Why our children are doomed as doomed can be.

So my husband and I are fixing dinner. And our son is in the kitchen, doing his science homework at the kitchen table. He's working on quantitative and qualitative properties.

Young Master Buxom: What's a qualitative property? I need to describe the qualitative properties of my pencil.

Mr. Buxom: A qualitative property describes something without using numbers. So how would you describe your pencil?

Young Master Buxom: ...

Mrs. Buxom [helpfully] Well, it's hard.

Mrs. Buxom: [Catching Mr. Buxom's eye and smiling brightly] And it's longer than it is around. [She starts to walk towards Mr. Buxom, shaking with silent laughter.]

Mr. Buxom: And it has a rubbery tip.

[Mr. Buxom and Mrs. Buxom start laughing helplessly. In fact, Mrs. Buxom laughs so hard she starts to wheeze.]

Will Young Master Buxom go on to win the Nobel Prize? Stay tuned.

It turns out there was nothing wrong with me

that a roast chicken dinner

with stuffing (home-made by moi)

broccoli (organic, lightly steamed, buttered)

rice (basmati, steamed in chicken broth)

gravy (really just the pan juices defatted and deglazed)

and some pretty decent Puilly Fuissee couldn't cure.

So ... if you and your family have been diagnosed with CROUP? I recommend the chicken.

I'm not here today.

I'm still coughing like a seal trying for a piece of herring, or maybe one of its own lungs. And so is my son, who is staying home sick from school. So today, I'm both patient and nurse--how versatile am I?

This means a lot of Nintendo for him, and a lot of blogging for me. Except I don't know how to be fascinating about a life spent mostly supine, drinking tea, coughing in a moist and vaguely nauseating fashion, and wondering whether I will ever get outside. Again. For the rest of my life. Or at least, the end of the current decade.

Meanwhile I updated the shopping blog and the food blog. Now, I'm not saying it's my best stuff. It's not brilliant. It scintillates ... not very much at all. But it's better than anything you'll get around here.

The Sun is Shining

And that's all the good news I have to report.

No, wait. Today is That Stud Muffin I Married's and my wedding anniversary. This makes 18 years of near bliss, except for that part where I had post-partum depression, and the time I was so constipated I was literally rolling around on the floor in agony, and the time I found out that I was carrying a perfectly healthy baby except it was a boy, so I dissolved into tears right there on the sidewalk outside the amniocentesis place and had to be led to the car, and pretty much any time I'm on a diet or haven't had enough caffeine, or like right now, have Nomia, which, if you haven't been reading this blog for a long time, is how my daughter pronounces pneumonia.

She had Nomia last week, and this week my son and I have joined her in coughing and coughing and coughing. And not a dry cough, either. But that's all you'll hear from mucus-ridden me. Because this blog is not about creepy stuff like mucus or constipation or mental illness. No matter how well that works for dooce.

No, today is my wedding anniversary, and I got two presents, yay!
Isn't my husband smart? When his wife gets all geeky over the Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin novels, his reaction is exactly the right one: feed the monster so that it may grow and take over even more of her life.

And my presents to my spouse? Are the white tie accessories I went out and bought for him. I mean, he's paying for them, but my present is that I took the trouble to go out and find them. (Please click on that link and read my report on shopping for men's formal wear, no matter how uninteresting you find it, because it took a really long time to pull together, and I'm sick, and have I mentioned it's my anniverary? Call it an anniversary present.)

I got pancakes in bed this morning. And presents! And my two new books are so perfect, I can't even begin to describe my bliss.

I'll also be getting a new laptop soon. Typing in blog entries on this one, which has a big-ass crack (um ... not a big ass crack, no matter what you Googlers think) in the screen is getting ridiculously difficult. I'm thinking a new laptop with a 17 inch screen would be nice. To keep the cost down, which I really should do, since this will be my fourth laptop because I KEEP DROPPING THEM, I'll get a big heavy one that I won't want to carry anywhere. But that means another present for me, yay!

And it's not hailing, and tornados aren't about to decimate the neighborhood, unlike Friday night. It's not even raining! Which it's done five out of the past seven days.

