Why you don't want to eat the food at my house. [Updated!]

Yesterday when I was straightening up for the cleaning team, I picked up some Treasure Island shopping bags that had been left on the floor in the kitchen after I sort of finished putting away the groceries from the after-school trip to Walgreen's to get the passport pictures taken that segued into a trip to the grocery store but I needed to start helping with the homework --

I'll come in again.

It appears that when I put the groceries away on Monday evening, and was interrupted by a child needing help with her homework, I neglected to empty the last shopping bag, and only discovered it the next morning.

The not-quite-empty grocery bag contained the little plastic bag! You know, the one they use for the packages of meat.

And there they were. Two New York Strip steaks. And a pound of ground sirloin. They had been left out from 5:30 p.m. Monday until 9:00 the next morning.

I put the bag of meat in the icebox. Yes, even the ground sirloin, which later that afternoon, I made into meatballs, figuring that a chopped onion would have an anti-bacterial effect, and if that didn't kill the toxins, an hour simmering in tomato sauce would do the trick.

And then, at dinner time, I fed spaghetti and meatballs to my family. (Gahh!! Just call me Medea.)

We're still alive and well.

So tonight's the steak.

----

We had the steak. And we're not dead yet. More later--if the pathogens don't get me.

I am unique.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Although I have to admit to being somewhat surprised. I had no idea that "Buxom" was such an unusual last name. Can you believe that no one has it?

Not even me?

Do the Math.

Say every day starts with 10 stars. Because that's my basic outlook. I'm an optimistic, fun-loving gal.

OK, take away a star for every errand I have to run. Because my ideal day is one where I don't have to go anywhere at all. Because I like to stay home. But I need to get groceries, mail packages, and have a voice lesson. Three stops; three stars.

I lose a star if I have to take my children to any kind of appointment or activity they're not interested in, due to the ensuing whining and bickering and whatnot. Well, today we have to get passport pictures taken. Two children; two pictures; two more stars.

Minus one for having to spend time waiting around for a plumber or an electrician or anyone like that. OK, we're at four.

Minus one for realizing that the toilet the plumbers are supposed to install is still in the garage, taking up space that rightfully belongs to my car. And it's at the basement level, and the bathroom is on the second floor.

Minus another one for the toilet being the wrong size.

Minus another one for the toilet being the wrong color.

Only one more star ... and I haven't even had lunch yet.

Daddy's Girl

Back in 1967, for mysterious reasons of his own, my father decided it would be a good idea to take my sister and me to Expo '67, which--for you whippersnappers--was a world's fair--a place filled with a lot of exhibits purporting to represent foreign countries, which people used to like to go to because Epcot hadn't been invented yet. Expo 67 took place in Montreal. My sister and I thought going was a great idea, primarily because we were getting out of school for a couple of days. And also because we would be going to a foreign country. (Where they speak French! Thus commencing my lifelong habit of speaking bad French to innocent bystanders.)

A foreign country, I might add, that is all of 300 miles from Boston. A trip that nowadays would take five hours to drive. And back then probably took even less, because everyone was still driving 70 mph all the time, because the energy crisis hadn't been invented yet.

However, with my father at the wheel, this trip took more like 13 hours. This is because for my father, it was imperative that all trips be business trips. You had to call on at least one client so you could write off your expenses or whatever business people do; how the hell would I know? I'm a housewife.

Anyway, Daddy would go in and yack with these customers, and my sister and I would stay in the car and bicker and not get abducted or sexually assaulted because those hadn't been invented yet, either.

So what with the driving and the stops, it had been a long day. And then my father realized he needed to buy gas. He started looking for a gas station. And kept passing stations because they were the wrong ones; he wanted a Sunoco station. So we're driving and driving and passing Shells and Texacos and Essos (Exxon hadn't been invented yet) and he wouldn't stop. And then, finally, we spotted a Sunoco station. And we were almost there ... when we ran out of gas. And then coasted into the station ... and glided right up to the pump.

That story drove my mother nuts. Nuts! My parents were divorced seven years later, and I can't be sure that there wasn't a connection.

So tonight I havethe minivan packed with all kinds of weekend stuff: the kids and the suitcases and laptops and skates and Nintendo and backpacks and even a cello, for lord's sake, and I hit all kinds of traffic. And it's taking forever ... and then when I was finally making the left-hand turn off Broadway onto Hollywood--you know where I'm going with this, don't you? Except I'm not going anywhere because for the first time in my life, I ran out of gas.

