and my sister and her entourage are coming here to celebrate my sister's birthday.
On Friday we're going out to dinner with two old friends and their entourages.
On Saturday I pack. And Sunday I drive back to Newtopia.
People, where were you for the last three weeks when I was in the vacation doldrums and it was--maybe--a little too peace-and-quiet around here?
Now just go away. Now. Because when you weren't visiting me, I went to the library and got many books. And DVDs. And I want to finish them. Especially I want to finish reading this:
I had to take and board the frigate Library to win this prize. Avast, ye scurvy lubberly relatives, and a pox on your entourages! I've got reading to do.
Last night my brother, my sister, and her entourage joined us for dinner. (For "entourage" read "spouse or spouse-like person, plus all offspring."
Talk talk talk laugh laugh laugh, big fun, right?
Today my father-in-law showed up to spend the day and night with us.
Thursday my mother, my other brother and his entourage, and my sister and her entourage are coming here to celebrate my sister's birthday.
On Friday we're going out to dinner with two old friends and their entourages.
On Saturday I pack. And Sunday I drive back to Newtopia.
People, where were you for the last three weeks when I was in the vacation doldrums and it was--maybe--a little too peace-and-quiet around here?
Now just go away. Now. Because when you weren't visiting me, I went to the library and got many books. And DVDs. And I want to finish them. Especially I want to finish reading this:
I had to take and board the frigate Library to win this prize. Avast, ye scurvy lubberly relatives, and a pox on your entourages! I've got reading to do.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Short entries got ... no reason to ... short entries got ...
no reason to ... short entries got ... no reason to live.
Except that my entries will probably be short for a while. Because my family has discovered me. Yes, your Poppy, that diamond in the rough who has been in New England for three weeks? Has become popular. With the people who have known her longer than anyone else.
So tonight That Stud Muffin I Married broiled steaks and made rotini with pesto and steamed brocolli and my sister brought over a tomato pie and assorted chocolates and we ate long and well. And drank, too. And talked about stuff that you're all too young to remember, like the 1969 Rolling Stones concert my sister took me to for my 12th birthday ...
yes, go ahead and do the math. I'm actually that old. And it's OK, really. Except for the incontinence. (j/k ... the bladder is fine.)
But the really amazing thing? And my sister and I were in total agreement here--our mother let us go. On the subway. To Boston Garden. To a Stones concert. And we were? 11 and 13.
Would you let your daughters do that? Of course not. Neither would I.
At any rate, I'm going to be very busy during the coming week, because my family has realized that I'm heading back to Newtopia on Sunday. So it's dinner here, lunch there, and I try not to bitch too much, but WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU PEOPLE DURING THE LAST TWO WEEKS?
p.s. My sister asked me what blogging was. So I showed her this. For all I know, she's going to be a regular reader. So all together now: "Hi Sally!"
Except that my entries will probably be short for a while. Because my family has discovered me. Yes, your Poppy, that diamond in the rough who has been in New England for three weeks? Has become popular. With the people who have known her longer than anyone else.
So tonight That Stud Muffin I Married broiled steaks and made rotini with pesto and steamed brocolli and my sister brought over a tomato pie and assorted chocolates and we ate long and well. And drank, too. And talked about stuff that you're all too young to remember, like the 1969 Rolling Stones concert my sister took me to for my 12th birthday ...
yes, go ahead and do the math. I'm actually that old. And it's OK, really. Except for the incontinence. (j/k ... the bladder is fine.)
But the really amazing thing? And my sister and I were in total agreement here--our mother let us go. On the subway. To Boston Garden. To a Stones concert. And we were? 11 and 13.
Would you let your daughters do that? Of course not. Neither would I.
At any rate, I'm going to be very busy during the coming week, because my family has realized that I'm heading back to Newtopia on Sunday. So it's dinner here, lunch there, and I try not to bitch too much, but WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU PEOPLE DURING THE LAST TWO WEEKS?
p.s. My sister asked me what blogging was. So I showed her this. For all I know, she's going to be a regular reader. So all together now: "Hi Sally!"