Now if this place could just stop sounding like a tuberculosis ward, with everyone coughing their lungs out (cough cough cough SPLAT. Whoops, there goes another one) everything would be groovy.

Everyone else is more interesting than I am.

The Glamorous Redneck is more interesting than I am. Her latest post is about her first time smoking pot. Sort of. Check it out.

You know, I'd like to be more interesting ... maybe I should tell you about the first time I smoked pot, which was five minutes ago.

Oh, wow. I am so high. And I'm totally munched out. I could go for some Doritos right now--how 'bout you?

OK, I lied. I haven't smoked pot in years. Anything neurologically abnormal you've noticed around here can be blamed on alcohol, lack of sleep, and my children.

I'd be all confessional and tell you about the first time I smoked pot, except I've forgotten about it. Smoking pot will do that to you. Joke! Actually, I don't remember the first time I smoked pot because I didn't get high. Or anywhere near high. I didn't get high until I'd smoked pot for a year. I think this is because for months I was smoking the mixture of oregano and mulch that drug dealers routinely sold to 15-year-olds because they could get away with it.

I could tell you about the first time I got high, after a friend of mine scored something that was actually illegal, because that actually was memorable, and I think the statute of limitations has run out by now, so I could avoid arrest. But the silly joke that positively convulsed us after I smoked that joint of actual marijuana? I'm not high at the moment, and the joke doesn't seem to be all that funny.

Tell you what. I'll run it by my kids, and if it makes them laugh, I'll tell you. Judging from the comments I get around here, some of you are as immature and likely to laugh about swearing and farting and dumb jokes as my nine-year-old, or my 13-year-old high-on-pot-for-the-first-time self.

Whoops. Don't look now, but that was a confessional moment. Ooh, I feel so brave and dooce-like! Am I going to get fired?

p.s. Even I'm more interesting than I am. Check out this morning's Mamarazzi post, courtesy of my obsession with monograms.

I'm tired. You're getting a meme.

Stolen from Blackbird:

Things that are overrated

$200 blue jeans

chai tea

dooce

fusion cuisine

the Grateful Dead

Karl Lagerfeld

Madonna

reality t.v.

scented candles

scones

self-tanners

Sephora

spandex

Starbucks

sushi

And now for something completely glamorous.

I can't remember whether, once upon a time, I spent seven glorious days over at The Glamorous Redneck or whether she spent seven days renting from me. (I realize this sounds like the opening of A Child's Christmas in Wales, but it's true; I really can't remember. And BlogExplosion is loading pages so slowly that it will be Christmas before I finally figure it out.)

So we'll just leave it as undecided. It's irrelevant, anyway, because I've changed my mind about renting out the catbird seat. I used to think it was important to keep things fresh! and new! But now I've decided that I'll rent to anyone I want to read myself. It doesn't matter whether they've been here before. In fact, I put out a special welcome mat for my previous tenants.

So please click on the thumbnail and tell the Glamorous Redneck hello from me.

Three Smacks for Poppy

I just got reviewed by the Merciless Minx over at I talk 2 much. I got three smacks out of five, which, believe it or not, is pretty good. Sixty percent doesn't sound like much, but a lot of the idiots who ask for reviews get far less. And then, there are the other, "special" awards, like the boot to the head, the rotten fish, and the short bus that I could easily have been rewarded, considering that I regularly commit the following blogging sins:

I have a long-ass sidebar.
My archives and links aren't rolled up.
My sidebar is cluttered and off-center.

Of course, I'm pretty much incapable of doing anything about the way my blog looks. (This is sad, because once upon a time, I did UNIX shell and C programming. But I was getting paid to do it, and therefore, had the time to learn. Now I don't.)

However, there is also the matter of my content. My so-called writing, over which I have total creative control, and which, if you haven't noticed, pretty much sucks a lot of the time because:

I write about housewife shit.
My children get mentioned from time to time. Which makes me a Mommy Blogger.
So does my husband. Which I guess makes me a Wifey Blogger.
I'm not crazy. Or overly depressed. Or anxiety-ridden.
Or poor.
I don't swear very much.
I have two, count 'em, two degrees in English (it was going to be three, but my mommy-blogging hobby cut into my time so much that I didn't finish my dissertation) and it shows. I try not to sound like a pedantic English major, but my punctuation skills give the game away every fucking time.
And in case you haven't noticed--my posts tend to be really, really long.

