that I alluded to in my last post?
I'm pretty sure it's not PMS. I mean, I really am currently drowning in a vast mountain of laundry with thousands of other non-glamorous activities in the offing (IEP meetings! Need to schedule OB/GYN appointment! The vacuum cleaner is broken!) So I have every reason to be crabby. Non-hormonal reasons. It's not because I'm a girl.
But still. When I went through the candidates for the catbird seat, what jumped out at me?
Chocablog.
A blog. About chocolate! How genius is that?
The latest entry is about a Lindt Creme Brulee bar that sounds so delicious, I'm starting to chew my laptop. Check it out!
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Monday Mean
I'm grumpy.
If this post had a subtitle, it would be "I Hate the Night Life." We went out Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. I'm feeling exhausted and curmudgeonly.
Here's another subtitle: "Too Much Music!" On Friday night it was the opera, on Saturday and Sunday I spent hours rehearsing and singing, and on Sunday night it was a Music of the Baroque Mozart fest.
Thank God, just like everyone else, Mozart can only have one 250th birthday. On December 31st I'm going to shout "Happy New Year!" and immediately sign the official document declaring a Mozart moratorium for the indefinite future. I might make an exception for an opera or a piano concerto, but this twiddly-pooping "Divertimento" crap needs to head back to the back burner where it belongs.
I say we wait until he turns 300 before indulging in another world-wide all-Mozart, all-the-time Marathon. At that point I expect to be dead, which will mean one less elderly curmudgeon grousing that the program print is too small, leaving her walker where people will fall over it, and falling asleep during the concert.
All that by way of saying, holy shit, the audience last night was OLD. I'm not claiming that my hair is naturally its current color, but if I stopped dyeing it, at least it wouldn't be white. Last night it didn't look like a concert so much as a convention of Snowy Owls.
Not that I have anything against old people. Not at all. I hope to become old myself, at some point in the very distant future. But last night looked like a Rolling Stones concert, circa 2020.
To increase my grumpification (no, Blogger, you're right; that's not a word. Bite me) the laundry situation around here is dire. I'm doing two loads a day--wash, dry, fold, put away--and then it will occur to me--what about the sheets?
I'm thinking of making everyone sleep in sleeping bags.
In a tent in the back yard.
(If they shower outside and dry off by rolling in the grass, I won't have to deal with the towel situation, either.)
If this post had a subtitle, it would be "I Hate the Night Life." We went out Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. I'm feeling exhausted and curmudgeonly.
Here's another subtitle: "Too Much Music!" On Friday night it was the opera, on Saturday and Sunday I spent hours rehearsing and singing, and on Sunday night it was a Music of the Baroque Mozart fest.Thank God, just like everyone else, Mozart can only have one 250th birthday. On December 31st I'm going to shout "Happy New Year!" and immediately sign the official document declaring a Mozart moratorium for the indefinite future. I might make an exception for an opera or a piano concerto, but this twiddly-pooping "Divertimento" crap needs to head back to the back burner where it belongs.
I say we wait until he turns 300 before indulging in another world-wide all-Mozart, all-the-time Marathon. At that point I expect to be dead, which will mean one less elderly curmudgeon grousing that the program print is too small, leaving her walker where people will fall over it, and falling asleep during the concert.
All that by way of saying, holy shit, the audience last night was OLD. I'm not claiming that my hair is naturally its current color, but if I stopped dyeing it, at least it wouldn't be white. Last night it didn't look like a concert so much as a convention of Snowy Owls.Not that I have anything against old people. Not at all. I hope to become old myself, at some point in the very distant future. But last night looked like a Rolling Stones concert, circa 2020.
To increase my grumpification (no, Blogger, you're right; that's not a word. Bite me) the laundry situation around here is dire. I'm doing two loads a day--wash, dry, fold, put away--and then it will occur to me--what about the sheets?
I'm thinking of making everyone sleep in sleeping bags.
In a tent in the back yard.
(If they shower outside and dry off by rolling in the grass, I won't have to deal with the towel situation, either.)
Saturday, October 28, 2006
The Friday Meme (I know it's Saturday. Shut up.)
Via Badger, Blackbird, and Suse.
1. Flip to page 18, paragraph 4 - in the book closest to you right now, what does it say?
The book is The End from A Series of Unfortunate Events. There are no paragraphs on Page 18, which is just so typical of that tedious Lemony Snicket person who should just SHUT UP and tell the goddamned story.
(In case you're wondering, my son must have left the book on my bedside table.)
2. If you stretch out your left arm as far as possible, what are you touching?
My bedside table. I am all about the wireless DSL laptop in bed, man.
3. What's the last program you watched on TV?
How Clean is Your House?
4. Without looking, guess what time it is.
9:00 p.m. Whoops! Silly me. It's 9:00 A.M. Time to get up! No, really. It's time!
"Hurry up, please, it's time."
T. S. Eliot
Damn. Even T. S. Eliot can't get me up.
5. Aside from the computer, what can you hear right now?
A siren, the television going in my son's room, HVAC, my husband blowing his nose. And now the toilet seat just banged down. Aren't you glad you asked?
6. When was the last time you were outside and what did you do?
Last night, coming home from the opera.
7. What are you wearing?
A pair of pink Lilly Pulitzer cotton broadcloth pajamas.
8. Did you dream last night? If you did, what about?
I've been told by people who claim to be dream experts that I dream every night. I'd like them to prove it.
9. When was the last time you laughed?
Last night walking to the apartment door from the elevator.
10. What's on the walls, in the room you're in right now?
Two framed black and white photographs.
11. Have you seen anything strange lately?
A cab driver who didn't pick us up last night was acting very strange. I'm glad we didn't get in his cab OR YOU MIGHT NOT BE READING THIS.
12. What do you think about this meme?
Eh.
13. What's the last film you saw?
Master and Commander.
14. If you became a multimillionaire, what would you do with the money?
Pay off the house, sock some away for the kids' college funds, give a lot to charities, travel, invest, buy myself a shitload of jewelry.
15. Tell us something about yourself that most people don't know.
My husband had to talk me into getting married.
16. If you could change ONE THING in this world, without regarding politics or bad guilt, what would it be?
I would invent a clean, cheap source of energy.
17. Do you like dancing?
Yes. I would rather do it than watch it, except for ballet. Modern dance creeps me out.
