The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day Seven

After a short plane ride, we got back to Chicago last night and immediately began to drink heavily rejoice in the presence of our far-away friends, the Jokes.

Today we had lunch at the Mity Nice grill and blathered ourselves hoarse chatted in quite an animated fashion.

Tonight we're going to a black-tie New Year's Eve party. Peter Duchin will be playing. Well, did you evah!

It should be an evening worthy of Truman Capote's swans:

Babe

C.Z.

Diana

Gloria

Lee

Marella

Slim

The evening promises to be positively a-swimming in glamour. And champagne.

Gotta go, darlings--Kenneth is here to do my hair.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 6

We're heading for the airport in a couple of hours to fly to Chicago, where we will rendez-vous with the Jokes.

Of course, it has decided to snow today. But with luck, it won't slow down our flight.

And speaking of flights, it's time to enjoy the Six Geese a Laying. And so, The Opiate of the Masses proudly presents my very favorite, very pregnant geese; the so-called ladies I've been mocking for much of 2006 over at Mamarazzi:

Tori, who, coincidentally enough, appears to be wearing the brown bag her husband put over her head in order to get her knocked up in the first place.

Gwen Stefani, who actually sailed through her pregnancy looking comfortable and beautifully groomed, and about whom I have nothing catty to say.

Sorry; I don't have anything bad to say about Brooke, either. What a class act she is.

Ah, but now, my favorite husband-stealing, goth-dressing, tramp-stamped, walking orphanage, Angelina Jolie.

And this is the single funniest picture of a pregnant Britney I've ever seen. That is, if it's photoshopped. Otherwise, it's kind of sad.

This one ... well, I'm speechless. Can a pregnancy bump really look that much like ... well, not a pillow. It's more like Katie Holmes is smuggling an E-Meter under her pretty silky blouse.

And finally, Anna Nicole Smith, the silliest goose of all. She doesn't even know which gander fathered the egg she laid.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 5

Hey! Merry Christmas!

For those of you who are keeping score, it's the fifth day of Christmas, which is also the fifth day of Blogmas. Because I promised myself I'd blog every day of the 12 days.

Day Five finds me in the finals for the following Olympic events (but if I receive a gold medal for any of them, I will be a-frickin-mazed):

1. Picking up all the Christmas loot and stowing it where it should go. Can I beat the current record of eleven hours, 17 minutes and three seconds? Stay tuned.

2. Keeping my temper when members of my family appear to want to shred my peace of mind into microscopically-fine pieces, and then stomp on them.

3. Traveling to Chicago in my husband's company without wanting to kill him (he's a wonderful man, and frankly, I did very well for myself when I married him, but he is a type-A business traveler of the most impatient and anxiety-ridden sort.)

4. Cleaning up from my long-sought-after blue jeans and slippers state into something more suitable for a black tie New Year's Eve celebration with the Jokes;

5. And finally, getting said black tie regalia to zip without recourse to more Spandex than is usually found at spandex central.

Please enjoy the five gold rings, brought to you by your favorite blogging Olympian.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 4

OK, newsflash, girlfriends; I'm officially sick of Christmas.

Why is that? Well, we had the Christmas-dinner-for-Poppy's-side-of-the-family. With the drinks and snacks and the many foodstuffs cooked by Poppy for all 13 of us:

A 10 pound boneless loin of pork, roasted, with home-made applesauce, home-made gravy, roast potatoes, string beans cooked al dente and then tossed with butter and Parmesan until yummy and gooey, Poppy's prize-winning wild rice salad with pecans and raisins, tossed green salad a la Fran Drescher with pine nuts, croutons, avocado, blue cheese, tomato, red onion, endive with a horseradish cream dressing ... (sound crazy, but it's great) followed by home-made pecan pie, home-made blueberry pie, three flavors of super-premium ice cream, my mother's bourbon pecan cake, some cookies somebody brought, and home-made eggnog.

So the food was great. The company less so. Anyone who thinks Christmas is about family hasn't spent Christmas with mine. They're ... well, "abrasive" is the word that comes to mind.

You know what? My mother is really annoying. And my younger brother? Has really been acting like an asshole lately. I mean, my poor sister-in-law was in tears for part of the evening.