So naturally, I'm glad the whole reviewing process is over. It's not exactly pleasant, putting my big fat Mommy blogging head on the block. But I recommend it, nevertheless. If you blog, you should definitely submit your blog for a review. It's a little anxiety-producing, and after you submit your blog, the tension builds as you read the other masochists' reviews, but when yours is done, it gives you that great, just-walking-out-of-the-gynecologist's office feeling. Without the K-Y mess.

And three smacks is pretty good. Really. It is. I'm not shitting you about this. (I am not mediocre. You got that, motherfuckers?)

Yay, me! Thanks, Ms Minx! My sidebar will be sporting my "I got smacked!" button before you know it (well, as soon as I figure out how to get it in there.)

In which I predict the future.

Everything is a lot better around here. My daughter is on the mend. Yay! She sounds much less like a pack of bloodhounds in full cry (for those just coming in, she has pneumonia and it makes her COUGH. A lot. Like this: "COUGH COUGH COUGH. BARKBARKBARKCOUGH! BARK!" Which sounds painful. But it's happening less. So the medicine is working. Three cheers for antibiotics!)

I'm keeping her home from school tomorrow, so I will be home all day. This means more chores will probably be done, although after today, with the laundry all done, the bottom half of the house vaccuumed, the turtle's enclosure cleaned, the downstairs linen closet decluttered, and antique linen napkins that I can't be bothered to use washed and ironed and many, many cootie-catchers, a/k/a fortune-telling devices made and laughed uproariously over, Lord knows what I'm going to find to do. Maybe make Badger's mother's home-made Play-Dough and make little clay foxes from it? For her to catch? BARK?

Wait a minute. Why am I wondering what will happen? I have a houseful of cootie-catcher fortune telling devices! I will consult one.

Unfortunately, I can't upload pictures, because I can't find the connector thing for the camera. So I will ask the cootie catcher "Will I find the connector thing for my camera?" And it will answer. So just use your imagination and play along:

1. OK, with this particular cootie-catcher we got creative. No boring numbers and colors for us. The outside has composers' names. Bach, Brahms, Debussy, Mozart. I pick Brahms.
2. B-R-A-H-M-S. OK, now you get to pick a boring number. Seven! No. Three.
3. 1-2-3.
4. Now--we got creative again--you pick one of the Little Women. Meg, Jo, Beth, or Amy. I pick Meg.
5. Now pick a number again. 1, 3, 5 or 7. I pick ... three! No, seven.
6. And now pick a Little Woman for your fortune. Of course, I pick Jo.

And now, the moment you've been waiting for. My fortune:

P.U. Have you taken a bath lately?

Well, there you have it, Internet. I still have no idea what tomorrow will hold, except probably less barking. Because the medicine really is working. But I'm guessing there will be chores. Maybe some writing. And if I'm lucky, a shower. But probably no connector thing for the camera. And because I love you, Internet, I'm leaving you with your very own cootie-catcher diagram, so you can predict the future, too.

The weight of the world owes me a shoulder rub

How are you, tonight, Internet? Great? Well, too bad, because I think life sucks, and I'm going to complain.

I don't know when life started sucking, because Saturday night's opening night at the opera was fabulous. For one thing, That Stud Muffin I married took much, much longer to get dressed than I did. By about half an hour. That never happens. Usually he's walking around with his coat on, jingling car keys, and I'm in the bathroom wrestling with my contact lenses. So that was good.

And Turandot is one of my favorite operas, and the woman who sang Liu was fabulous. And the party afterwards was actually fun, even though I was as dressed up as I've ever been in my life, which I usually hate, but then, my husband was even more so, right down to his patent leather shoes with grosgrain trim.

But at some point today, I just sort of crashed. I know what you're thinking, Internet, but this was not a hangover--although, naturally, knowing me, it should have been. I know it wasn't a hangover because it didn't happen right away. This morning, as I walked down the part of Chicago rather hilariously named "Cathedral Corridor" (or some such idiotic real-estate-derived marketing title) I actually enjoyed hearing clamor that is Chicago on a Sunday morning: the muffled clanging of church bells, the loud crash of ongoing construction (will it ever end?) and the taxis zooming by. I scurried into choir rehearsal feeling fine, even though I hadn't gotten home until 1:00. The weekend as a whole was lacking in quality sleep, what with Friday evening's Margarita guzzlefest at Jen's--but I didn't overdo it that horribly.