18. George Bush?
Cheer up. In only two more years someone better will be on deck.
19. What do you want your children's names to be, girl/boy?
They have them already.
20. Would you ever consider living abroad?
Yes. I owe it to my heritage to discover what my emigrant ancestors were running away from.
21. What do you want God to tell you, when you come to heaven?
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Oh, and before I forget--your father is playing piano in that bar over there, and he Me to tell you to get over there as soon as you show up, because he needs a vocalist who can really sing Gershwin."
22. Who should do this meme?
The boys on my links list. Stop stalking me and get to work!
1. Flip to page 18, paragraph 4 - in the book closest to you right now, what does it say?
The book is The End from A Series of Unfortunate Events. There are no paragraphs on Page 18, which is just so typical of that tedious Lemony Snicket person who should just SHUT UP and tell the goddamned story.
(In case you're wondering, my son must have left the book on my bedside table.)
2. If you stretch out your left arm as far as possible, what are you touching?
My bedside table. I am all about the wireless DSL laptop in bed, man.
3. What's the last program you watched on TV?
How Clean is Your House?
4. Without looking, guess what time it is.
9:00 p.m. Whoops! Silly me. It's 9:00 A.M. Time to get up! No, really. It's time!
"Hurry up, please, it's time."
T. S. Eliot
Damn. Even T. S. Eliot can't get me up.
5. Aside from the computer, what can you hear right now?
A siren, the television going in my son's room, HVAC, my husband blowing his nose. And now the toilet seat just banged down. Aren't you glad you asked?
6. When was the last time you were outside and what did you do?
Last night, coming home from the opera.
7. What are you wearing?
A pair of pink Lilly Pulitzer cotton broadcloth pajamas.
8. Did you dream last night? If you did, what about?
I've been told by people who claim to be dream experts that I dream every night. I'd like them to prove it.
9. When was the last time you laughed?
Last night walking to the apartment door from the elevator.
10. What's on the walls, in the room you're in right now?
Two framed black and white photographs.
11. Have you seen anything strange lately?
A cab driver who didn't pick us up last night was acting very strange. I'm glad we didn't get in his cab OR YOU MIGHT NOT BE READING THIS.
12. What do you think about this meme?
Eh.
13. What's the last film you saw?
Master and Commander.
14. If you became a multimillionaire, what would you do with the money?
Pay off the house, sock some away for the kids' college funds, give a lot to charities, travel, invest, buy myself a shitload of jewelry.
15. Tell us something about yourself that most people don't know.
My husband had to talk me into getting married.
16. If you could change ONE THING in this world, without regarding politics or bad guilt, what would it be?
I would invent a clean, cheap source of energy.
17. Do you like dancing?
Yes. I would rather do it than watch it, except for ballet. Modern dance creeps me out.
18. George Bush?
Cheer up. In only two more years someone better will be on deck.
19. What do you want your children's names to be, girl/boy?
They have them already.
20. Would you ever consider living abroad?
Yes. I owe it to my heritage to discover what my emigrant ancestors were running away from.
21. What do you want God to tell you, when you come to heaven?
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Oh, and before I forget--your father is playing piano in that bar over there, and he Me to tell you to get over there as soon as you show up, because he needs a vocalist who can really sing Gershwin."
22. Who should do this meme?
The boys on my links list. Stop stalking me and get to work!
Friday, October 27, 2006
Where I been, girl!
Because I know you've been wanting to ask me "WHERE YOU BEEN, GIRL?"
And because you're so young, Internet, I thought that rather than tell you, I'd show you. Like a picture book. Except with copyright infringement.
You're so young, Internet. You won't remember the Suzy Homemaker doll
but I always wanted one.
Little did I know that I would become one. With, ooh, look! The dishwasher!
And the washing machine!
So that explains part of where I been. I was playing with my doll and wondering why she wasn't better at doing the laundry and the dishes.
Then there was a trip to Chicago to sing here. In a drawing.
(It's the best I could steal from you, Internet.)
And on another day, another trip to Chicago, to go here
(No, not the skyscraper. The old, pretty building) to look at this
and this
to determine whether it would be good for a cocktail party. For 200 people. (It was thought to be too large.)
And then back home to help my kids learn this:
In this re-enactment of Wednesday afternoon, Poppy Buxom is being played by Pat Morito.
And then last night! Four hours at the local fire station to do this
except in English. Which, you'll be glad to hear, is my first language (although you'd never guess it from this blog.)
And that's where I've been.
Oh, and I forgot one thing--I'm really not here, today, I'm here.
And because you're so young, Internet, I thought that rather than tell you, I'd show you. Like a picture book. Except with copyright infringement.
You're so young, Internet. You won't remember the Suzy Homemaker doll
but I always wanted one.
Little did I know that I would become one. With, ooh, look! The dishwasher!
And the washing machine!
So that explains part of where I been. I was playing with my doll and wondering why she wasn't better at doing the laundry and the dishes.
Then there was a trip to Chicago to sing here. In a drawing.
(It's the best I could steal from you, Internet.)
And on another day, another trip to Chicago, to go here
(No, not the skyscraper. The old, pretty building) to look at this
and this
to determine whether it would be good for a cocktail party. For 200 people. (It was thought to be too large.)
And then back home to help my kids learn this:
In this re-enactment of Wednesday afternoon, Poppy Buxom is being played by Pat Morito.
And then last night! Four hours at the local fire station to do this
except in English. Which, you'll be glad to hear, is my first language (although you'd never guess it from this blog.)
And that's where I've been.
Oh, and I forgot one thing--I'm really not here, today, I'm here.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Reading the cookbook after the party is over is not quite as silly as locking the barn door after the horses are stolen. But it's close.
Greetings, Internet! Long time no see.
Do you know what? Badger is swell.
On Thursday, or maybe it was Friday (because who can remember back that far? Not Poppy "A is for Alzheimer's" Buxom) I received an Amazon package from Badger. It was this.
(And now, while I wait for Blogger to decide whether it wants to upload the image, I'll take a minute of your time ... or maybe it will be a half hour ... still waiting ... to tell you how awesome ... no image yet ... Badger is. I mean, is she amazing or what? I mention I'm giving a party on my blog, and she sends me a present! And what could be more perfect--a book about how to give parties?)
OK, I'm giving up on Blogger. No photo. Click on the link if you want to see the book.