So I don't have all that much Christmas spirit left at this point, having spent the past 12 hours cooking and dealing with family bullshit.

But I did have enough left to find you four calling birds.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 3

I don't know about you, but I'm not sick of Christmas at all. I barely experienced it. I feel like the kid in Bill Cosby's story about getting his tonsils out. The one whose life passed before his eyes when he was going under anesthesia, and his life was so short he wanted to ask for a replay.

The problem is my husband is working harder than he usually works when he's not "on vacation." What with the laptop, Fed-Ex, word processing, emails, and conference calls--this is Christmas break?







So what do I do? Well, today I had my smoking hot minivan serviced.

I did laundry.

I did a deep clean of the kitchen.

I also tried--AND FAILED--to get my children to look and act as though they aren't being raised by wolves. Because without great effort on my part, they will spend their vacations 1) in their pajamas 2) playing Nintendo.

And I don't feel like making the effort.

So what did I do for fun? I surfed the internet looking for

THREE

FRENCH


HENS.
Did you spot them?

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 2

Blackbird wants me to take part in her Christmas meme, and I will, if only to convince her that my threat to unlink her was just a joke. It's really OK that her son got a Wii for Christmas, while mine lay there sobbing on a heap of Cabbage Patch Dolls and Tickle Me Elmos.


So, without further ado, What I Got for Christmas:

Because chicks dig getting appliances for Christmas, the Sonicare Elite.

Because the 21 books he gave me two weeks ago for my birthday were only an hors d'oeuvre, the latest Artemis Fowl book.

Because red is my color--mine, not yours, not Christmas's, not Valentine's Day, mine--a ring with rubies. For which, I hasten to add, he did not pay retail.

And now, what I'm glad I didn't get for Christmas:


A seven-foot tall silver aluminum Christmas tree. Even if it had come with the revolving stand and colored lights ... I'm just not that post-modern.

A Christmas-themed sweater. In this case, Santa's face would have ended up on my right nipple.


Chest waders. I don't know ... they're practical, and they certainly look comfortable ... and if I dropped the Sonicare down them, things could get interesting ... but they're just not me.

I hereby tag:

Bridget of Idiot Eradication
Diesel of Mattress Police
RW of Chasing Vincenzo
Sarah O. of Lemon Life
Susie Sunshine of The Underpaid Kept Woman

n.b. Here are the rules, if you're interested:

1. Players start by listing three things he/she got for Christmas.
2. Then they list three things he/she definitely did not want to get for Christmas.
3. Then he/she tags five friends and lists their names.
4. The ones who get tagged write on their blogs about their Christmas wishes, and state the rules clearly.
5. Then tag five more victims. The tagger needs to leave the taggees a comment that says you have been Christmas tagged! and tell them to read the tagger's blog.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 1

Merry Christmas!

I've decided that I'm not hard-core enough to do MaPoToFu or whatever the hell it's called, where you blog every day for a month. But I think I can manage to blog every day of the 12 days of Christmas. And I think I deserve to, considering that the month between Thanksgiving and now has been the TOTALLY FUCKING BUSIEST MONTH OF MY LIFE.

That includes the month after I brought my eldest child home from the hospital having undergone 56 hours of labor followed by a surprise C-section followed by being home alone, with no help, while I was recovering from surgery, my husband was traveling for business, the apartment was full of painters, and I was working on a massive case of post-partum depression. And yes, now that I mention it, that was a busy time. But at least I got to spend most of it slobbing around at home in my pajamas. This month I kept having to get dressed up and going out.

But this month is pretty much over now! I have free time!

So here we go.

Thank God my children don't read blogs. Because Young Master Buxom found a framed letter from Santa under his stocking on Christmas morning, informing him that due to factory problems (darn those elves!) he wasn't getting a Wii. The letter was accompanied by a cute little computer-printed gift certificate good for one Wii.

And he was totally satisfied.

But if he ever finds my blog, and clicks over to Blackbird, he'll find that some kids did get Wiis. Yo, Blackbird! Way to ruin my kid's Christmas!