During the service I found myself giggling at the five babies being baptized. The vicar was wearing a microphone, so every time he held a crying baby the crying became REALLY LOUD. Then the baby would cry louder, because it was freaked over HOW LOUD it sounded, and then the other babies would cry, too, because they needed to express their views on the subject. Imagine those novelty Christmas numbers, like a bunch of dogs barking "Jingle Bells," but make it a barber shop quartet of crying babies, and you've got it. So call me insensitive, but I thought it was pretty funny.

But then about half-way through the service, I developed a stiff neck, stiff shoulders, and on top of that, my cranium hurt. My brain limped along through the post-service rehearsal, but it wanted to go home to bed and curl up in the fetal position.

Instead, I had to trudge homewards through the appalling humidity, get everyone ready, and drive home. That Stud Muffin I Married and I had a concert to go to tonight. But tonight's babysitter decided to lecture me about how I should have called her back with directions to the house earlier than this afternoon at 2:00 because she wasn't sure she could get to our house by 7:00.

My reaction? "Who wants you anyway, you big douchebag." Although I put it more politely. To my recollection, vaginal cleansing devices were not actually mentioned.

So I sent my husband off to tonight's concert alone. Neener, neener, bad babysitting lady, I didn't want to go to the concert anyway. Let's face it, after three hours of Puccini on Saturday night, and four hours today rehearsing, I didn't exactly feel that I was experiencing a dearth of classical music.

Also, my daughter has been sick. On Friday the pediatrician said she had pneumonia. (She calls it "Nomia." And I haven't corrected her because I think it's cute. Yes, I really am that dorky.) She's coughing to a terrible extent. It's a bit worrisome ... not terribly, and she's on antibiotics ... but right about now, the weight. Of the world. Is on my shoulders.

I feel funny ... oh so funny.

Last night Jen Lancaster had a few people over for pitchers of Margaritas drinks, among whom I was thrilled to see Susie Sunshine and Sarah O and the two Jodies. Not only were the drinks plentiful, but the company was of a very high comic caliber. When you have three-fifths of Mamarazzi and one-third of Snarkywood in the room? Of course it's funny.

Even Jen's dogs were funny. I mean, you have not experienced humor until you have fed a brown and white dog half a slice of cheese, enjoying the enthusiasm and speed with which he snapped it down and engulfed it, his massive jaws mere inches from your fingertips--and then discovered that said animal is a Pitt Bull.

Now, see, the above is an example of the kind of thing I find amusing. Because actually, I'm not afraid of Pitt Bulls. Not at all. See, something tells me that just as I will do anything for a laugh, journalists will whore themselves out shamelessly for a headline. So, all those headlines about Pitt Bulls? Mere journalistic whoredom. But because I'll do anything for a laugh, I'm happy to include a description of a Pitt Bull designed to give the impression that I was peeing in my pants with fright.

When really, I only peed a tiny bit. And Jen's sofas are leather, so what's the big deal?

Anyway, yes, I felt funny. Oh my heavens, the roars of laughter in that room, some of which were because of things I said. Better yet, some of them were because Susie Sunshine decided that she needed to get out her laptop to read my latest Mamarazzi entry. Oh, the gratification of making Susie Sunshine and Jen Lancaster laugh out loud! I can't even describe it, people. Their laughter didn't even sound particularly fake.

So yes, I felt funny last night! And even funnier this morning when I woke up to discover that some ham-handed sculptor had decided to turn my normal face into that of a Cyclops, and had been chiseling away the center of my forehead, trying to carve a great big Cyclops eye. In other words, pain. Pain, people.

I should have realized what I was getting myself into when the Margarita pitcher started circulating and everyone, especially me, was topping off their not-empty-yet glasses. So how many Margaritas did I drink? Five? I'm not sure. But I do know that I have taken six Advils and three cups of tea and am kind of functional, although not all that funny at the moment.