So anyway. Badger's note said something about this book helping me with the Halloween party I was having Saturday night.
Now, this was very sweet and thoughtful of her, but what with cleaning and ordering flowers and cooking and filling the window boxes with pumpkins and chrysanthemums and stringing up orange lights, I didn't have time to read the book.
And as it turns out, I wished I had. Because I was dealing with some puzzling hostess-y issues. And because I am rather outspoken, I was trying and failing to convey the tactful version of this thought:
See, this is a family party. I don't invite just couples, I invite the entire family. But that doesn't mean I want the grown-ups to cede control of their children to the four winds. And yes, because my children have their own problems, I'm used to a certain level of craziness, and I tend to overlook stuff.
However, in the case of this one particular family, even the neurobehaviorally normal children weren't exactly filling their hostess (that would be me) with the rosy glow of good fellowship. After I had pryed the youngest one's fingers off the piano keyboard not once but twice (Because banging piano keys! Is! FUN!) and discovered the middle child walking around naked (because he tried and failed to get back into his costume after using the facilities without help) I discovered that the one who did have NB issues was down in the basement
throwing That Stud Muffin I Married's weights around.
It was at this point that I really regretted not having taken the time to read Amy Sedaris's funny and charming book on entertaining. Obviously some expertise in handling very short, loud, destructive party guests was called for. If only I had thought to take a quick glance at the book ... maybe the index would mention something about how a hostess whose guests are chucking five-pound iron plates around is supposed to handle the situation. And if not, then, clearly the book would suggest a Plan B, wherein (and I will now express my feelings in a haiku)
The book's purpose was
To be brought down hard upon
Those idiots' heads.
But unfortunately, it didn't happen. No heads were injured in the making of Poppy: The Annual Halloween Party.
So lacking those two ways of helping the distraught hostess, the book's purpose has become to entertain said hostess while she sits in the nice, peaceful, if somewhat trashed silence of her home, enjoying a cup of tea and the total absence of guests.
So thank you, Badger. You are a sanity-saver. And next year? Can I hire you to be a bouncer?
Do you know what? Badger is swell.
On Thursday, or maybe it was Friday (because who can remember back that far? Not Poppy "A is for Alzheimer's" Buxom) I received an Amazon package from Badger. It was this.
(And now, while I wait for Blogger to decide whether it wants to upload the image, I'll take a minute of your time ... or maybe it will be a half hour ... still waiting ... to tell you how awesome ... no image yet ... Badger is. I mean, is she amazing or what? I mention I'm giving a party on my blog, and she sends me a present! And what could be more perfect--a book about how to give parties?)
OK, I'm giving up on Blogger. No photo. Click on the link if you want to see the book.
So anyway. Badger's note said something about this book helping me with the Halloween party I was having Saturday night.
Now, this was very sweet and thoughtful of her, but what with cleaning and ordering flowers and cooking and filling the window boxes with pumpkins and chrysanthemums and stringing up orange lights, I didn't have time to read the book.
And as it turns out, I wished I had. Because I was dealing with some puzzling hostess-y issues. And because I am rather outspoken, I was trying and failing to convey the tactful version of this thought:
Just because your child has neurobehavioral issues and my children have neurobehavioral issues does not mean you can bring your children to my house and then basically ignore them.
See, this is a family party. I don't invite just couples, I invite the entire family. But that doesn't mean I want the grown-ups to cede control of their children to the four winds. And yes, because my children have their own problems, I'm used to a certain level of craziness, and I tend to overlook stuff.
However, in the case of this one particular family, even the neurobehaviorally normal children weren't exactly filling their hostess (that would be me) with the rosy glow of good fellowship. After I had pryed the youngest one's fingers off the piano keyboard not once but twice (Because banging piano keys! Is! FUN!) and discovered the middle child walking around naked (because he tried and failed to get back into his costume after using the facilities without help) I discovered that the one who did have NB issues was down in the basement
throwing That Stud Muffin I Married's weights around.
It was at this point that I really regretted not having taken the time to read Amy Sedaris's funny and charming book on entertaining. Obviously some expertise in handling very short, loud, destructive party guests was called for. If only I had thought to take a quick glance at the book ... maybe the index would mention something about how a hostess whose guests are chucking five-pound iron plates around is supposed to handle the situation. And if not, then, clearly the book would suggest a Plan B, wherein (and I will now express my feelings in a haiku)
The book's purpose was
To be brought down hard upon
Those idiots' heads.
But unfortunately, it didn't happen. No heads were injured in the making of Poppy: The Annual Halloween Party.
So lacking those two ways of helping the distraught hostess, the book's purpose has become to entertain said hostess while she sits in the nice, peaceful, if somewhat trashed silence of her home, enjoying a cup of tea and the total absence of guests.
So thank you, Badger. You are a sanity-saver. And next year? Can I hire you to be a bouncer?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
On a lighter note
Last week I was having lunch with some female friends, and we started to discuss what makes a man attractive. And we all concluded that men who make us laugh score very highly in the attractiveness sweepstakes.
And all of a sudden, I had a flash of genius. GENIUS, I tell you. As in, the committee from Stockholm will be announcing very soon that Poppy Buxom has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Everything Smart.
Here is my genius idea:
Laughing is a powerful, sometimes completely overwhelming physical response to an outside stimulus.
Now, since most females have a strong craving for an unrelated but equally powerful, sometimes completely overwhelming physical response, might we assume that a guy who can provide one overwhelming physical response might be able to provide the other?* And if he's really funny, in multiple amounts?
Well, duh. Of course. Not on the conscious level, of course. But on the unconscious level--definitely.
And now, please excuse me. I need to figure out what to wear to the ceremony in Stockholm.
* Just so you know, I'm not talking about sneezing.
And all of a sudden, I had a flash of genius. GENIUS, I tell you. As in, the committee from Stockholm will be announcing very soon that Poppy Buxom has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Everything Smart.
Here is my genius idea:
Laughing is a powerful, sometimes completely overwhelming physical response to an outside stimulus.
Now, since most females have a strong craving for an unrelated but equally powerful, sometimes completely overwhelming physical response, might we assume that a guy who can provide one overwhelming physical response might be able to provide the other?* And if he's really funny, in multiple amounts?
Well, duh. Of course. Not on the conscious level, of course. But on the unconscious level--definitely.
And now, please excuse me. I need to figure out what to wear to the ceremony in Stockholm.