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Suckways
The weather is reminding me that my summer vacation is almost over. This morning it was pouring rain. I woke up to loud claps of thunder, sheets of rain crashing down on the skylights--the whole bit.
My in-laws were visiting, and we had planned on going out and mooching around town. Except in the pouring rain, this was not so appealing. Instead we went to a local pub where we ate a heavily fried, cheesed-up, chip-accompanied, dessert-laden lunch, which seemed to suit the weather, and then splashed over to Bow Street to visit Tug Boat Alley, because they sell the best sweatshirts in town.
I'm wearing one right now.
The in-laws came back and hung out with us, but honestly, there is only so much time I want to spend talking to my in-laws. It being rainy, I thought it would be a good idea to talk my father-in-law, husband, and son into moving a very heavy particle-board bookshelf up the stairs from the dining room to my husband's study. And I, rather than helping to move the bookshelf, could document this historic event with my groovy new camera.
Three generations of Buxoms hard at work.
Then a mere mouthful for dinner, because of the fried cheese for lunch. And then? A bottle of wine and the chance to watch Sideways.
Well. My title expresses my feelings about that.
p.s. It's finally cool enough to burn candles. Here are some on the mantel, along with strands of seashell-shaped Christmas tree lights.
Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.
My in-laws were visiting, and we had planned on going out and mooching around town. Except in the pouring rain, this was not so appealing. Instead we went to a local pub where we ate a heavily fried, cheesed-up, chip-accompanied, dessert-laden lunch, which seemed to suit the weather, and then splashed over to Bow Street to visit Tug Boat Alley, because they sell the best sweatshirts in town.
The in-laws came back and hung out with us, but honestly, there is only so much time I want to spend talking to my in-laws. It being rainy, I thought it would be a good idea to talk my father-in-law, husband, and son into moving a very heavy particle-board bookshelf up the stairs from the dining room to my husband's study. And I, rather than helping to move the bookshelf, could document this historic event with my groovy new camera.
Three generations of Buxoms hard at work.
Then a mere mouthful for dinner, because of the fried cheese for lunch. And then? A bottle of wine and the chance to watch Sideways.
Well. My title expresses my feelings about that.
p.s. It's finally cool enough to burn candles. Here are some on the mantel, along with strands of seashell-shaped Christmas tree lights.
Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.
Purple Haze
All you mothers of little guys out there, enjoy your baby blue nursery while it lasts. Because when your son gets older, interior decoration become much more of a challenge.
See, once they outgrow the comic-book character themed stuff, there are two themes for decorating boys' rooms: sports and war. Either you decorate your son's rooms with baseballs, footballs, soccer balls, tennis balls, or I've-got-big-balls. Or you use camouflage. There is nothing else. If you want to decorate your son's bedroom in anything other than Ode to Testosterone, you're S. out of L. And probably gay.
And now, for color choices: You get navy blue. Or khaki. If you like anything else, you are gay. And so is your son.
But we are rugged individualists here in Buxomland. First of all, what's wrong with being gay? We're all gay here. I'm a total dyke, my husband is a Nancy-boy, my daughter plays Femme to my Butch, and my son? Well, his favorite Teletubby was Tinky Winky. And his favorite color is purple. So he must be gay.
Did you know that at the mass market level, purple is a girl's color? I didn't either, until I started looking for sheets and curtains for my son's bedroom.
The best I could do was a set of purple and white tie-dyed sheets and duvet cover ... and a heathery purple flotaki rugs. I was going for a puka-shell wearing skater boy/gamer vibe. Because although my son neither surfs nor skateboards, he does play a lot of Nintendo games ... on his purpleGayCube GameCube.
So I set up the room, and my son and the rest of my alternative family were pleased with the effect. But. If you are an indifferent housekeeper, DO NOT BUY A FLOTAKI RUG. They shed. And shed. And shed and shed andshedandshedandshedandshed. My children, who went out for Halloween last year dressed as Bart and Lisa Simpson, will be going out this year as as Patty and Selma Bouvier.