And OK, I didn't coast up to the pump. But I ran out of gas literally right where you turn into the Shell station that just happens to be located on the corner of Broadway and Hollywood. And two guys came up and helped push the van to the pump.

I'll tell you this, Internet, but let's keep it between you and me. I'm not telling my mother. She'll write me out of her will.

Perfection Attained

Sunday was my daughter's 10th birthday. On Friday I took her and three of her friends to see the show here:



And then they had a sleepover downtown. They loved the elevator. In fact, I think they loved it best of all the things they did. I could have saved $30 a head in tickets by letting them ride up and down on the elevators. They decided that jumping up and down while the elevator was moving was the most fun thing in the world. It made them scream with excitement. Needless to say, this was a bit rough on the ear drums, but it was pretty to see their enthusiasm.

The rest of the time, they ate pizza. And giggled.



My daughter's presents were all perfect. She got a disco ball. And a Bratz CD player. I bought her






Her grandparents sent a notebook and stickers. And the soundtrack to Gilda:



She loved everything.

What does it mean when your daughter's favorite song is "Put the Blame on Mame?"

(Don't answer that.)

In other perfect news, I pitched Tiffany a couple of weeks ago. I'm chairing a benefit and I wanted them to sponsor us. And Tiffany, which is a store I've always enjoyed anyway, is generously donating these:



for the raffle, and these



for the goody bags. Which adds up to over $11,000 in free loot. Not bad for a half day's work.

But wait, don't go! I have more perfection for you!

In case you suffer from insomnia and this post isn't enough to send you to slumberland, I have the solution. Get this:



and read four pages--five at the most. You'll be in slumberland before you can say "Ambien."

Why women wear those ankle-length mink coats that make them look like a bear on its hind legs

It's to cover up their mismatched Lilly Pulitzer pajamas (turquoise top, pink bottoms) while they wheel the recycling bin out to the curb.

Because their husband forgot to do it.

Yes, I'm a fur-wearing recycler.



I know, I know. I contradict myself. But flame me and I'll bite you.

Is it just me, or does it really smell bad around here?

I've done several loads of wash today, and it's getting to the point where if I breathe with my mouth open, the air tastes like soap. Also, I'm feeling a little woozy, and my nose is stuffed up.

I blame this shit.



This is what I get for acting like an aging hippy, falling for a slick marketing campaign, and buying my laundry detergent at Whole Foods. I sneaked a sniff in the store and it seemed OK. Not something I'd want to bathe with myself, but good enough for the laundry.

The problem is that I don't actually like the smell of lavender very much. (I know, go figure. You think I'd love it, considering that I'm hopelessly Anglophilic, majored in English literature in college, revere Jane Austen, and drink tea instead of coffee. What with lavender's English, Victorian, olde-fashioned aura, it would seem to be tailor-made for me. But I don't, except when it's coming from an actual plant--or is fairly low-key.)

The Mrs. Meyers stuff is not low-key AT ALL. The entire first floor is permeated with the smell, even though my laundry is in the basement. I think I might keel over tonight while I wash the dinner dishes. Which I'll be doing for a long time tonight because I'm exactly the kind of do-goody baby-boomer retro housewife who cooks from scratch and dirties up every pan in the house--and recycles, and spends $249 on groceries at Whole Foods, and thinks she's saving the world by buying stinky detergent in a recycled jug with faux-old-fashioned lettering.

I'm sure Al Gore* is very pleased for what I'm doing for the environment, but this lavender shit isn't doing my immediate surroundings any favors.

* See below.

Separated at Birth?

And hey! Before you jump all over my case, I'm saying this as a dues-paying, Clinton-loving, Kerry-voting, Obama-supporting, bleeding-heart Blue State liberal.

But Al really needs to lay off the little weird froggy creatures that squeak sadly when they're captured and eaten. Or I'll start imagining Tipper wearing a leather bikini and a collar around her neck. And I don't want to go there. Do you?

No?

Sorry.

My name is Mamarazzi, and I am an alcoholic.

Yes, that's a Mamarazzi post down there.

I figured I might as well take advantage of the fact that Blogger was letting me post, and appeared to be in somewhat stable condition at the moment. (It's been two minutes, and the post hasn't been eaten!)

While Mamarazzi is in rehab, weaving baskets and sharing its feelings with Lindsay Lohan, that post will stay here. When Mamarazzi is released from rehab, the post will go back where it belongs.