* Just so you know, I'm not talking about sneezing.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Too Much Singing
You don't want to know about it. You really don't. But I'm going to tell you anyway. This is what my day was like:
6:45 Up with the birds
7:55 Got my children up, fed, dressed, and off to school
8:20 My son called because he thought he had forgotten the school t-shirt he was supposed to wear for the concerts today. He didn't. The t-shirt was in his backpack AS I HAD INFORMED HIM WHEN HE LEFT THE HOUSE 25 MINUTES PREVIOUSLY. But the phone call gave me the chance to remind him that he had left his cello at home. The one he needed for first period. Which had just started.
8:22 Drove to school; dropped off cello.
10:00 Came home to learn the piece for the concerts. Yes, although I am not a student at the school, I had a solo. And I got the music yesterday.
11:15 Arrived looking half-way decent. (Look! Mrs. Buxom is wearing makeup!) Spent the next four hours in the school auditorium for rehearsal plus two performances.
3:15 Escape! Back home.
3:30 Daughter arrives home in tears.
4:00 Just when daughter is sufficiently calmed down and capable of doing her homework, it's time to leave for her therapy.
5:10 And now! We leave the Social Skills therapy for Karate therapy! Yes! Back-to-back therapies! You want to party with the Buxoms, you know you do.
6:10 During Karate, I sneaked over to McDonald's to pick up the children's Happy Meals. Luckily my low-cal, low-fat, Seattle Sutton diet meal was waiting for me at home.
6:30 Take children home from Karate; gobble dinners.
6:55 Depart for final concert of the day. Yes. Three concerts. The same solo three times.
7:15 Concert starts.
8:15 Concert over. As we're leaving, my son points out the little turdball who's been giving him a hard time lately.
8:25 Walk back home having given little turdball a piece of what's left of my mind.
8:30 Arrive back home. Start helping son with homework.
9:00 Stagger toward refrigerator for a much-deserved GLASS OF WINE.
9:15 Finish blogging about it.
6:45 Up with the birds
7:55 Got my children up, fed, dressed, and off to school
8:20 My son called because he thought he had forgotten the school t-shirt he was supposed to wear for the concerts today. He didn't. The t-shirt was in his backpack AS I HAD INFORMED HIM WHEN HE LEFT THE HOUSE 25 MINUTES PREVIOUSLY. But the phone call gave me the chance to remind him that he had left his cello at home. The one he needed for first period. Which had just started.
8:22 Drove to school; dropped off cello.
10:00 Came home to learn the piece for the concerts. Yes, although I am not a student at the school, I had a solo. And I got the music yesterday.
11:15 Arrived looking half-way decent. (Look! Mrs. Buxom is wearing makeup!) Spent the next four hours in the school auditorium for rehearsal plus two performances.
3:15 Escape! Back home.
3:30 Daughter arrives home in tears.
4:00 Just when daughter is sufficiently calmed down and capable of doing her homework, it's time to leave for her therapy.
5:10 And now! We leave the Social Skills therapy for Karate therapy! Yes! Back-to-back therapies! You want to party with the Buxoms, you know you do.
6:10 During Karate, I sneaked over to McDonald's to pick up the children's Happy Meals. Luckily my low-cal, low-fat, Seattle Sutton diet meal was waiting for me at home.
6:30 Take children home from Karate; gobble dinners.
6:55 Depart for final concert of the day. Yes. Three concerts. The same solo three times.
7:15 Concert starts.
8:15 Concert over. As we're leaving, my son points out the little turdball who's been giving him a hard time lately.
8:25 Walk back home having given little turdball a piece of what's left of my mind.
8:30 Arrive back home. Start helping son with homework.
9:00 Stagger toward refrigerator for a much-deserved GLASS OF WINE.
9:15 Finish blogging about it.
Monday, October 16, 2006
I Promise to Do My Duty to God and My Country. And Miss Brit.
Gentle Readers,
I'm boring today.
Not only am I getting ready for Saturday's Halloween party, I'm also getting ready to spend my second year as a Girl Scout leader.
My daughter flew up from Brownies and is now a Junior. With a new uniform (that I, at the ultra-last-minute, drove to the GS store to buy on Friday) and a vest for badges (that I, at the ultra-ultra-last-minute, just finished attaching.)
Can I wax nostalgic for a minute? I was a Girl Scout, too. And oh, the fun times ahead, what with the sing-alongs and the camping and the service projects and the cookie sales and WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??? I'm waaaaay too unorganized for this.
Would you like to know how much time I spent trying to iron on the last two patches before I realized that they're the kind you're supposed to sew? Well, forget it, Internet. I won't gratify you by telling. Let's just say that I've already spent way too much time feeling like an Girl Scout Leading idiot today, and the meeting hasn't even started.
I mean, me? A Girl Scout Leader? Can I please be a Girl Scout Follower, instead?
So anyway, while I'm freaking out, check out Miss Brit, my new tenant. Her latest post discusses another reason to hate the Yankees. Who suck! Check her out! And if you're a New York Fan? Fuck you!
I'm boring today.
Not only am I getting ready for Saturday's Halloween party, I'm also getting ready to spend my second year as a Girl Scout leader.
My daughter flew up from Brownies and is now a Junior. With a new uniform (that I, at the ultra-last-minute, drove to the GS store to buy on Friday) and a vest for badges (that I, at the ultra-ultra-last-minute, just finished attaching.)
Can I wax nostalgic for a minute? I was a Girl Scout, too. And oh, the fun times ahead, what with the sing-alongs and the camping and the service projects and the cookie sales and WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??? I'm waaaaay too unorganized for this.
Would you like to know how much time I spent trying to iron on the last two patches before I realized that they're the kind you're supposed to sew? Well, forget it, Internet. I won't gratify you by telling. Let's just say that I've already spent way too much time feeling like an Girl Scout Leading idiot today, and the meeting hasn't even started.
I mean, me? A Girl Scout Leader? Can I please be a Girl Scout Follower, instead?
So anyway, while I'm freaking out, check out Miss Brit, my new tenant. Her latest post discusses another reason to hate the Yankees. Who suck! Check her out! And if you're a New York Fan? Fuck you!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Good news, Internet! You're off the hook.
Two friends of mine have already agreed to come to my Halloween party next Saturday night. So save your plane fare pennies for another party. You don't need to fly to Chicago to help me look popular.
