An Open Letter to Earthlink

Dear Asswipes,

Remember when you used to be Mindspring? Well, I've been using Earthlink since before that. I used you when you were Netcom and I was using a 1200 baud modem. Long time.

So here's a little tip from a long-time customer: when my DSL has been acting up, and I've spent way too much time fiddling around with the diagnostics page that popped up instead of my home page, turning modems on and off, rebooting computers, and listening to recorded messages touting Earthlink's superior service while I waited to talk to a real live human, (Yo, buddy--how's the weather in Mumbai?) once my internet connection is working properly again, I am really not about to waste any time whatsoever taking internet surveys.

You see, you've been getting my money for years. And you've wasted far too much of my time.

I'm not begrudging the money ... not really. But my time? Is priceless. When I am dead and gone, my tombstone, if any, will not read: "I wish I had spent more time on hold with Earthlink."

So. When I spotted an email with "Support Survey from Earthlink" as the subject line, to delete it was, for me, the work of a nanosecond.

Very truly yours,
Poppy Buxom

Monty Python/Powerpuff Girls mash up.

I used to enjoy grocery shopping.

Way back when I was young, single, fun-loving, and didn't own a car, I had a boyfriend who, whenever I got crabby, used to offer to drive me to the grocery store. He knew nothing cheered me up more than having the chance to buy such glamorous items as: a five-pound sack of sugar, a couple of large packages of toilet paper, and a giant economy-sized-bag of cat litter, all in the same trip. Ordinarily I walked everywhere I went, so I had to make do with a small box of sugar, and a single roll of Scott tissue--otherwise I'd have no room in the bag for anything I actually, you know, ate.

I'm sure the sight of the back seat of his 1963 Corvette filled to overflowing with large, excrement-related consumer items filled me with a boundless gratitude. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if I had allowed him one or two sexual favors, because Audrey Hepburn gazing longingly into the windows of Tiffany had nothing on your Poppy's yearning when she spotted the 25-pound sacks of kitty litter, and remembered that she had a long walk home, and other groceries to buy.

Well, those days are over. Grocery shopping has lost its former allure. I don't own cats anymore, and I have two cars, so no one is getting any sexual favors for taking me to the grocery store. In fact, you're more likely to get them if you find a way to let me avoid grocery shopping altogether. Say, for example, by offering to take me out to dinner. Or by becoming the delivery guy from the local store that--very quaintly--still lets you call up and order groceries. (Note to That Stud Muffin I Married: I'm joking.)

I tend to avoid grocery shopping as much as possible, and when I do go to the store, I go to buy certain foods that know I need. And I go to the smallest store possible. But yesterday I broke down and went to a somewhat larger store because I needed paper grocery sacks to cut up and use to wrap all the books I'm getting rid of on half.com and bookmooch. I just listed another couple of shelves' worth of extremely dull academic books that I don't have time to read any more, because I'm too busy reading housekeeping manuals, etiquette books, and the fiction of P. G. Wodehouse. I'm expecting a flurry of eager emails from people who simply can't get enough of literary theory and cultural studies. When they arrive, I need to have my stack of brown paper grocery sacks ready, or I'll get all flustered.

So you see, I really wanted to get bags. But while I was there, I figured I'd buy some food. Milk, bread, eggs--and one or two other things.

So there I was, unpacking six or seven sacks of groceries, and it occurred to me that there were way too many items that only one member of the household eats. This struck me as terribly inefficient--all these random foodstuffs that almost no one likes, and yet, I must buy them, haul them into the house, put them away, and then, probably, cook them, and afterwards, do the dishes that held them. It seems so unfair!

But just when I was about to dissolve into tears of self-pity, I imagined what Terry Gilliam would do, if he were to animate pictures of these foodstuffs to tell a story--let's say, a typical Saturday afternoon in the life of The Buxoms.

Mr. Buxom, played by A Can of Guinness Stout,
is taking a nap. Mrs. Buxom, played by a Bottle of Stonyfield Farm Organic Yogurt Smoothie,
is blogging. Young Master Buxom, played by a Package of Sliced Pepperoni,
is watching cartoons in the sun room. And Little Miss Buxom, played by a Packet of Quaker Oats Instant Maple and Brown Sugar Flavored Oatmeal,
is in her room, reading.