Terms of Rehab-ment

Innocent Bystander, David Caplan of Star Magazine, Ageing Blonde Desperate For Fame By Association

In an exclusive interview with Star Magazine, agent and former Rockette Dina Lohan announced yesterday that her daughter Lindsay is "absolutely fine," and "everything is under control."



And for that, Mamarazzi awards Dina a Golden WTF Award for Best Stage Mom Press Release.

Too bad there's no awards ceremony. We bet she'd look hawt dragging a handcuffed Lindsay down the red carpet.


"I mean it Mom--let go!"

Photos courtesy of StarMagazine.com, Dan Herrick/ZUMA KPA, and People.com.

Take thy beak from out my heart

I'm talking to you, Internet.

This week both Blogger and the server at Mamarazzi (but don't bother clicking on it because it won't work) have been dumping on me big time. I've lost a Blogger post, and posts are being eaten--eaten!!--over at Mamarazzi.

It's like Lord of the Flies around here.

And that's why it's been quiet.

Again with the posting!

LookyDaddy had a limerick contest. I lost. But here's my entry anyway:

Upon Becoming a Mother for the First Time

A man met a shy, shrinking violet,
Accustomed to quiet inviolate.
Though the ceaseless din now
Has her wrinkling her brow,
she got made in her bed and must lie in it.

And no, this is not autobiographical. At all. Because in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a shy, shrinking violet. I'm a poppy.

Oh, goody.

While I've been involved with a super-secret Martin Luther King-related project, and therefore, neglecting this blog, my other blogs have been receiving big comment action.

On the shopping blog, some robo-spam comment generator has used the exact same format to regurgitate four different messages in as many minutes, thus adding immeasurable joy to my life. And yours, too, I'm sure. I mean, aren't you dying to click on each and every one of those links? Health! Skin Care! Exporters! Voip Word! What could be more important? We all need to know much more about them. Especially that last one, because it looks like a Word Verification string from Blogger comments. Which is maybe how the person responsible picked the name of an entire industry. The voipword industry. Whatever that does.

I also received the following heart-felt comment from Anonymous who apparently did not like the way I mocked his grandmother's recipe for Lemonade Pie

Anonymous said...
First of all, Mrs. Dollie Kellum is deceased; and has been for over 10 years. Why do you choose now, when she can not defend herself or her cooking, to condemn her? Who are YOU to judge my grandmother's Lemonade Meringue Pie recipe?!?! She was an excellent cook and I would give anything to have her here to cook one more Sunday dinner. Choosing one person to critize out of Pass the Plate is a rather uncouth and cruel thing to do. Shame on you for choosing a deceased, well respected New Bernian for that "honor". I would suggest you do a little more research before making such cruel accusations!!

Really, I don't know where to begin to respond to this.

First of all, I actually prefer to make fun of deceased people, because people who are still alive might get violent and hurt me.

Also, Mr. or Ms. Anonymous (as the case may be,) in publishing that recipe for Lemonade Pie, your grandmother made herself into a target. Your grandmother was no fool! She knew exactly what she was doing when she transcribed that battered, Cool-Whip-stained 3 x 5 card. So live up to her example. Be strong. Be proud. Be a man! (Or woman, as the case may be.)

So anyway, back to my super-secret, sneaky Martin Luther King day activity. Which obviously doesn't include actually updating these other blogs. Or updating this one ... very much.

Before, meet After

This is the kitchen before:



And this--not exactly the right angle, and I think the camera lens is smudged, and Lord knows you don't need to see all the food out all over the island, or my lovely dish towels hanging off the stove--is after:



Here is another After picture. Except it's also a Before picture. This is the pies and cranberry compote and chocolates before they were demolished--arranged in the new bay window, above the new hardwood floor, and near the new chairs that are pretending to be old.





And here is the After picture of the Thanksgiving pies, all ruined and desolate-looking. And sort of messy. (What's the Scotch doing there?) But I order you to be impressed, because everything on an island. With a black granite top.

Yes! I have an island and granite counters. I don't care that they're a cliche; it's the first time for me. And now you know how very, very ooh la la fancy I'd like to think I am, but really am not, because see the stove top? It's electric. And it only has four burners. No chef in his right mind would touch it.

Also the cabinets aren't custom. They're semi-custom MDF.

(If you know what that means, you're spending way too much time thinking about kitchens.)