Now all I have to do is:
1. arrange for a housecleaning service to come and disinfect the place;
2. nag That Stud Muffin I Married into making sure the bar is well stocked, and that means ice, too, mister;
3. arrange for my children's costumes, and let's hope it's not like last year because I will never attain that level of glorious crafty-mommy-ness again;
4. decorate the house;
5. order the flowers;
6. purchase the paper goods and goodie bags for the children;
7. come up with a menu; get the ingredients; cook the food;
8. carve at least one pumpkin;
9. panic and call more friends to get them to come;
10. panic more and stand on a nearby street corner holding up a big sign that says "Free Food and Drinks!"
12. panic more and hack into the Google Maps site so that no matter what you're searching for, you end up with a map to my house;
13. decide to stop panicking. Make a punchbowl of Margaritas and bob for lime wedges until I pass out.
This would all be fine if I had 10 days to do it all. I mean, that sounds do-able, right? Right?
Except I actually have about three and a half days to do it. The chorus director at my kids' school asked me to sing a solo at a school concert on Wednesday, so in addition to the usual crap I do, I have to find time to learn new music; rehearse; decide that I'm too fat to be seen in public; and decide that my children will probably disown me because I'm going to make a total asshole out of myself.
On second thought, it all sounds about as do-able as my average week. When I think about an average week of my life, what with the homework, the karate classes, the volunteer crap, the groceries and ALL THAT LAUNDRY, I feel a strong urge to lie down on the sofa and drink margaritas. And yet! I have managed to survive this long.
So that's good. Chances are I'll survive this whole Halloween party thing. And if I don't, I'll have more important things to worry about than whether I should get the Costco guacamole or make it from scratch.
Now all I have to do is:
1. arrange for a housecleaning service to come and disinfect the place;
2. nag That Stud Muffin I Married into making sure the bar is well stocked, and that means ice, too, mister;
3. arrange for my children's costumes, and let's hope it's not like last year because I will never attain that level of glorious crafty-mommy-ness again;
4. decorate the house;
5. order the flowers;
6. purchase the paper goods and goodie bags for the children;
7. come up with a menu; get the ingredients; cook the food;
8. carve at least one pumpkin;
9. panic and call more friends to get them to come;
10. panic more and stand on a nearby street corner holding up a big sign that says "Free Food and Drinks!"
12. panic more and hack into the Google Maps site so that no matter what you're searching for, you end up with a map to my house;
13. decide to stop panicking. Make a punchbowl of Margaritas and bob for lime wedges until I pass out.
This would all be fine if I had 10 days to do it all. I mean, that sounds do-able, right? Right?
Except I actually have about three and a half days to do it. The chorus director at my kids' school asked me to sing a solo at a school concert on Wednesday, so in addition to the usual crap I do, I have to find time to learn new music; rehearse; decide that I'm too fat to be seen in public; and decide that my children will probably disown me because I'm going to make a total asshole out of myself.
On second thought, it all sounds about as do-able as my average week. When I think about an average week of my life, what with the homework, the karate classes, the volunteer crap, the groceries and ALL THAT LAUNDRY, I feel a strong urge to lie down on the sofa and drink margaritas. And yet! I have managed to survive this long.
So that's good. Chances are I'll survive this whole Halloween party thing. And if I don't, I'll have more important things to worry about than whether I should get the Costco guacamole or make it from scratch.
Friday, October 13, 2006
I got better.
I don't know what it was, but for a while there, I was pretty grumpy. Like a female dog, but starting with the President's nickname. (Bzzzz! We have a winner! Yes, internet, the correct answer is "a witch.")
See, I started a tradition three years ago. I threw a Halloween open house for people with kids, so they could bring their kids, and the kids could wear their costumes, and the grown-ups could hang around while the kids played and not have to get a sitter. I get barbecued pork from Hecky's and make some side dishes and desserts and let everyone come over and eat and drink and listen to my idiotic playlist of Halloween music (Alice Cooper's "Feed My Frankenstein" being right up there in popularity with the "Theme from Dark Shadows.")
But for some reason, I didn't want to do it this year. Maybe it was because I tend to go a bit crazy when I have a party, so what with the food, decorations, and flowers, I felt a bit overwhelmed. I just didn't want to deal with it. So I figured, what the hell, I don't have to have the party.
But then I found out that my kids invited their beloved babysitter, the woman who took care of them for nine years--NINE YEARS, PEOPLE!--and she had agreed to come.
So now I'm having the party. Next Saturday night, the 21st, from 5:00 until whenever I see fit to kick people out. And since this is insultingly late notice, and I'm afraid I won't be able to get anyone to come, guess what? I'm inviting the internet.
Yes, Internet, you're invited. If you know where I live, have talked to me on the phone, have met me, or live in the Chicago area, you're invited. YES, I REALLY AM THAT DESPERATE. Otherwise it will be my husband, my kids, and the babysitter. And I'll feel like Stella Dallas, or Miss Havisham, except in a witch hat.
(Does anyone know who Miss Havisham is, or am I being an English Major again? Dickens? Great Expectations? Old lady sitting around in her wedding dress?)
See, I started a tradition three years ago. I threw a Halloween open house for people with kids, so they could bring their kids, and the kids could wear their costumes, and the grown-ups could hang around while the kids played and not have to get a sitter. I get barbecued pork from Hecky's and make some side dishes and desserts and let everyone come over and eat and drink and listen to my idiotic playlist of Halloween music (Alice Cooper's "Feed My Frankenstein" being right up there in popularity with the "Theme from Dark Shadows.")
But for some reason, I didn't want to do it this year. Maybe it was because I tend to go a bit crazy when I have a party, so what with the food, decorations, and flowers, I felt a bit overwhelmed. I just didn't want to deal with it. So I figured, what the hell, I don't have to have the party.
But then I found out that my kids invited their beloved babysitter, the woman who took care of them for nine years--NINE YEARS, PEOPLE!--and she had agreed to come.
So now I'm having the party. Next Saturday night, the 21st, from 5:00 until whenever I see fit to kick people out. And since this is insultingly late notice, and I'm afraid I won't be able to get anyone to come, guess what? I'm inviting the internet.
Yes, Internet, you're invited. If you know where I live, have talked to me on the phone, have met me, or live in the Chicago area, you're invited. YES, I REALLY AM THAT DESPERATE. Otherwise it will be my husband, my kids, and the babysitter. And I'll feel like Stella Dallas, or Miss Havisham, except in a witch hat.