Except. Tonight That Stud Muffin I Married and I are going to the opening night of the Lyric Opera, followed by the Opera Ball, which is white tie. WHITE TIE, people. That Stud Muffin I Married is wearing the whole deal: black jacket with tails, pants with satin stripes down the seams, white piquet shirt with a detachable collar, white waistcoat, white bow tie, silver studs, black top hat, white gloves, black dress socks ... and these:

If the idea of your husband or yourself (if you're a man) parading around in these shoes makes you smile even a little bit? My work here is done.

Thank you and good night!

Yet another short post.

I can't believe they did this to Pluto. Imagine changing Pluto from a planet to a "dwarf planet." How dare they? They're taking away Pluto's civil rights. Pretty soon they'll decide that Pluto isn't eligible to vote. Or own private property. Or drink.

Just wait until the ACLU hears about this. Mark my words. It won't be pretty.

Envy me, Part Deux.

Tonight I'm having drinks with Susie Sunshine and Jen Lancaster. Oh, yes I am. (I am so much cooler than you, it's not even funny.)

Girls Go Crazy for a Smooth-Shaven Man

In my photo-grabbing for my latest Mamarazzi post, I couldn't help but be struck at how much better the men look in the 1930s and 1950s.

And why is this? you ask. Easy. They shaved. Every day. Sometimes twice.

Come on, guys ... would you please lose the K-fed scruffiness? It's nasty.

It's still raining.

Yes, it's raining. And I have all kinds of crap to do. Stuff that I don't want to do, but have to do anyway. For one thing, I'll have to get dressed up. (What me? Get out of my jeans and flipflops?)

So while I shower off the mildew and put on my business clothes, please admire my new seal. A seal I designed by following the link in my renter's blog. So if you want to make yourself a similarly dandy seal, click on the thumbnail over there and check out kilowatt hour's latest entry. (Her seal is much better looking than mine. But what's a girl to do when the choice of emblems includes neither a martini glass, a television screen, a laptop, or a poppy? People, I do what I can with the material provided.)

What to do when it feels like it's been raining for days.

1. Sit inside and read another Aubrey/Maturin novel, thanking your lucky stars that there are actually quite a few left in the series, and you needn't commit suicide through sheer black depression just yet.

2. Decide that you've been sitting around too long. You need exercise. EXERCISE, damn it! Decide to go work out.

3. Lie down under the industrial strength ceiling fan in your bedroom to dry off the sweat with which you were soaked at the very idea of working out in this humidity.

4. Wonder whether, if you lie here long enough in a sweaty t-shirt, you're going to start to become mildewed.

5. Wonder whether the answer to these and other questions might lie at the bottom of a dry martini.

6. Wander downstairs to make one.

7. Lather, rinse, repeat.

8. Start to surf various blogs. Become appalled by the bad grammar, specious reasoning, and general miasma of self-congratulatory fatuousness.

9. Decide to correct some of these flaws with some gentle advice. Decide that gentleness sucks. Correct all these and many other mistakes with great vigor, chastising sundry wrong-thinking miscreants, insulting their persons and their mothers' chastity or lack thereof.

10. Blog about it.

Actually, I changed my mind. I'm not a goldfish; I'm a pig.

So the fifth anniversary of 9/11 is over. The special ecumenical service at the cathedral is over. The world premiere of the cantata we sang is over.

I think it went well. I think some people found it moving, or healing ... I didn't lose anyone in 9/11, but I think people found what they were looking for. I hope so, anyway.

The cathedral was packed with photographers. Well, OK, not packed. But I'm not used to seeing photographers in a church snapping away during the service. Maybe a single photographer at a wedding, but that's it. Tonight we had about a dozen, plus videographers.

Isn't that always the way? My biggest Norma Desmond "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille" moment and it wasn't about me.

And speaking of my admittedly petty concerns (but whose blog is it, anyway?) I'm just glad that the biggest musical flub of the evening wasn't my fault. That blown entrance? I was totally ready to make it, I really was. In fact, the whole choir was. But the accompanists had a difference of opinion as to which measure we were at. So in case anyone noticed anything sounding off? Totally the organist's fault.