...it is simplicity that is difficult to make.

I've been putting Christmas stuff away. There are no signs of Christmas whatsoever on the front porch, yay! And only one left in the living room:

Unfortunately, it's a big one.

The dining room is pretty clear, except for the 12 Days of Christmas hanging off the chandelier.

Does anyone notice a trespasser?

Where it all goes downhill is the kitchen. Someone--I name no names--got this far and then ran out of steam.


And then? Blogged about it.

Because I may not be able to deal with the vast quantities of Christmas-y stuff, but I still have enough steam for blogging. And once in a while, you guys deserve to get more pictures

The first clothes I bought for my son. I was pregnant with him, and we had had lunch in Chinatown. Both of my children wore these ... and now, every year, they're on the Christmas tree.

And fewer words.

I save all the children's school-made Christmas ornaments

For more words, check out Mamarazzi. Today I made fun of Angelina. Yes, again. Mocking Angelina is like decorating a Christmas tree: it's best when you pile it on.

In Which Poppy Goes Down for the Third Time.

I like to think I write well. But I don't think I write particularly honestly. You'd never guess it, but I constantly re-edit my blog entries. Computers give me on-the-spot editing possibilities, and I use them to hedge, adjust, re-think, change the order of my words, delete the swear words, and otherwise be a lot more tactful than I really am.

But sometimes ... I JUST HAVE TO FUCKING VENT. For example, this morning I had a new team of cleaning goddesses ladies coming. For the first time in almost a year, someone else was going to clean my house. So I spent over two hours putting things away. After all, they deserved to be able to FIND THE FUCKING RUGS.

But to be honest (there's that word again) there was no "away" to put things. I was stuffing my daughter's fucking OBSCENE OVERLOAD of stupid, mass-produced, made-in-China toys into grocery bags and then shoving them into her closet. When the closet was full, I brought a few bags down to the basement.

The basement is still strewn with toys from my FUCKING Halloween party. And there's no space to put those toys away. Every shelf is FUCKING full.

And all these toys--can't be played with. If you actually tried to play with them, something crucially important will be missing. There'll be a missing Lego piece, or a piece of Monopoly money, or a die, or a Bratz foot, or a Bionicle, or a video game cartridge, or a puzzle piece, or a FUCKING Nintendo stylus that is not where it's supposed to be. Which makes all these game boxes so many sarcophagi. How can you play Twister without the spinner?

I think about taking it all and giving it away to the rummage sale. I think about eBaying things. I think about giving everything away to the poor and joining a nunnery. I think about explaining calmly to my children that even though we live in a consumer society, we don't actually have to accumulate so much FUCKING crap.

But who am I to FUCKING talk? I can't get mad at my kids; look at my bedroom. I have something like 30 bottles of perfume; half of my jewelry stacked in the gift boxes on my dresser because the jewelry box is full. Books are stacked up on the floor and lined up bookcase-style against the wall. I have so many shoes I can't remember what I own. I have two closets stuffed full of clothes--in three dress sizes. My bathroom is so full of makeup, shower gel, hair goo, and body cream that the tubs and bottles are lined up on the windowsill. And we won't even talk about my study, with its detritus of abandoned doctoral dissertation and waist-high pile of backed up filing.

I think about what it will take to de-clutter this house, and arson is starting to look like a viable alternative.

You know what? At the very least? I think it's time to put away the Christmas knick-knacks. And take down the tree. So I can breathe again.

My husband is lucky he's not dead.

I've been dealing with my immediate family since December 22.

Don't you love that phrase? A more accurate way of describing them cannot be devised, what with their immediate!!! need for a snack. Or a towel to wipe their eyes when they become blinded--blinded!--by soapy water in the tub. Or need help with their math homework.

And when you've been dealing with your immediate family for that amount of time, there's only one thing for which a girl hath a desire and longing:

Solitude.

I can't even begin tell you how thrilled I was to see the back of my children as they walked off to school this morning. I found myself sitting down at 8:13 with a mug of tea, the newspaper, and a cheese and bacon muffin. The sun was shining, and life looked good.

Then my husband came into the kitchen and announced that he was going to miss his train if I didn't drive him to the train station.