(Does anyone know who Miss Havisham is, or am I being an English Major again? Dickens? Great Expectations? Old lady sitting around in her wedding dress?)
Thursday, October 12, 2006
A blog exercise.
Please read the following, and then try to picture my current emotional state:
1. It's October 12th.
2. It's snowing.
1. It's October 12th.
2. It's snowing.
Monday, October 9, 2006
Two great tastes that taste great together.
Greetings, Internet! I'm sitting here drinking wine, listening to my children watch Monkey Business, and enjoying my favorite emotion: feeling smug. Yes, there's nothing like the sense of being right to give me a warm glow all over.
Mind you, I feel that way almost all the time, but it's not every night that my husband flattens himself and approaches me wriggling on the floor, like the guys on Combat! (or Carl Spackler sneaking up on the gopher's hideout in Caddyshack.) The flattened, full-body wriggle was to beg my pardon for basely accusing me, the wife of his bosom, of misplacing the remote control for the garage door opener. When it had been in the car all along.
Now, if there's anything I like better than being right, it's being right when my husband is wrong. It's kind of like the Red Sox. The only thing better than the Red Sox winning is the Red Sox winning and the Yankees getting their asses kicked.
Of course, the Sox and the Yankees are out of the running, so the cry goes up on the internet: "Less talk about the post-season, Poppy, and more talk about the present!" I hear and obey, oh internet: we're back from a Columbus Day weekend in New Hampshire, where for once, I didn't eat any lobster. I did enjoy the lack of sales tax, though, and I bought a new laptop to prove it.
See, I dropped my last laptop and cracked the screen. With every passing week, the crack got worse. Lately about a third of the screen was utterly useless, with big black blotches covering everything I needed to see. I had to blog with my peripheral vision. Hence the typos, spelling errors, and grammatical solecisms.
But now! Now I've got a brand-new laptop with a great big 17-inch screen. It's huge and bright, and I don't have any cracks to work around, so from here on, any typos are strictly my fault. If you see any misspellings, email me the bad news, and then? Because you'll have been right when I was wrong? You can join me in smugness. But hurry up, before I drink up all the wine.
Mind you, I feel that way almost all the time, but it's not every night that my husband flattens himself and approaches me wriggling on the floor, like the guys on Combat! (or Carl Spackler sneaking up on the gopher's hideout in Caddyshack.) The flattened, full-body wriggle was to beg my pardon for basely accusing me, the wife of his bosom, of misplacing the remote control for the garage door opener. When it had been in the car all along.
Now, if there's anything I like better than being right, it's being right when my husband is wrong. It's kind of like the Red Sox. The only thing better than the Red Sox winning is the Red Sox winning and the Yankees getting their asses kicked.
Of course, the Sox and the Yankees are out of the running, so the cry goes up on the internet: "Less talk about the post-season, Poppy, and more talk about the present!" I hear and obey, oh internet: we're back from a Columbus Day weekend in New Hampshire, where for once, I didn't eat any lobster. I did enjoy the lack of sales tax, though, and I bought a new laptop to prove it.
See, I dropped my last laptop and cracked the screen. With every passing week, the crack got worse. Lately about a third of the screen was utterly useless, with big black blotches covering everything I needed to see. I had to blog with my peripheral vision. Hence the typos, spelling errors, and grammatical solecisms.
But now! Now I've got a brand-new laptop with a great big 17-inch screen. It's huge and bright, and I don't have any cracks to work around, so from here on, any typos are strictly my fault. If you see any misspellings, email me the bad news, and then? Because you'll have been right when I was wrong? You can join me in smugness. But hurry up, before I drink up all the wine.
Saturday, October 7, 2006
Ack! Fantastic Halloween Recipes!
You know how I think I'm this fabulously retro housewife type? (If you didn't know that already, you could click on the More about Poppy link over there on the left. Or you could just trust me. Your choice.)
Anyway. Here I am, a self-declared housewife completely obsessed with retro-y goodies (with a whole other blog devoted to just that) and like a complete asswipe, I forgot to pimp Come and Get It, Recipes from the Baking Betties, which only happens to be the blog that is renting from me this week.
And right now, the Betties, Bozette and Luna, are featuring a ton of really fun Halloween recipes, which only happens to be perfect timing, because I have a big Halloween party to deal with. And I'm always looking for great new Halloween-y recipes.
So this site only happens to be MANNA FROM HEAVEN, that's all.
Please click on it and enjoy!
Anyway. Here I am, a self-declared housewife completely obsessed with retro-y goodies (with a whole other blog devoted to just that) and like a complete asswipe, I forgot to pimp Come and Get It, Recipes from the Baking Betties, which only happens to be the blog that is renting from me this week.
And right now, the Betties, Bozette and Luna, are featuring a ton of really fun Halloween recipes, which only happens to be perfect timing, because I have a big Halloween party to deal with. And I'm always looking for great new Halloween-y recipes.
So this site only happens to be MANNA FROM HEAVEN, that's all.
Please click on it and enjoy!
Friday, October 6, 2006
On Columbus Day, Poppy Discovered New England.
Did you know that you can get to the New World by flying west? Because that's what I did this morning, and guess what? The natives are friendly and peaceful, and even speak what sounds like a variety of English. (Although they talk wicked funny.) So I've decided to call this place "New England." Yay me!
And listen, you decadent Old World types: the leaves here are amazing, brilliant colors, all yellow and orange and red. It's as though the trees are on fire! And yet, there is a refreshing nip in the air.
But of course, this is the Buxoms we're talking about, so are we checking out the flora and fauna? Of course not. One of us is watching Star Wars, one is listening to CDs on her Walkman, one is blogging, and one has decided to cook dinner.
Happy Columbus Day weekend, and may the force be with you.
p.s. Recently Sweetney commented over here, and I checked out her blog. Inspired by her excellent "About me" post, I decided--after two years of blogging--to write one myself. I pretty much followed the format of her entry, and I'm hoping that this will be perceived as homage, rather than the theft of her intellectual property. Those of you who are tired of my whimsicality yet who crave more of my so-called insights will find the link over there to the left, near the picture Mucha painted of me.