I've got it all worked out. I can make their wigs out of the purple fluff that is taking over my house.
See, once they outgrow the comic-book character themed stuff, there are two themes for decorating boys' rooms: sports and war. Either you decorate your son's rooms with baseballs, footballs, soccer balls, tennis balls, or I've-got-big-balls. Or you use camouflage. There is nothing else. If you want to decorate your son's bedroom in anything other than Ode to Testosterone, you're S. out of L. And probably gay.
And now, for color choices: You get navy blue. Or khaki. If you like anything else, you are gay. And so is your son.
But we are rugged individualists here in Buxomland. First of all, what's wrong with being gay? We're all gay here. I'm a total dyke, my husband is a Nancy-boy, my daughter plays Femme to my Butch, and my son? Well, his favorite Teletubby was Tinky Winky. And his favorite color is purple. So he must be gay.
Did you know that at the mass market level, purple is a girl's color? I didn't either, until I started looking for sheets and curtains for my son's bedroom.
The best I could do was a set of purple and white tie-dyed sheets and duvet cover ... and a heathery purple flotaki rugs. I was going for a puka-shell wearing skater boy/gamer vibe. Because although my son neither surfs nor skateboards, he does play a lot of Nintendo games ... on his purple
So I set up the room, and my son and the rest of my alternative family were pleased with the effect. But. If you are an indifferent housekeeper, DO NOT BUY A FLOTAKI RUG. They shed. And shed. And shed and shed andshedandshedandshedandshed. My children, who went out for Halloween last year dressed as Bart and Lisa Simpson, will be going out this year as as Patty and Selma Bouvier.
I've got it all worked out. I can make their wigs out of the purple fluff that is taking over my house.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Am I not Mommy? I am Devo.
This is it. It's finally dawned on me that we won't be in New Hampshire much longer. Before we know it, we'll be in the van, heading back to Newtopia and a new school year.
So there's no time like the present to get up early and bike over to Portsmouth to have a look at the water as the sun comes up,
and take a peek at the Wentworth-Gardner house.
And I couldn't be more happy that my husband had the chance to do so while I was sleeping late this morning.
Because as far as I'm concerned, that's the evil side of back-to-school. The school supplies are bought and paid for. New clothes? Hey, no problem; they'll just wear what they're wearing now. Packing lunches? Homework? Piles of paper taking over every inch of my house? I can deal with all that.
What really bothers me is that come August 28th, we're all going to have to get up at the crack of dawn every morning--not just my husband. Which? Sucks.
During this vacation, I've devolved to my normal circadian rhythms. I'm living the way I would live if I didn't have to worry about work (what work?) or children (what children?) I stay up until 3:00 a.m. and sleeping until 10:00 or so in the morning.
OK, so I'm a total sloth. This explains why the best jobs I ever had were the most loserish ones--the waitress/bartender gigs. They suited my bass-ackward notions of when to go to bed at night.
But that was when I was in college. My first office job after college almost killed me. I mean it; I was nearly dead every morning. I had to be there at 8:00, dressed up and ready to answer the phones. I'd sit at my desk and glumly pump coffee, and woe betide anyone who spoke to me before 10:15 or so.
So here I am, realizing that pretty soon I'll be getting up at 6:30 every morning. To get my kids to school at 8:00.
Pardon me while I sob. (Albeit slothfully.)
So there's no time like the present to get up early and bike over to Portsmouth to have a look at the water as the sun comes up,
and take a peek at the Wentworth-Gardner house.
And I couldn't be more happy that my husband had the chance to do so while I was sleeping late this morning.
Because as far as I'm concerned, that's the evil side of back-to-school. The school supplies are bought and paid for. New clothes? Hey, no problem; they'll just wear what they're wearing now. Packing lunches? Homework? Piles of paper taking over every inch of my house? I can deal with all that.