If this keeps up, I might have to unlink to her. NOT THAT I'M BITTER OR ANYTHING.

p.s. How was my Christmas, you ask? Fairly merry, but low-key. That Stud Muffin I Married coined out big time for my birthday two weeks ago, and he was very busy writing briefs and such, so I did the buying for everyone, which meant that he and I didn't get all that much loot. But it was a pleasant day. My in-laws were nice. The children liked their gifts. The tree didn't fall over (although it tried.) The food was great: standing rib roast, roast potatoes, lasagna, pumpkin pie, blueberry pie, and my mother's nut cake (from my great-grandmother's recipe). And yet, my jeans still zip. And we were done with opening presents by 10:00, so I even had time to post to Mamarazzi.

The fat lady would sing, if she weren't afraid she'd wake up the whole house

At some point on Christmas Eve, I completely stop stressing. Everything I've been able to do has been done. This year I managed to:

put a few strands of lights out
decorate two trees
perform Christmas music with various groups eight times
go to about 10 parties
drive to New England to see our families
buy, wrap, and ship presents for far-away friends
buy and wrap presents for many family members
tip the staff at my club
tip the grocery guys
tip the doormen at my building
fill four stockings

I did not:

send out cards
fill the windowboxes with cute greenery
bake anything
tip the paper boy, mail lady, or garbage guys
get much of anything for That Stud Muffin I Married
go caroling
make it to church, except when I was singing in the choir

But. What I've done is done. What's left undone, I won't sweat. That's the difference between me and Martha Stewart. (Well, that, and about 10 years and a billion dollars.) Unlike Martha, I realize that I won't get everything done. I don't expect anything to be perfect.

I hope my children like their presents; I hope my family enjoys coming to visit; I hope my jeans will zip come New Year's Day; I hope my blogging friends enjoy their holidays.

As I sit here, having wrapped the final present and stuffed the final stocking, I'm enjoying a much-deserved glass of wine. Here's to a messy, human, imperfect, loving Christmas.

Cheers!

It's Christmas Eve, and I'm going crazy.

We got our tree yesterday.

It was the last one at the Home Depot--probably in Portsmouth. My son and I went to get the tree alone because my husband was writing a brief.

Yesterday my in-laws showed up and found me trimming the tree, while my husband finished his brief. Then he had a conference call at 6:00 p.m. in the restaurant parking lot while my in-laws and my kids and I went in and ordered food and drinks. I wore a Santa hat. I'm festive! But it's busy around here.

Today I went to Wal*Mart and bought ornament hangers. And a cubic ass-load of Nintendo and Bratz merchandise. And to the Celtic store to buy marmalade and penny whistle CDs and Cadbury chocolate. And to the independent bookstore to buy beautiful books for my daughter. And to a Hallmark store to buy SCOTCH TAPE because I'll be wrapping presents for about a million hours tonight.

Most of the ornaments are on the tree, but not all. I ran out of ornament hangers. I'll probably finish tonight. I hope.

We'll be eating Christmas dinner tonight. Because my father-n-law has developed lactose intolerance, so the big huge lasagna that my husband made for our traditional vegetarian Christmas Eve dinner won't work. So we're having lasagna for Christmas dinner. And roast beef tonight.

We've got to get the stockings hung. But hung from what? I guess the painters took out the old nails out of the mantelpiece, and I'll have to find more. I hope I can find some.

My in-laws are leaving on Christmas Day at around 11:00 because my mother-in-law has to work.

So anyway. Between my mother-in-law working Christmas day and my husband working the 22nd, 23rd, 24th, and probably the 25th, I. am. thisclose. to losing it.

So I'm taking a well-deserved blogging Old Fashioned break. Mmmm, bourbon.

Merry Christmas to all. And if anyone wants to come help me trim the tree and wrap presents, FEEL FREE.

We're here. We're beer. Get used to it.

We left Chicago yesterday morning at 6:20 a.m.

We arrived in NH this morning at 2:02 a.m.

It rained the entire fucking way. I will never get the slap of windshield wipes out of my brain if I don't finish this drink.*

Oh, and did I forget to mention that the Sienna's cigarette lighter is blowing the fuses any time anything was plugged into it? Which meant that there were no DVDs and precious little GameBoy to be had. For the 22 hours on the road.

BTW? It's still raining.