And listen, you decadent Old World types: the leaves here are amazing, brilliant colors, all yellow and orange and red. It's as though the trees are on fire! And yet, there is a refreshing nip in the air.
But of course, this is the Buxoms we're talking about, so are we checking out the flora and fauna? Of course not. One of us is watching Star Wars, one is listening to CDs on her Walkman, one is blogging, and one has decided to cook dinner.
Happy Columbus Day weekend, and may the force be with you.
p.s. Recently Sweetney commented over here, and I checked out her blog. Inspired by her excellent "About me" post, I decided--after two years of blogging--to write one myself. I pretty much followed the format of her entry, and I'm hoping that this will be perceived as homage, rather than the theft of her intellectual property. Those of you who are tired of my whimsicality yet who crave more of my so-called insights will find the link over there to the left, near the picture Mucha painted of me.
Thursday, October 5, 2006
Wednesday, October 4, 2006
Are we not mental? We are bloggers.
I was killing time waiting for the idiotic babysitter to call me and tell me that she's lost. Again. And I figured it was time to catch up on some of my blogs. Many of which are mommyblogs.
And while I was reading, I discovered that blogger A was over-reacting to that, and blogger B was over-reacting to this, and I started to wonder: are all mommybloggers mental?
Am I being subjective, or is this an independently verifiable fact? Is there some kind of depressive miasma that engulfs you when you start to blog? Or was it there to begin with? In fact, did the depression cause the blogging?
And such drama! Over ... not very much. Is it real, or is it Memorex? Is it everyone, or is it just Finslippy?
Because today Finslippy was talking about her son having meltdowns all over the map--weeping hysterically because he's hungry or the other kids aren't being friendly. And she's getting hundreds of supportive comments from various people, all about the awful grown-ups who say the wrong, insensitive thing to a child who is having a tantrum at their feet. While they're waiting for what they hoped would be a nice, relaxing lunch.
And--because I'm an asshole and just can't help it--I find myself thinking not "Oh, poor Alice." No, my first thought is "Have you had Henry evaluated by a mental health professional?"
Am I totally alone in this, or is reading some of the blogs out there ... kind of a like watching a trainwreck? I mean, when you have a blogger who admits to being on meds ... am I the only person IN THE WORLD who thinks there might be a chance that the child has problems, too?
And while I was reading, I discovered that blogger A was over-reacting to that, and blogger B was over-reacting to this, and I started to wonder: are all mommybloggers mental?
Am I being subjective, or is this an independently verifiable fact? Is there some kind of depressive miasma that engulfs you when you start to blog? Or was it there to begin with? In fact, did the depression cause the blogging?
And such drama! Over ... not very much. Is it real, or is it Memorex? Is it everyone, or is it just Finslippy?
Because today Finslippy was talking about her son having meltdowns all over the map--weeping hysterically because he's hungry or the other kids aren't being friendly. And she's getting hundreds of supportive comments from various people, all about the awful grown-ups who say the wrong, insensitive thing to a child who is having a tantrum at their feet. While they're waiting for what they hoped would be a nice, relaxing lunch.
And--because I'm an asshole and just can't help it--I find myself thinking not "Oh, poor Alice." No, my first thought is "Have you had Henry evaluated by a mental health professional?"
Am I totally alone in this, or is reading some of the blogs out there ... kind of a like watching a trainwreck? I mean, when you have a blogger who admits to being on meds ... am I the only person IN THE WORLD who thinks there might be a chance that the child has problems, too?
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
Stealth Poppy
Shhhh ... I'm all about the sneaky.
1. Notice anything different? I changed something. In a sort of subtle, sort of sneaky way. The first one to name that change wins! (Prize to be determined at some undetermined future date.)
2. Links, shminks. Look, I try to add everyone to my links who has me in his or hers, but I don't always have the time, Blogger doesn't always load as quickly as I'd like, and hey! I'm old! All this HTML twiddling and fine-tuning is for you young whippersnappers who don't need reading glasses.
Instead, I have updated my Bloglines feeds. And now--well, you know how they say that the mosquitoes you can hear buzzing aren't the ones that are going to bite you, and that it's the silent, stealthy, female-is-more-deadly-than-the-male mosquitoes that are going to nail you, so when you hear that tell-tale whining sound, fear not, but when you hear nothing at all? BE VERY AFRAID. You've heard that, right? Well, now, when you check your stats, and nobody is clicking to you from here, but you see some sneaky Bloglines visitor--that's me.
3. I just saw a really, really chubby woman out walking with her not-so-chubby friend. She was smiling, talking, and laughing, pumping her arms, moving at a good clip, and her midriff bulge was going wubba-wubba-wubba with every step she took.
So you'll have to excuse me. I need to run out the door, sneak up on her, tackle her and then? Force her to be my best friend. Because I swear she's the first woman I've seen in this neighborhood with a weight problem.
1. Notice anything different? I changed something. In a sort of subtle, sort of sneaky way. The first one to name that change wins! (Prize to be determined at some undetermined future date.)
2. Links, shminks. Look, I try to add everyone to my links who has me in his or hers, but I don't always have the time, Blogger doesn't always load as quickly as I'd like, and hey! I'm old! All this HTML twiddling and fine-tuning is for you young whippersnappers who don't need reading glasses.
Instead, I have updated my Bloglines feeds. And now--well, you know how they say that the mosquitoes you can hear buzzing aren't the ones that are going to bite you, and that it's the silent, stealthy, female-is-more-deadly-than-the-male mosquitoes that are going to nail you, so when you hear that tell-tale whining sound, fear not, but when you hear nothing at all? BE VERY AFRAID. You've heard that, right? Well, now, when you check your stats, and nobody is clicking to you from here, but you see some sneaky Bloglines visitor--that's me.
3. I just saw a really, really chubby woman out walking with her not-so-chubby friend. She was smiling, talking, and laughing, pumping her arms, moving at a good clip, and her midriff bulge was going wubba-wubba-wubba with every step she took.
So you'll have to excuse me. I need to run out the door, sneak up on her, tackle her and then? Force her to be my best friend. Because I swear she's the first woman I've seen in this neighborhood with a weight problem.
Sunday, October 1, 2006
I've been having fun, that's where I've been.
Sorry, internet, but I haven't been around, partly because I haven't had anything to complain about lately. I know that as a SAHM, I'm suposed to be whining about all the crap that sucks, but lately, life has been rich, full, and rosy.