What really bothers me is that come August 28th, we're all going to have to get up at the crack of dawn every morning--not just my husband. Which? Sucks.
During this vacation, I've devolved to my normal circadian rhythms. I'm living the way I would live if I didn't have to worry about work (what work?) or children (what children?) I stay up until 3:00 a.m. and sleeping until 10:00 or so in the morning.
OK, so I'm a total sloth. This explains why the best jobs I ever had were the most loserish ones--the waitress/bartender gigs. They suited my bass-ackward notions of when to go to bed at night.
But that was when I was in college. My first office job after college almost killed me. I mean it; I was nearly dead every morning. I had to be there at 8:00, dressed up and ready to answer the phones. I'd sit at my desk and glumly pump coffee, and woe betide anyone who spoke to me before 10:15 or so.
So here I am, realizing that pretty soon I'll be getting up at 6:30 every morning. To get my kids to school at 8:00.
Pardon me while I sob. (Albeit slothfully.)
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Uptown Girl
Today we headed into town and mooched around for a while. I needed to get something out of the library* and we needed to pick up a book that I had ordered for my daughter.** And then we decided to hang around one of the many cafes to read or play Nintendo GBA, as the case may be, until it was time to go get sushi.
A little china figure tried to sell me a bracelet
A little china figure tried to sell me a bracelet
And the bookstore tried to tempt me with non-essentials.
Philip Roth?
Camille Paglia?
I don't think so.
I knew what I really needed:
See? I'm totally going to master this whole blogging thing.
* Post Captain by Patrick O'Brian, the second in the Aubrey/Maturin novels. I've tried two libraries now, and neither had it, except on cassette tape. And guess who doesn't have a cassette player? Except in my car. I can hear my friends now: "What did you do on your summer vacation, Poppy?" "I sat in a parked car in the driveway and listened to a book on tape." I DON'T THINK SO.
** Bart Simpson's Guide to Life. Her third copy. She goes through them the way I go through laptops.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Stick, stick, beat dog.
Before I explain that admittedly rather obscure reference, I have to interrupt myself because I just realized about five minutes ago that I'm one week late for celebrating the second anniversary of this blog.
Yes, people; it has been two years. To think that I've been married for 18 years, and been a mother for 11 years, and known how to drive for 15 years, and how to swim for 44 years, and yet. I have only known how to blog for two years.
And of course, there is some doubt as to whether I've actually learned how to blog correctly. But anyway. Blogging has changed my life.
What better way to celebrate than by uploading ... kitchen pictures! Yes! Because we all love to gawk at other people's interior decorating mishaps.
As in, you thought my template was ugly? Keep reading.
So what follows is the Before and the During, but not the After of our kitchen re-do. See, the floors aren't finished, and until the floors are finished the refrigerator will have to stay in the dining room. (Why? I don't know why. Ripping out kitchens is not something I do all that often, and I tend to just accept whatever idiotic-sounding line of crap my contractor dishes out.) And, OK, the walls are primed but not painted. But! Most important! The counters aren't installed yet, and the sink can't be installed until they're installed. And the dishwasher can't be installed until the sink is installed, and piggy won't go over the stile and I can't get home tonight. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, you should have clicked that link up there. Look, I write the stuff. I don't expect to have to read it for you, too.)
So back to the kitchen. There are these big empty spaces where major appliances will be going, and it's not all that functional yet. But I thought you deserved a treat, seeing as how some of you have been perusing this all-you-can-read buffet of underseasoned tripe for over. two. years.
The "Before" view from the living room to the far wall with the broom closet, refrigerator, and door to the mudroom:
And now, the "After" view:
Looking in the opposite direction, Before:
And now:
Hey look--the contractor installed some children.
Thank you and goodnight!
Yes, people; it has been two years. To think that I've been married for 18 years, and been a mother for 11 years, and known how to drive for 15 years, and how to swim for 44 years, and yet. I have only known how to blog for two years.
And of course, there is some doubt as to whether I've actually learned how to blog correctly. But anyway. Blogging has changed my life.