The good thing is if this were the Rocky Mountains, instead of the Appalachians, my family and I would be stuck in a snowdrift, eyeing each other hungrily, and wondering whether anyone packed a cooking knife.

* Not beer, but that old-skool gay pride slogan sneaked up on me and goosed me. Because my creative juices are really flowing after 20 hours on the road.

My Christmas Movie list

Unlike Joke, I have actually read a few books where Christmas plays a big role, such as:

Little Women. It's how the whole thing starts. "'Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,' grumbled Jo, lying on the rug."*

Or the Little House book where they got, like, a cooky (note archaic spelling) and maybe a peppermint stick.

And The Middle Moffat, when Janey sneaks downstairs to leave her little brother a note from Santa.

And O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi.

And A Christmas Carol ... which, as is so often the case, has me sobbing. Yeah, I know. It's embarrassing. But that Victorian sentimentality reaches out and grabs me by the throat. I mean, there's always a tiny little child who might die ... and then does. Little Nell, Tiny Tim, Little Eva, Extremely Small Samantha, Undersized Ursula ... I tell you, that crap gets me EVERY TIME.

And then, there are the movies. Which I've seen so many times I watch them while I address Christmas cards. In no particular order:

1. White Christmas. Bing. The amazing Rosemary Clooney. And I'm actually glad Fred Astaire couldn't co-star with Bing as originally planned, because Danny Kaye does an amazing job. Yeah, the blackface "Mandy" number is embarrassing, and Vera Ellen's knees are frankly scarily knobby, but they start singing "We'll Follow the Old Man" and the soldiers march in and Poppy gets out the handkerchief. Because it's not just very tiny dying children that has me losing it; it's dying children OR old people heading for the poor house.

2. The Thin Man. Nothing fills me with Christmas cheer like the sight of Myrna Loy in the drop-dead mink coat and diamond watch she bought for herself, watching William Powell play with the B. B. gun she bought for him.

3. Metropolitan. Preppies enjoying Christmas break in the city.

7. Trading Places. Preppies, winter, city--but also Dan Ackroyd in a Santa suit. And Jamie Lee Curtis's boobies.

4. Moonstruck. Instead of preppies, it's about colorful Italian types + winter + New York. This isn't actually a Christmas movie, but it's the city and it's cold, so I consider it a secular Christmas movie. For the people who think Christmas isn't about religion; it's about getting together with your large, noisy, obnoxious, extended family.

5. Christmas in Connecticut. Barbara Stanwyck in a classic screwball comedy from 1945.

5. Remember the Night. Barbara Stanwyck again, in an amazing Preston Sturges film from 1940.


* This is from memory, so sue me if I'm wrong.

Is Beta Bettah?

1. I'm not here today; I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of Melissa Etheridge. Unless I'm admiring Melissa and Tammy and making fun of Angelina Jolie. Or maybe I'm mocking Tom Cruise. Whatever. Go read it and figure it out for yourselves.

2. Every time I try to log in to Blogger, they remind me that Blogger Beta is available, and I can switch. In fact, they won't shut up about it. So I know that I can switch any time I want to. But do I want to?

Stop me if I've used this graphic before ...

... but this is what 50 looks like.

That's right. This is a picture of me. And I turned fifty this morning! Of course, I don't usually dress like this. In this picture I'm wearing my George Burns in Drag costume.

All right. I'll stop lying. It's not me. But I did turn 50.

So listen to me, you blogging whippersnappers. I think a little respect is called for in these part, now that I'm the Venerable Poppy. No more of this cheekiness, you hear? I'm practically a member of the AARP.

And be prepared for a LOT of wisdom. After all, I've had even more time than you to ponder and distill my opinions on a wide variety of subjects. And I'd tell you all about arthritis and refinancing mortgages and other subjects so dear to the middle-aged, except right now I'm frantically looking for my cell phone so I can charge it before I go out tonight to act like a moron in front of 122 people.

Oh, and eventually, I'd upload pictures of my birthday loot, which is of a quality to make Joke soil himself (due to the frightening uptick in wifely expectations that will result when That Fabulous Babe He Married sees what That Stud Muffin I Married bought me.)

But as I said, I'm busy.

So quit screwing around and wish an old bag a happy birthday.

Merry Commuter-ness to all!

My mother wants my social life. And she can have it.