To say that I felt--shall we say, disappointed?--at this turn of events would be to understate things by a couple of orders of magnitude. But I reminded myself that I've been mooching off the guy for years--who paid for the car? He did. Who paid for the gas in the car? He did. Who baked the muffins? He did. So really, what's a ride to the train station? Especially when being a housewife and driving my husband to the commuter train station is just so amazingly retro and Donna Reed and shit. I wished that I were wearing a housecoat and driving a station wagon. Still, the t-shirt I slept in and a mini-van would do.

So off we went to the station. I dropped him off, and headed home. As I walked into the house, I heard him leaving a message on the answering machine. It seemed that the commuter railroad was completely FUBAR; the next train wouldn't get there for 45 minutes, and it would be packed to the rafters. He said he could come and work at home for a couple of hours, or could I please drive him to the closest El stop.

To offer to drive him to the El was for me, the work of a moment. "I'll pick you up at the train station," I said, and got back into the van. Then, when I was almost at the station, I saw him hailing me from the sidewalk half a block away. So I pulled over on what passes for a major road around here, wondering whether I was going to get rear-ended, and whether, if that happened, it would take the Toyota place as long to fix the Sienna as it was taking the VW place to fix the Passat (at this point we're at seven weeks and counting.)

I may have mentioned--in the mildest of tones, mind you--that it would have been more convenient if he had stayed at the railroad station, which is equipped with a handy turn-around place, useful for wives who are picking up their husbands. And how did he react? He called me by my mother's first name. "OK, [Poppy's Mother's name]." And he meant it to sting.

Well. Them's fighting words. Nothing insults a wife more than being compared to her mother. Have you noticed they never say you remind them of your mother when you're being sweetness and light? It was an uncharacteristically grim Poppy who chauffeured That Stud Muffin She Married to his second train stop of the morning.

After all, it's hard to keep the disposition sunny and the heart light when one is thinking "JUST GET YOUR ASS TO THE FUCKING OFFICE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" And other thoughts of that general hue and intensity. I'm sure you can imagine. I'll just add "ETC., ETC.," and allow you to imagine the kind of colorful, rough-hewn thoughts I was having.

(I got better.)

In Which I Have an Epiphany

Here beginneth the religious rant:

Today I left for church at 8:45 a.m. I got home in time for dinner. It was a very long day.

This is because we had our regular choir warm-up, our regular 10:30 service, our regular choir rehearsal, a short lunch break, and then a special 4:00 Evensong to celebrate Epiphany.

Now, I really don't regret handing this much time--not to mention $22.00 in parking fees--to God. In my opinion, He deserves all the time I can give Him. More, even.

But I wish God would tell the idiots who wrote today's Epiphany pageant (haven't been to church in a while? Christmas pageants are totally last century. Everyone who is anyone does the pageant for Epiphany now) not to use inclusive language all the time. They use it very chance they get, even where it's superfluous or misleading, because in the Biblical account, the sex of the person in question is quite clear.

I don't have any huge problem when people avoid referring to God as "He." In my understanding, God is pretty reliably 1/3 male (at least, if you're a Trinitarian) because that's the way it is with Sons--of God or anyone else. They tend to be male. But but hey, call the other two persons "it" or "he/she" or "To whom it may concern." I don't really care.

Still, imagine my chagrin when the pageant narrator referred to "The Three Wise People." Three Wise People? WTF? And I don't care that two of the pageant's Magi were being played by girls; that doesn't matter. It's a technicality. The Magi were men.

OK, I know the Bible doesn't say

And lo, Balthazar grew uneasy. And dismounting from his camel, he tied it to a large palm tree. And then he took a whiz against the palm tree. And then, having shaken himself dry, and feeling much relieved, he climbed back upon his camel and rode to Bethlehem, in search of the babe who was to be King--I'm sorry, Ruler-- of the Jews Hebrew-Speaking Monotheists.

But really. I've checked the job qualifications for Magus, and basically, due to a lot of first century sexist attitudes, chicks were not--at the time--considered qualified for the job.

On the other hand, chicks did have a lot of important jobs, like Mother of Jesus, Mother of John the Baptist, Extravagant Precious Oil Giver, Harlot, Adulteress--really, when you think about it, the list goes on and on.

Is there anything inherently wrong with calling the Three Wise Men ... men? Is my daughter's self-esteen supposed to be crushed by this? If this is their theory, I fear the Inclusive Language Brigade is worrying in vain; my daughter is really remarkably resilient. It doesn't bother her that kings are male. Really, it doesn't.

And where will this inclusive language nonsense end? I mean, when they start talking about "the Person taken in Adultery," and start calling the Virgin Mary "the Holy Parent," I'm converting. I'm not sure to what, but I'm out of here.