What better way to celebrate than by uploading ... kitchen pictures! Yes! Because we all love to gawk at other people's interior decorating mishaps.
As in, you thought my template was ugly? Keep reading.
So what follows is the Before and the During, but not the After of our kitchen re-do. See, the floors aren't finished, and until the floors are finished the refrigerator will have to stay in the dining room. (Why? I don't know why. Ripping out kitchens is not something I do all that often, and I tend to just accept whatever idiotic-sounding line of crap my contractor dishes out.) And, OK, the walls are primed but not painted. But! Most important! The counters aren't installed yet, and the sink can't be installed until they're installed. And the dishwasher can't be installed until the sink is installed, and piggy won't go over the stile and I can't get home tonight. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, you should have clicked that link up there. Look, I write the stuff. I don't expect to have to read it for you, too.)
So back to the kitchen. There are these big empty spaces where major appliances will be going, and it's not all that functional yet. But I thought you deserved a treat, seeing as how some of you have been perusing this all-you-can-read buffet of underseasoned tripe for over. two. years.
The "Before" view from the living room to the far wall with the broom closet, refrigerator, and door to the mudroom:
And now, the "After" view:
Looking in the opposite direction, Before:
And now:
Hey look--the contractor installed some children.
Thank you and goodnight!
Poppy's Shop
Today I became Poppy Buxom, shopgirl. I worked in the gift shop at the Moffatt-Ladd house. I sat here
and sold these
and these
and especially these.
While I waited for customers to show up, I looked out the windows.
And explored the storage closet.
A whole box of tricorns! Be still my heart.
A couple came in. They got married on Saturday. When the bride signed the guestbook, she said it was the first time she had signed her new name. They were on their honeymoon. She bought a souvenir tree ornament for their first Christmas tree.
They were in their seventies.
I let them in free.
I would have taken a picture, but maybe that wouldn't have been appropriate. After all, we were the historic sights; they were the tourists.
After my shift was over, I took pictures in the garden.
and sold these
and these
and especially these.
While I waited for customers to show up, I looked out the windows.
And explored the storage closet.
A whole box of tricorns! Be still my heart.
A couple came in. They got married on Saturday. When the bride signed the guestbook, she said it was the first time she had signed her new name. They were on their honeymoon. She bought a souvenir tree ornament for their first Christmas tree.
They were in their seventies.
I let them in free.
I would have taken a picture, but maybe that wouldn't have been appropriate. After all, we were the historic sights; they were the tourists.
After my shift was over, I took pictures in the garden.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Tugboat Poppy
There are no words
just pictures.
Because tugboat rides
leave me speechless.
(Thanks and a tip of the hat to all my pals who suggested I use Flickr.)
just pictures.
Because tugboat rides
leave me speechless.
(Thanks and a tip of the hat to all my pals who suggested I use Flickr.)
Monday, August 14, 2006
Little Miss Buxom and Young Master Buxom
OK, Flickr is working, even if Blogger still refuses to upload my pictures. So here's a picture. But almost no words. Because I don't know what to say about a perfect day with my kids, a dear friend and her kids, taking a tugboat ride up and down the Piscataqua River past lighthouses, old forts, an old white hotel, marinas full of boats, lobster traps, and the Portsmouth Naval shipyard.
Except that it was amazing.
Except that it was amazing.
OK, my patience has. finally. snapped.
What the FUCK is wrong with Blogger? I've been trying to upload the same God-damned photographs of my adorable children on a picturesque tugboat cruise in Portsmouth Harbor for five. fucking. days. And I have HAD it.
I have wasted billions and billions of nanoseconds trying to accomplish this simple, simple task.
Well, guess what? I realize that you, internet, do NOT come here to listen to me swear. No, you are not all about my pissed off pottymouth rantings and ravings. So usually I keep it somewhat under control. I have, after all, a sense of ... well, for lack of a better word, I'll call it decorum, even though that sounds too prim. But decorum is what causes the shittyfucks to dry up in my mouth like a zit under an assload of Clearisil when there are blue-haired old ladies present.