Let me first point out that I don't actually live in Chicago.

Last Friday night we went to the Opening Night of the Nutcracker Ballet/Family Party, as detailed below. In Chicago.

On Saturday we attended the annual Children's Christmas party at my club. In Chicago.

On Sunday my husband and I went to the annual Carol Sing/Dinner given by friends, guess where? That's right; Chicago.

Today I'll be taking the Girl Scouts to sing carols at retirement home in the suburbs. Then I'll be taking myself to sing carols at different retirement home, located where? Very good. Chicago. Afterwards I'll have dinner with my husband to celebrate my birthday because

on Tuesday, which actually is my birthday, I'll be leading the singers in the annual Stanley Paul sing-along in Chicago.

Wednesday I have a rehearsal for future Christmas music making, and you'll never guess where it will be.

Thursday I have a ladies' luncheon. IN CHICAGO.

What I need is driver. And a cheap source of gas.

Borrowing trouble at 18 percent interest, and other reasons to drink heavily.

On Friday I dragged my coughing, sneezing, gravelly-voiced self out of bed and went to the "beauty parlor"* where (in spite of the fact that I felt like an ageing horse, who, if she had a halfway merciful owner, would be on her way to the glue factory) I had my mane and hooves groomed so I could look halfway decent at this weekend's furious round of Christmas gaeity.

The first part of which was the opening night of the Joffrey Ballet's production of The Nutcracker. This was to be preceded by a benefit for the ballet company: a charming family party with dinner and jugglers and music and goody bags for the wee ones.

So. My hair and nails were done, and I was packing the car with all of our Nutcracker finery, when I suddenly realized that my children's dress shoes were too small. Bad mommy! Instead of lying around in bed, coughing and sneezing, I should have been taking my children to the shoe store to be fitted for new shoes.**

So after they got home from school, that's what we did.

I swear, ordering the fucking shoes over the internet would have been faster. Even if Zappos had delivered the wrong size, and I had had to exchange them, it still would have been faster than the salesperson at Ye Olde Children's Shoe Shoppe in downtown Newtopia.

It took forever.

It took so long that the first thing we did, after getting all dressed up in our Sugar Plum Fairy finery, was arrive at the dinner party too late to get dinner. So there we were, having paid huge sums for a lovely dinner we didn't get to eat, stuffing our faces with Chex Mix in the lobby of the Auditorium Theater. And calling it dinner.

Then we saw the ballet, and in spite of the fact that I spent the last week getting tense and anxiety-ridden over what my children's behavior would be like, they (of course) completely disarmed me by behaving beautifully. I mean, here I was, making sure that my husband had the coat check tickets so that when my daughter decided that it was TOO MUCH DANCING and started to have a meltdown, he and she could leave early, while I stayed on with my son.

But I didn't account for the perversion of childhood. My children--who have accrued 20 years of experience in second-guessing me--were undoubtedly thinking "Neener neener, Mother. We'll show you." Manifesting complete singlemindedness of purpose, coupled with grim determination--the kind you can only have if you're either a sociopath or nine years old--they enjoyed every minute of the ballet.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I drink.*** Because anticipating my children's bad behavior creates just as much wear and tear on the psyche--maybe more--than the behavior itself.

*Just one of the many ways, in addition to the gray hair, wrinkles, and flabby places where I'M SHOWING MY AGE, ok?

**Another way in which I show my age is my touching belief in the expertise of the salesmen who make sure my children's shoes fit. I blithely order shoes over the internet for myself, but I'm too chicken to do the same thing for my children. Because I am of the generation that believes that it is properly-fitting children's shoes--and not, as many people will tell you, cleanliness--that are next to godliness.

*** Another reason? On Friday in the mail, I got invited to join AARP.

I'm an evil Pop-Tart

I'm still sick.

And that leaves me feeling evil.

I'm stuffed up, with a raspy throat, and I've had a headache pretty much non-stop since Tuesday. I think it's one of those sinus headaches people used to whine about on TV ads when I was a kid and had no idea what they were talking about. They would press on the areas around their noses and moan about the pain! and pressure!

Unfortunately, I think I have figured out what they were talking about.