And if I bail--a card-carrying cradle Episcopalian, a church mouse of the deepest dye, what will happen to the less-fanatical members of the congregation? They'll fold their tents and silently steal away.

So, my question is, is the Church, in an attempt not to offend anyone whatsoever, becoming extremely silly? It's a rhetorical question, so I'll answer it. And the answer is "yes."

So all you people who are so hot on Inclusive Language? If you turn the Three Wise Men into "Three Rather Intelligent People, Not That There's Anything Wrong With Being Less-Wisdom- Abled," you're letting the Organized Underground Practitioners of Random Acts of Violence win.

Here endest the religious rant.

Poppy sneaks a peak

Aha! So that's what she's up to ...
Originally uploaded by Trilby.

Our drive from NH to Newtopia was uneventful ... but long. We left NH at 5:00 a.m. and arrived in Newtopia at 12:15 a.m. today.

Not surprisingly, we 're pretty tired.

That Stud Muffin I Married is even more tired than I am, because he did all the driving between Columbus and Chicago. By the time we got to Columbus it was dark, and I can't see to drive in the dark. I don't know why. Maybe it's age. Maybe it's from a bout of toxoplasmosis I had when I was 28. Maybe it's masturbation. All I know is that I hate driving at night, unless I really, really know the road. Strange roads + darkness + rainy streets + asshole truckers + highway speed = a very nervous Poppy. My stamens get all sweaty. So once it gets dark, my husband drives.

I make up for it by doing more of the driving in broad daylight. But at this time of year, there is no daylight to speak of. I think there's about 37 minutes worth around lunchtime, but that's it. We start our journey in the dark, and end our journey in the dark, and this is beginning to sound like life as described by an Existentialist philosopher, but the truth is, my husband, who is obviously a prince among men, ends up doing an amazing amount of the driving in the winter. Have I mentioned what a great guy I married?

Anyway, today he's dealing with the mail, dealing with the phone, and lying around reading his new Christmas books.

And me? I'm dealing with the internet. Internet, I'm going through your blogging medicine cabinet, otherwise known as Bloglines. I've discovered which blogs you subscribe to. And now, I'm copying you.

This is not the same thing as pilfering your Vicodins, or telling everyone your husband has jock itch, or finding out the name of that great-smelling perfume you wear, so give me a break. I'm tired, Internet. Way too tired to be original. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get quality sleep in the way back seat of a Toyota Sienna? So don't give me a lot of attitude. Just be grateful I didn't shove another meme down your throats.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 12

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum



A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum



Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum



To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,



So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.



Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum

.

I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum



I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,



Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum



The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum



I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum



I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.



Come, they told me ba rup a bump bum
Our newborn king to see ba rup a bump bum.




And so finally, at long last, the 12th Day of Blogmas draws to an end.

Here are 12 Drummers Drumming ... plus a lagniappe, because I like you.

And now I need to get some sleep; we're leaving in about five hours.

Merry Christmas, Internet.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day 11

Have I mentioned that I've developed a thing for Jeremy Brett? He played Sherlock Holmes in the Granada (British) television adaptations. And I love him. I have Brett-amania. I want to scream and cry and throw tobacco at him. Or maybe cocaine. He IS Sherlock Holmes, as far as I'm concerned.

Can you believe I've never seen the Basil Rathbone movies?



Which for many people, are definitive.



But there's something so Hollywood's golden age about the lighting and composition of the Rathbone stills I've seen. I like something that evokes the original stories.

And for me, Brett is it. He's AMAZING.

The thing is, he's so intense, he makes Holmes seem crazy. And that's what Holmes should be like, in my opinion.

But attractively crazy, please.

Not to baldly egg-headed, please.

And not like a maniacal store dummy.

And please God, no prequel Holmes who has just reached puberty.

I want him grown up. And suave as hell.

That's better. Am I alone in my lust for Sherlock--especially as played by Jeremy Brett? I mean, the guy was a genius. He was also very modern.

Not that modern.

So ... there you have it. I'm in love with Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes. But I can't find a picture of Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes smoking a pipe. Which means that your 12 pipers piping are ... only OK.

Even this quintessential, iconic Holmes ... doesn't do it for me the way Jeremy can.

(We'll be up at the crack of dawn to drive back to Illinois. And just for you, I'll be looking for drummers at every rest stop.)