I realize this whole entry is is revealing to the world exactly what a self-centered, selfish pig I really am--something I have been trying to conceal for over two years of blogging. But the performers out there will know what I'm talking about. When you sing in a choir, you can't just experience the service; you're constantly thinking about what comes next. My job at events like this is to project an emotion, not feel it myself.

And that's OK. It just means I have to take time off from thinking about 9/11 in order to think about music. I have to take some other time to think about 9/11. And that's OK. Unfortunately for us all, 9/11 isn't going anywhere.

Damn you, 9/11. In so many ways.

Exit Poppy, the loud red flower. Enter a goldfish.

Last June I auditioned for a choir, and amazingly enough, I got in. Maybe I should have just accepted this as a boost to the ego and forgotten all about it. Because yesterday I spent over four hours in a cathedral singing a bunch of music I've never seen before.

For the non-musicians out there, let me explain what this is like. Imagine that you have flown into a city and have rented a car. You get in the car and start to drive. You have directions, but you have to be on the lookout for signs and lights and must-exit lanes and left-turn-only lanes and one way streets in the wrong direction and why don't they have any street signs around here? (Let's imagine you're driving a rental car in Boston, where they don't believe in identifying roads.) And you have to do it at highway speed, or, in the case of Boston, much faster.

Now you have a decent idea of what, in musician lingo, is called "sight reading." Now, most of the "sightreading" I was doing was at what we call "performance tempo," which is musician lingo for "110 miles per hour."

Now usually, I can sightread just fine, but this group is mostly professional singers, as in they went to college and majored in voice. I did not. I majored in blogging English. So with these types I pretty much feel--and act--like a mouse amongst elephants.

Tomorrow we're singing a world premiere piece for the fifth anniversary of September 11th. The music is very beautiful, and I think it will be very moving. And to keep from making some kind of embarrassing musical flub that will destroy the effect, I'll be the one in the front row, silently opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish.

Is this as ugly as I think it is?

It's a list of the blogs I've blogmarked over at Blog Explosion. Apparently I can now stick them in my sidebar. The question is, do I want to? So I thought I'd post the code in a a blog entry and check it out.

Now to check out the general effect, she said, as she put down her palette, stepped backwards, held up her thumb, squinted, and then fell over.

My verdict? It's just as ugly as I expected.

What's black and white and read all over?

Other than this blog, I mean. Pick one:

a. My shopping blog. (This is a pun! I am so clever! See if you get it!)

b. My most recent attempt at Paris Hilton snarkification at Mamarazzi.

c. A kilowatt hour.

d. All of the above.

The correct answer is d. If you know what's good for you, you'll go forth and read. Because I'm buried in another Captain Jack Aubrey/Dr. Stephen Maturin novel. Today I'll be reading it, or doing laundry, or packing for the weekend, or whining about all the rehearsals I have this Saturday ... am I boring? Aye, aye, sirs.

Jump ship while you can, mateys.

You will run away and never come back to read my blog when you discover that I don't know

who shot J.R.

what a nebulizer does.

where Iraq is.

when Oprah is on.

what Pearl Jam sounds like.

Karl Rove's job title.

what cankles are.

why that guy who just got killed by a stingray was famous.

how much is a kilowatthour.

"Poppy, you ignorant slut" I can almost hear you say.

Well, yes, I am. But here's one thing I know; this week's renter has very good taste. See, when you're becoming a scholar, which is something I was doing for far too long, you learn to check people's footnotes. The reasoning being that if you know whom someone cites, you get a sense of where they'll be going with their own work. Also, if the stuff they cite is stupid? Well, stupidity has a way of compounding itself.

I know that footnotes and links are not the same. Still, I think a peek into the links list is worthwhile when I'm trying to decide who this week's tenant should be. Well, kilowatthour has the following in her blogroll: babelbabe, blackbird, (who link to her) and miss doxie, all of whom are great bloggers.

So I figured, anyone with such good taste can hang out with me for a week.

See where it says "No Thumbnail Available?" Could you please give it a click? Check out kilowatthour, and tell her hi from Poppy the Ignorant Slut.

I am Poppy. Hear me roar.

Woot!

I just got off the phone with the incoming president of a board I've been on.