First of all, this is a three-day weekend. Thanks to God's Chosen People, my kids don't have school tomorrow. Frankly, I've never understood anti-semitism, and it seems especially stupid in a year when Yom Kippur is on a Monday. Ok, I realize this isn't what the Jews had in mind when they started observing Yom Kippur, but hey, I'll take it. What with Columbus Day next Monday, that makes two three-day weekends in a row. What's not to like? I say God bless God's Chosen People.
You know, over the past 15 years, representatives from at least five other religions have kissed up to me big-time, trying to get me to join up. So I really have to hand it to the Jews. They don't want me to sign up; they don't care whether I keep Kosher, I'm fine exactly the way I am. I don't need to change a thing. And on top of that, they get me Monday off.
The Seventh Day Adventists and the Mormons and the othergoofball religious fanatics people who've tried to get me to switch religions could learn something from the Jews. Want me to sign up? Offer me a holiday with no strings attached and maybe we'll talk. Maybe.
OK, so what else can I gloat about? Well, today I was at church pretty much all day, because in addition to our regular Sunday service, to honor St. Francis we had an Evensong and Pet Blessing. How fun is a church full of dogs and their owners? Very fun, that's how fun.
And! When the choir was assembling outside the church, a woman rushed up to me and burbled something about being in town from California, and she wasn't a member of this church, but she'd heard about this kind of service, and would I please bless her dog?
Me. Bless her dog. Riiiiiiiiiiight.
Well, I was wearing a choir robe. So maybe I looked holy or something. But I told her that what she needed was a clergyman. So I took her over to the vicar, and he blessed her dog.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "This responsible and mature person is obviously an imposter. This is not our Poppy! Our Poppy would have made up some kind of extemporaneous prayery-sounding thing, concluding with the phrase "In Dog We Trust."
I know you're thinking that. I can tell. Because I'mGod omniscient.
Hah! fooled you. Once in a while, when I'm in the mood, I act like a grown up.
OK, so then, when I recessing out of the cathedral with the choir, whom did I see but my husband and children. This was very heart-warming because my children are far tooselfish young to realize that I have sat through many of their concerts, and coming to support my musical efforts would be a nice gesture.
But I didn't think they were going to make it. In fact, I stopped the vicar during the blessing of the pets thing and got a St. Francis medal for my son's turtle, because YOU JUST NEVER KNOW when the Jews are going to decide that I suck, take away my long weekend, and get God to smite my son's turtle. So the vicar prayed for my son's turtle, and I got a St. Francis medal that I'll hang from the turtle's enclosure.
Call it a turtle insurance policy.
So anyway, I'm sorry I haven't had much to whine about. But come on. Who could whine? I've got God's Chosen People and St. Francis looking out for me. Or maybe the Jews like me, and St. Francis just likes the my son's turtle. Whatever. It's all good.
See, I told you I was having a good weekend.
p.s. In other good news, on Friday night some friends took me and That Stud Muffin I Married to dinner at Charlie Trotter's, a mega-fancy restaurant which also happens to be very expensive. It's also extremely hard to get a table. But due to the adherents to what is fast becoming my favorite religion (see above) they had room for us on Friday night. So we had a lovely, lovely dinner with friends. We also got a tour of the restaurant's kitchen and wine cellars. (No more on that, because I'm working on a review for RW over at Chasing Vincenzo.)
First of all, this is a three-day weekend. Thanks to God's Chosen People, my kids don't have school tomorrow. Frankly, I've never understood anti-semitism, and it seems especially stupid in a year when Yom Kippur is on a Monday. Ok, I realize this isn't what the Jews had in mind when they started observing Yom Kippur, but hey, I'll take it. What with Columbus Day next Monday, that makes two three-day weekends in a row. What's not to like? I say God bless God's Chosen People.
You know, over the past 15 years, representatives from at least five other religions have kissed up to me big-time, trying to get me to join up. So I really have to hand it to the Jews. They don't want me to sign up; they don't care whether I keep Kosher, I'm fine exactly the way I am. I don't need to change a thing. And on top of that, they get me Monday off.
The Seventh Day Adventists and the Mormons and the other
OK, so what else can I gloat about? Well, today I was at church pretty much all day, because in addition to our regular Sunday service, to honor St. Francis we had an Evensong and Pet Blessing. How fun is a church full of dogs and their owners? Very fun, that's how fun.
And! When the choir was assembling outside the church, a woman rushed up to me and burbled something about being in town from California, and she wasn't a member of this church, but she'd heard about this kind of service, and would I please bless her dog?
Me. Bless her dog. Riiiiiiiiiiight.
Well, I was wearing a choir robe. So maybe I looked holy or something. But I told her that what she needed was a clergyman. So I took her over to the vicar, and he blessed her dog.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "This responsible and mature person is obviously an imposter. This is not our Poppy! Our Poppy would have made up some kind of extemporaneous prayery-sounding thing, concluding with the phrase "In Dog We Trust."
I know you're thinking that. I can tell. Because I'm
Hah! fooled you. Once in a while, when I'm in the mood, I act like a grown up.
OK, so then, when I recessing out of the cathedral with the choir, whom did I see but my husband and children. This was very heart-warming because my children are far too
But I didn't think they were going to make it. In fact, I stopped the vicar during the blessing of the pets thing and got a St. Francis medal for my son's turtle, because YOU JUST NEVER KNOW when the Jews are going to decide that I suck, take away my long weekend, and get God to smite my son's turtle. So the vicar prayed for my son's turtle, and I got a St. Francis medal that I'll hang from the turtle's enclosure.
Call it a turtle insurance policy.
So anyway, I'm sorry I haven't had much to whine about. But come on. Who could whine? I've got God's Chosen People and St. Francis looking out for me. Or maybe the Jews like me, and St. Francis just likes the my son's turtle. Whatever. It's all good.
See, I told you I was having a good weekend.
p.s. In other good news, on Friday night some friends took me and That Stud Muffin I Married to dinner at Charlie Trotter's, a mega-fancy restaurant which also happens to be very expensive. It's also extremely hard to get a table. But due to the adherents to what is fast becoming my favorite religion (see above) they had room for us on Friday night. So we had a lovely, lovely dinner with friends. We also got a tour of the restaurant's kitchen and wine cellars. (No more on that, because I'm working on a review for RW over at Chasing Vincenzo.)
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