Suddenly, an enormous bouquet of broccoli attacks! What will this random group of alcoholics, health food cranks, and junk food aficionados do to defend themselves? How can they work together? The studio audience gasps in dismay!

But wait! In a heroic display of family togetherness, the Buxoms decide to eat the same food. Thus, they eat the monster--cut up, steamed in the microwave, and dressed with a bit of butter and a sprinkle of salt.

Delicious.

The End.

"Shucks, folks ... I'm speechless."

You know what's weird?

Getting praised on the internet by total strangers. Right now, over on Essential Day Spa (I think) this completely lackluster piece of shit blog* has just been called "hilarious."

Which makes me feel ... I don't know ... kind of dumb. Because I'm a discerning reader, and I know funny when I read it. Badger is funny, for example.

So now I'm thinking I should register on the site so I can demur. And tell them to go over to see Badger instead. And I don't want to do that, because what the hell-- readers are readers, even if I'm getting them under false pretenses.

Also, to tell the truth, I'm really not a spa person, unless the masseuse or facialist promises to duct-tape her mouth shut. Oh, and to turn off that idiotic New Age music they're always playing. So how much do I want to go join a spa forum? To tell them not to read my blog? Not much.

So, I'm grateful for the plug. But I just don't feel hilarious. I'm ... wait for it ... funny that way.

* Albeit with--OK, I'll say it--great punctuation. OK, I know that sounds really egotistical, but it's true. There's no point in going all false modesty about it; I am the Princess of Punctuation. I mean, did you see that semi-colon back there? Well, stick with me and you'll be strewing semi-colons around like Jackson Pollack on crack.

Can't ... help ... loving that man of mine.

More Cagney. An extended dance sequence, for those of you who still don't believe how fabulous he was.



He
is
ADORABLE.

Other than that, I'm not here. Flu has struck, my husband is out of town, and I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of women with very, very short hair.

My first love

When I was in high school, I stayed up until the crack of dawn to watch every movie this guy made, but somehow I missed this one. (Probably because he didn't make it for Warner's--this was an independent production, so it wasn't in the batch that got farmed out to those double-digit television stations.)



Oh shit. It's not up on YouTube anymore.

Well, OK. Try this:

All Things Must Passat

Look who's back.

Doesn't it look great? It even smells great. I guess when you pay $13,000 for all that body work and a new engine and everything, they throw in a free detail job. Also--I feel that I need to mention this, so as to be completely fair--a free pen.

I think the pen was to make sure I had something to use to sign the check.

But just think. I got my car back on Ash Wednesday. Just in time for me to give up driving my minivan for Lent. OK, all kidding aside, driving my minivan isn't actually on my list of Lenten Give Ups. That's just a little Penitential Season humor. Which I don't expect you pagans or Wiccans or Unitarians to understand.

So I'll explain Lent. It's the season in the church year where we commemorate the 40 days Jesus spent fasting in the wilderness. Because I am prone to nearly delirious levels of whimsy, it occurred to me that like Jesus, my Passat just spent 90 days in the wilderness (OK, body shop) and ... well, you see where that led me.

But just so you know, I don't actually think there is a connection between my car and Jesus. (Although come to think of it, my car does look kind of like an Easter egg.)

OK, back to Lent. I'm planning on some major cutting back. So far the Give Up list includes booze, sweets, and possibly pork products; I haven't made up my mind about that last one. Will it make me seem too Muslim?

I'm never exactly sure what to give up, so I usually make it up as I go along, starting at breakfast time on Ash Wednesday. Which is why I always seem to give up booze. Because by the time it's late enough in the day to have a drink, I've decided that I'm a no-good, sleazy, backsliding piece of shit. So I think "I know! I'll quit drinking for Lent!" And that makes me feel almost as virtuous as my Catholic pal. (Maybe even more virtuous. Because now that I've gotten my car back, I'm no longer obsessed with worldly goods. Unlike some people with their new bathrooms and kitchens and requests for information about stainless steel appliances, high-end hand-made tiles, and other vanities.*)

* Get it? Bathrooms? Vanities? Yes! More Penitential Season humor! So stick around. Later on, I might start handing out free pens.

After three months exactly give or take a day or two. [Updated!]