Dig the past tense, baby. Because when she said "I hope this doesn't mean you're thinking of resigning from the board," I felt it was my cue to say "Actually, it does."

So I launched into my departure speech, where the phrase "I don't believe in rewarding bad behavior" came up. Also something about the meetings being "tedious," the organization's general director being "socially inept," and the past-president being a "depressed and depressing burn-out case."

And now I can cross that organization off my to-do list. Yay me!

Tuesday Report from the No-Swearing Zone

You might not realize this from reading my blog, but I swear a lot. Ten years of single-sex education does that to a girl. After all, there's no point in acting all dainty around other girls, so we let it rip, and by senior year, a lot of us could make a sailor blush.

Now, I try to behave myself. And I often succeed. I tend not to say "fuck" or "shit" around children, or old ladies, or ladies-who-lunch, or people at screenings of Lady and the Tramp, or My Fair Lady, or while someone is whistling "Luck Be a Lady, " or ... well, you get the point. Lady Be Good; that's me.

The thing is, there's a time and place for swearing. And the older I get, the more I realize that not only is this not the time, this is also not the place.

Now this afternoon I'm running a committee meeting. It's for a fundraiser that will take place next June. And the meeting will be at a ladies' club, and the committee, mostly ladies, but also some gentlemen, will be behaving in a nice, civilized fashion. Imagine my chagrin. I mean, someone will say "Oh, good news--I've secured a free week in a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice, plus round-trip airfare from Chicago--would you like to add that to the live auction?" My natural response would be:

FUCK YEAH

but I'm much more likely to say something like:

Oh, that would be just lovely. Thanks so much!

So please indulge me while I get a few swears out of my system.

1) I read two excellent editorials this morning in the Chicago Tribune. Really excellent. This one was the shit. Worth registering for, in case you have to do it. (BTW I'm a leftie, so proceed with caution.)
2) Excuse me? What's with all the fucking rain? Does Mother Nature want Poppy to become mildewed?
3) Oh my God, I totally need to get my roots taken care of; I look like shit!

There. That was fucking lovely. Thanks so much!

Joke's Movie Meme

It's raining and even though it's a holiday, I have to churn out massive amounts of paperwork while overseeing my children. You pretty much don't want to know what I'm thinking. Therefore, I'm doing Joke's movie meme. And I quote:

As you will doubtless recall, the purpose of these lists is to inform the readership of the things which have informed our attitudes, outlooks, choices, etc. Therefore, here are the programs/films that have helped shape my way of looking at things.

Relations with the Opposite Sex
Cat Ballou--Don't mess with her; she'll shoot you dead.
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes--I always identified with the Jane Russell character. Always the sidekick, eventually the bride.
The Women--teaches the valuable lesson that Virtue Will Triumph in the End

What it means to be a man
Any BBC adaptation of a Lord Peter Wimsey mystery, whether it stars Ian Carmichael, or Edward Petherbridge
The Dirty Dozen
Grand Illusion
Groundhog Day
Hogan's Heros
Master and Commander
My Man Godfrey
Stripes

Music
Any Warner Bros. musical with numbers choreographed by Busby Berkeley
Austin Powers
The Big Chill (I can't help it. I'm a baby-boomer. And this was the first film to use songs that had already been hits.)
Coal Miner's Daughter
The Last Days of Disco
O Brother, Where Art Thou?
So I Married an Ax Murderer
Tous Les Matins du Monde
Master and Commander

Work
Absolutely Fabulous (Edina, the feckless employer, and Bubble, the idiot secretary)
Beverly Hillbillies (Mr. Drysdale/Miss Jane)
Footlight Parade (James Cagney as Chester Kent; Joan Blondell as his secretary)
Fawlty Towers (John Cleese as the overbearing owner; Connie Booth as his wonderful assistant)
Working Girl (Sigourney Weaver as the Boss from Hell; Melanie Griffith as the ambitious secretary)

Lifestyle
High Society
Housesitter
Laura
Metropolitan
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
The Philadelphia Story
The Thin Man Goes Home
Trading Places
The Women

Family
Ordinary People (My original milieu. To be avoided. What not to be.)
I, Claudius (What not to be, cubed.)
Moonstruck (What I aspire to.)