And there are ladies present--if not here, somewhere out there on the internet. Right? Some of you are ladies, right? Or maybe some of you are those appalling hypocritical sexist tea-bagging asswipes who think they can swear as much as they motherfucking want, but I can't fucking swear at all, because I'm a girl, gonad it, and do I kiss my mother with that mouth, yadda yadda douchebaggery-unto-infinity? And usually, I clean up my mouth around dingleberries of that stamp, too, even though I think they're idiots.
But Blogger is totally pissing me off. Blogger deserves to be used as a blue whale's barrier contraceptive. Or worse.
I have wasted billions and billions of nanoseconds trying to accomplish this simple, simple task.
Well, guess what? I realize that you, internet, do NOT come here to listen to me swear. No, you are not all about my pissed off pottymouth rantings and ravings. So usually I keep it somewhat under control. I have, after all, a sense of ... well, for lack of a better word, I'll call it decorum, even though that sounds too prim. But decorum is what causes the shittyfucks to dry up in my mouth like a zit under an assload of Clearisil when there are blue-haired old ladies present.
And there are ladies present--if not here, somewhere out there on the internet. Right? Some of you are ladies, right? Or maybe some of you are those appalling hypocritical sexist tea-bagging asswipes who think they can swear as much as they motherfucking want, but I can't fucking swear at all, because I'm a girl, gonad it, and do I kiss my mother with that mouth, yadda yadda douchebaggery-unto-infinity? And usually, I clean up my mouth around dingleberries of that stamp, too, even though I think they're idiots.
But Blogger is totally pissing me off. Blogger deserves to be used as a blue whale's barrier contraceptive. Or worse.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
"Get your patchouli stink out of my house."
In a perfect world, a woman's1 husband and children could join her in beating the living crap out of her ageing hippy former-Hare-Krishna, vegetarian, Hindu, yoga-pose-doing-in-the-living-room mother-in-law.
What I'm imagining is a full-on Rodney King style beating, ending with the woman pulling a 10,000 BTU air conditioning unit out of the window and heaving it onto her mother-in-law's face.2
Unfortunately, this is not a perfect world.
However, she flies out tomorrow. So there's that.
1 I name no names.
2 Yes, I stole the whole scene from High Fidelity. Sue me.
What I'm imagining is a full-on Rodney King style beating, ending with the woman pulling a 10,000 BTU air conditioning unit out of the window and heaving it onto her mother-in-law's face.2
Unfortunately, this is not a perfect world.
However, she flies out tomorrow. So there's that.
1 I name no names.
2 Yes, I stole the whole scene from High Fidelity. Sue me.
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
Guests 4, Buxoms 1
Today was the end of a fabulous two-day visit.
My friend L. and her son and daughter stayed with us. They were the first non-family overnight guests we've had here, and in case you're thinking of inviting yourselves, I should let you know that they set a damned high standard for others to follow. They showed up with two pounds of fudge, five or six games (Scrabble, Connect Four, Barrel of Monkeys, Texas Hold 'Em, and Yahtzee) took us out to dinner, and treated us to a boat ride.
We? Provided a lobster dinner for Liz (her kids got stuck with hamburgers) a couple of beds with saggy mattresses, internet access, waffles and bacon for breakfast, and oh yeah, I brought them to the beach.
So far the score is Guests 4, Buxoms 1.
The only drawback is that I talked myself hoarse. Yes, although I am generally known far and wide for my taciturnity, I was unusually talkative when L. was visiting. And now I have a kind of low-grade, half-assed variety of laryngitis, meaning that all I want to do is drink lots of fluid and read the batch of library books I brought home this afternoon. (Yes, that makes ten library books. I'm a tax payer and I demand my rights! After all, the state motto is Live free or die, and I take it seriously.)
Oh, and I ordered a new camera the other day--a Nikon D70s--and showed up today. I'd show you all kinds of new pictures except its battery needs charging.