It wouldn't be so bad, except I refuse to take any cold medicine whatsoever. Cold medicine makes me almost as weird as Demoral makes me. And the one time I was given Demoral, I became so weird that I've been entertaining people at parties for over 10 years with the hilarious descriptions of the way I reacted.

(In better hands, this story would have me dining out free for life, except nobody gives dinner parties any more. It's tough out there for us dinner party raconteurs. Even Oscar Wilde would starve.)

Now, cold medicine doesn't make me that weird--or funny--but it makes me weird enough. And I don't want to find myself alphabetizing the spice rack at 2:00 in the morning. So ixnay on the eudoephedrine-psay.

Being sick is actually OK when I'm home alone, and it sure helps with the paperwork. I mean, you wouldn't believe the bills I've paid and the appointments I've set up for snow plow services, fire wood deliveries, and similar exciting aspects of owning a house in the frozen north.

But three days of non-stop nose-blowing and sounding like a flock of geese flying south (HONK! HONK!) have palled.

And so, I'm evil.

And so, I've accepted I'm an Evil Pop-Tart as my renter. This is kind of like PostSecret, except you don't have to mess around with stamps and shit. You can just confess your evil deeds on line. And the confessions are pretty funny. So check it out.

And then try to guess which one is mine.

The Internet Makes Me Sick

It's not the pervy websites, either.

(Although really, what with all the recent attempts to get me to buy Viagra (or Cialis, which is apparently the new Viagra) there doesn't seem to be any great need to provide men with hours and hours of sexually stimulating material. After all, the men are all walking around with tentpoles, right? From all that Viagra they're buying over the internet? They don't really need to get any more excited, do they? Are all those pervy websites really necessary?)

Anyway.

I have a cold. It's not a huge one, and it started off as quasi-laryngitis. Originally I attributed my new sexually-stimulating husky voice to having, on Sunday:

1. Sung with my choir
2. Sung again with my choir
3. Had my choir over for a post-Advent Lessons and Carols Service party
4. Stayed up late TALKING MY HEAD OFF.

So then on Monday I woke up and discovered that my vocal chords had been replaced with a pile of shredded lettuce. I was capable of speaking in a soft, quavery whisper, but that was about it. At first I thought it was the result of drinking Manhattans and being waaaaay too funny. But on Tuesday, I woke up with a full-fledged upper-respiratory-tract thing.

Which I think I caught from one of you. Probably Badger, but maybe someone else. Let's face it; the whole internet has been complaining about being sick.

Thanks to you prolific, yet germ-ridden bloggers, I have taken to my bed. Yesterday I emailed people, posted to a Yahoo group, shopped for myself and wonder of wonders, I even did some on-line Christmas shopping.

I even wrote a Mamarazzi contribution. If by some reason, you've run out of Viagra (although if you have, I think I know where you can get some) you might want to go check it out. There are legs! And boobages! And Lipstick Lesbians, even. Maybe.

And now, having provided the internet with Even More Pervy Material, my work here is done.

In cast you were wondering, I'm ... mediocre. But not a total failure.

If I were a Baldwin Brother, I'd be William.
If I were a celebrity chef, I'd be Peg Bracken.
If I were a magazine, I'd be Reader's Digest.
If I were a running shoe, I'd be New Balance.
If I were a politician, I'd be Gary Hart. Or Dan Quayle.
If I were a food, I'd be quiche.
If I were a soft drink, I'd be Diet Pepsi.
If I were a car, I'd be a Ford.

Why do I think this? Because of this:

White Out

Even if I had anything to say, Internet, you wouldn't get a lot from me today.

First of all, I was up until something like 2:00 in the morning putting the finishing touches on my latest Mamarazzi post. In which I make fun of Victoria Beckham/Posh Spice--and only partly because of her clothes. I mean, credit me with a little more creativity than that; anyone could make fun of the way she dresses. (But why don't they? Here is a woman literally begging to be mocked for her fashion mistakes, yet people leave her alone. I don't get it.)

But anyway, today is a snow day, because it's a blizzard out there.

I think that before noon today, we're supposed to get something like 12 inches. (Which seems excessive. I'm perfectly happy with eight. Even six will do, as long as the snow knows what its doing.)

But this means my kids are home from school today. And, I we have shoveling to do.