God
Beckett

Country
Yankee Doodle Dandy

Worldview (tied)
Metropolitan
Wayne's World

Death and Taxes

Yesterday I went to the library.

See, once in a while I realize that my taxes actually pay for something that I, personally, can benefit from. Not "I" as in "well-meaning, decent citizens who believe in the public good" but "I" as in "Poppy Buxom." I mean, I'm all in favor of taxes, and I gladly hand bushels of money to any government that asks. In the Buxom household, the general attitude is: "Here, help yourself!" And the village of Newtopia, the city of Chicago, the town of New Castle, New Hampshire, the State of Illinois, and the federal government do just that.

It's as though these governmental bodies disguise themselves as envelopes and go out trick-or-treating via the U. S. Mail, and my husband and I gush over how cute they are and hand them a check. And that's the end of the transaction. Except that, from time to time, I find myself wondering: is that all there is to paying taxes? I mean, fun's fun, and all that, but somehow ... I don't know ... I start to wonder what's the point of it all.

But then, once in a while, it hits me. I'll see a public school, or a highway construction project, or a park, or a standing army, and I'll swell with pride in the realization that there are my tax dollars at work.

Lately I've been all agog over the public libraries. I realize that I helped pay for this large municipal building with insufficient parking--yet when I enter it, I'm the one acting like a kid on Halloween, grabbing handfuls of loot. "Free books! Who knew?"

Yesterday I came home with more Aubrey/Maturing stories, because I'm addicted. This one


and the next one, because I needed to grab it before someone else did. Because these are my tax dollars at work, people. Mine! Not yours!

I also got Joe Epstein's latest, because he's a pal of my father-in-law's, and it's all in the family, but if I hate it? It won't matter; it was free. My tax dollars paid for it!


While I was at it, I grabbed the following for my viewing pleasure

I could have gotten them from Netflix, but now I can save my Netflix fees for a movie I can't get for free.

And last, because I'm such a geek, I got


So just watch out, you overpriced web designers; I'm on to your little game. My tax dollars and I are going to whip your scrawny, CSS-coding butts.

I believe Congratulations are in order.

1. On Sunday we drove from New Hampshire to Illinois. This meant 17 hours in the van.

2. On Monday I unpacked, cleaned out the refrigerator, and in general, made like Susie Homemaker. We also went to school to find the new classrooms and teachers and lockers and such. It rained.

3. Tuesday was the first day of school. It kept raining.

4. Wednesday? The kids got braces put on their teeth. I believe the rain stopped, yet I managed to flood the downstairs bathroom, thus no doubt pleasing the Gods of Bad Weather.

5. Thursday I oversaw--with much tearing of hair--the first real homework of the school year, and my father-in-law, who decided to come to town for a visit the first week of school and after he had just seen us in New Hampshire--not that I'm complaining about family togetherness, mind you--came to dinner.

6. Which brings us to Friday. We all survived the week, and even though I went totally JOHN CLEESE with the red face and the sarcasm AND THE VERY LOUD VOICE my children managed to get to school relatively unscathed. (Ha ha, "relatively," get it? I'm so funny when I'm not doing grievous damage to my children's psychological makeup.) This evening we ate pizza and enjoyed a few episodes of The Simpsons, Season 8.

I am very, very glad that I will get to sleep late tomorrow, and maybe not even yell once at my children. I even think that, should Blackbird's fan base require it, I am ready and willing to solve any little problems they might have. So, FOBs, in case you need someone to flood a bathroom or scream at your children, shoot me an email, and I'll see what I can do.

OK, this is embarrassing.

My tenant, Jennifer, of In Place of Incandesence, (which I still can't spell) linked to me in today's entry. Now this is just wrong. I'm supposed to be linking to her. I'm supposed to be sending masses of readers her way. So would you please help me out here by giving Jennifer big smoochy clicks? Otherwise I'll just feel terrible.

Oh, and if you're one of Jennifer's readers--Hi! I'm usually much funnier. No, really, I am!

Oh dear. This is awkward.






Look, I won't have anything more to say until you click on that thumbnail. So please do it. She has a review of Little Miss Sunshine. Go read it. Right now, please.