And so does mine. Back to my books. And my drinking.
My friend L. and her son and daughter stayed with us. They were the first non-family overnight guests we've had here, and in case you're thinking of inviting yourselves, I should let you know that they set a damned high standard for others to follow. They showed up with two pounds of fudge, five or six games (Scrabble, Connect Four, Barrel of Monkeys, Texas Hold 'Em, and Yahtzee) took us out to dinner, and treated us to a boat ride.
We? Provided a lobster dinner for Liz (her kids got stuck with hamburgers) a couple of beds with saggy mattresses, internet access, waffles and bacon for breakfast, and oh yeah, I brought them to the beach.
So far the score is Guests 4, Buxoms 1.
The only drawback is that I talked myself hoarse. Yes, although I am generally known far and wide for my taciturnity, I was unusually talkative when L. was visiting. And now I have a kind of low-grade, half-assed variety of laryngitis, meaning that all I want to do is drink lots of fluid and read the batch of library books I brought home this afternoon. (Yes, that makes ten library books. I'm a tax payer and I demand my rights! After all, the state motto is Live free or die, and I take it seriously.)
Oh, and I ordered a new camera the other day--a Nikon D70s--and showed up today. I'd show you all kinds of new pictures except its battery needs charging.
And so does mine. Back to my books. And my drinking.
Saturday, August 5, 2006
Et tu, Fugly?
What am I, chopped liver?
A. First Jen gets a book contract.
B. And Jen's book comes out, and Jen gets another book contract.
C. And now the Go Fug Yourself girls have a book contract.
I'm starting to feel like the Chicago Cubs. A little respect would be nice. A book contract would be even better.
What I'm saying here is that I would, if asked, be willing to lose my amateur blogging status and go pro. Just so you know. I mean, I don't want it to be one of those things where one acquisitions editor at Random House is saying "You ask her," and another acquisitions editor says "I asked the last one; you ask her," and there is bickering and unhappiness ... I mean, it's all so petty.
Why sit here acting modest? Why not enrich the world with my writing? Don't I owe that much to this magnificent gift of mine? What was that parable--you know the one, about the servant and the talents, or was it the light and the bushel? Or maybe the loaves and the fishes?
So anyway, yes, Random House (or Little Brown, I'm not particular) I would be willing to write a book for you. I know, I know--I'm a busy woman, but really, I would be happy to get paid to sit around and type.
Not to mention promoting the book. Yes, I know promotional tours can be tedious, and I'm really not a morning person, but yes, I'd do the whole talk show circuit, even Good Morning America. So don't be shy--pluck up your courage, for heaven's sake. I don't bite!
A. First Jen gets a book contract.
B. And Jen's book comes out, and Jen gets another book contract.
C. And now the Go Fug Yourself girls have a book contract.
I'm starting to feel like the Chicago Cubs. A little respect would be nice. A book contract would be even better.
What I'm saying here is that I would, if asked, be willing to lose my amateur blogging status and go pro. Just so you know. I mean, I don't want it to be one of those things where one acquisitions editor at Random House is saying "You ask her," and another acquisitions editor says "I asked the last one; you ask her," and there is bickering and unhappiness ... I mean, it's all so petty.
Why sit here acting modest? Why not enrich the world with my writing? Don't I owe that much to this magnificent gift of mine? What was that parable--you know the one, about the servant and the talents, or was it the light and the bushel? Or maybe the loaves and the fishes?
So anyway, yes, Random House (or Little Brown, I'm not particular) I would be willing to write a book for you. I know, I know--I'm a busy woman, but really, I would be happy to get paid to sit around and type.
Not to mention promoting the book. Yes, I know promotional tours can be tedious, and I'm really not a morning person, but yes, I'd do the whole talk show circuit, even Good Morning America. So don't be shy--pluck up your courage, for heaven's sake. I don't bite!
Friday, August 4, 2006
Random? You want random?
You got it. Dateline--Randomville, New Random:
1. I've been kind of quiet lately, mostly because I've been traveling, but also because in my extensive packing, in which I packed all kinds of stuff for myself and my children, making very sure that all the electronica had all the necessary adaptors, chargers, memory cards, yadda yadda yadda, I managed to pack the digital camera and the iPod and the audiobook and the NetFlix envelopes and the charger for my laptop, yay! Which I left behind the last time I came here.
Only to discover, when we were about four hours from Chicago, that I left my laptop at home.
So, no computer except my husband's laptop which is a teensy tiny Sharp model, very light, with a tiny keyboard for making lots of typos, and about zero minutes worth of battery charge in it at any moment, and on top of that, it.
runs.
so.
slowly
that it drives me mental.
But today my husband went out and bought a desktop. Because he's going to set up robotic light turning-off and temperature upping-and-downing type stuff. Whatever. The important thing is that this baby runs like the wind. So I'm happy about that.
2. The heat wave appears to be over. THANK GOD.
3. I went up to the local library and took out six books. You might never hear from me again.
4. Except there's this nice new HP desktop that I can totally dominate, so knowing me, you will.
5. Oh, and another thing I forgot? My wedding ring. (I also forgot my engagement ring, my watch, and all of my earrings, but their absence won't affect my ability to go out to a bar and try to pick up guys the way a lack of a wedding ring will.)
6. The seafood around here is as tasty as ever. Which means I'll start becoming more intelligent any day now.
7. "And it's about time," I--with my seafood-sharpened brain--can imagine you thinking.
8. There is no point in going away for a vacation if your children want to stay inside and play GameCube all day long. Because they can do that at home.
9. But at least I have a desktop with a fast chip.
10. And a refrigerator full of wine.
11. What I'm missing now? Is a punch line.
1. I've been kind of quiet lately, mostly because I've been traveling, but also because in my extensive packing, in which I packed all kinds of stuff for myself and my children, making very sure that all the electronica had all the necessary adaptors, chargers, memory cards, yadda yadda yadda, I managed to pack the digital camera and the iPod and the audiobook and the NetFlix envelopes and the charger for my laptop, yay! Which I left behind the last time I came here.
Only to discover, when we were about four hours from Chicago, that I left my laptop at home.
So, no computer except my husband's laptop which is a teensy tiny Sharp model, very light, with a tiny keyboard for making lots of typos, and about zero minutes worth of battery charge in it at any moment, and on top of that, it.
runs.
so.
slowly
that it drives me mental.
But today my husband went out and bought a desktop. Because he's going to set up robotic light turning-off and temperature upping-and-downing type stuff. Whatever. The important thing is that this baby runs like the wind. So I'm happy about that.
2. The heat wave appears to be over. THANK GOD.
3. I went up to the local library and took out six books. You might never hear from me again.
4. Except there's this nice new HP desktop that I can totally dominate, so knowing me, you will.
5. Oh, and another thing I forgot? My wedding ring. (I also forgot my engagement ring, my watch, and all of my earrings, but their absence won't affect my ability to go out to a bar and try to pick up guys the way a lack of a wedding ring will.)
6. The seafood around here is as tasty as ever. Which means I'll start becoming more intelligent any day now.
7. "And it's about time," I--with my seafood-sharpened brain--can imagine you thinking.
8. There is no point in going away for a vacation if your children want to stay inside and play GameCube all day long. Because they can do that at home.
9. But at least I have a desktop with a fast chip.
10. And a refrigerator full of wine.
11. What I'm missing now? Is a punch line.
Thursday, August 3, 2006
Tuesday, August 1, 2006
Tomorrow and the next day
Tomorrow morning, we're leaving
and sometime Thursday afternoon, we'll be arriving
where, after 17 hours in the car with my family? I'm sure I'll have plenty to talk about.
See you soon.
and sometime Thursday afternoon, we'll be arriving
where, after 17 hours in the car with my family? I'm sure I'll have plenty to talk about.
See you soon.
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