Today I'm going to pick up my car at the body shop. [Sorry! I didn't mean to lead you on. It still wasn't ready. The front left headlight was faulty.]

So I have this to say about my insurance agent: May God smite the flea-bitten daughter of a clapped out whore ...

But wait. Isn't it just like me to start ranting when you don't have any idea what has happened?

Allow me to open with a humorous math problem. My 2003 VW Passat wagon has a book value of $19,700. The repairs to the body, plus the new engine it apparently needed, cost over $13,000. Now let's factor in the repairs to the Mercedes Benz (hereafter referred to as "The One That Got Away") which came in at about $5,000. Which leaves about a thousand dollars.

So now we're at three months and over $18,000 in repairs. THREE MONTHS. My question is this: does my insurance company owe me the extra $1,000 for wear and tear on my other car, not to mention my psyche? Or should they sweeten the deal and refund the last two years of insurance payments, too? And while they're at it, throw in a big-screen television and a case of really good wine?

I think they should throw something in for Fiddledeedee, who drove me to the body shop to pick up my car. She deserves something for her trouble too, especially because, what with the faulty headlight scenario, my car was not actually ready, and I'm probably going to ask her to take me there again tomorrow.

And it's all because the guy in front of me had the same brilliant idea of moving out of the left hand lane so as to avoid getting stuck behind the car waiting to make a left hand turn. Only when he noticed that the car was a police cruiser, he stopped. Cold. And I smacked into him. At about--since I was going from a dead stop and had driven about six feet--ten miles an hour.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. When you're driving, and you see a car that apparently likes to go out on Halloween as a Sherman Tank, try to avoid hitting it. Even very slowly and softly.

Poppy delivers red hot news items. Or not.

A wonderfully lackluster Valentine's Day was had by all--thanks for asking.

But hey--did I mention that my husband baked a huge--and I'm talking monstrously gigantic--Valentine's Day cake? It was a Red Devil's Cake with butter cream icing and a different, but equally fattening butter cream filling. Everything was tinted bright red. And it was huge. If you take two square layers, fill and stack and turn them to make a diamond, and then add two round cake layers, filled and stacked, then cut in half and cemented to the top two sides of the diamond, then frost the whole behemoth with red icing, guess what? You will have produced the biggest heart shaped cake in the world. I mean, this thing was so big that scientists were ready to announce the discovery of a tenth planet.

And no, I'm not exaggerating. That cake has its own gravitational pull. It really isis almost a planet. A fattening one.

(Like I needed the calories, dear. But it was thoughtful.)

OK, so that's St. Valentine's Day. On Thursday we went to a book signing. Our friends J. and B. are friends with the author of Well Bred and Dead




so they had a book signing at their extremely lovely Gold Coast apartment. This was particularly appropriate because the book is about Chicagoans of the Gold Coast variety. The funny thing was that the book was to a certain extent a roman a clef, and some of the clefs were there, drinking champagne and eating little sandwiches. And they didn't know they were clefs, but I did. So that was highly amusing. Either that, or I was just drunk. Again.

On Friday the children had the day off from school. Naturally I was less than thrilled with being trapped inside with the children who don't want to get dressed or go anywhere or do anything other than go play GameCube or some imaginary game off in their own worlds. Worlds to which I, apparently, lack a visa. Pardon me, but didn't we just do that? Isn't that what Christmas vacation was about? I mean, I had a massive case of deja vu all day. On the other hand, being stuck at home--and basically ignored, except for the occasional demand for food--is a great way to get the basement cleaned up and in general, tidy the house until it was pretty much unrecognizable.


On Saturday night my dear friend L. threw herself a dinner party for her birthday. I thought I'd get her a gift certificate, so I went into a salon we both like and picked out a manicure/pedicure package and threw in a 60 minute massage as a lagniappe. Then I figured I'd get a manicure/pedicure and shampoo/blow out myself.
This meant I presented an unusually well-groomed appearance at L.'s birthday party that night. Then I got drunk, of course. But I wasn't a sloppy drunk. I was an extremely well-groomed drunk. The lesson we learn from this? You might not want to party with me. You might not want to sit at my end of the dining room table. But you want me to buy you presents.

Then today. Church. I was there for hours, and so were my dazzling red fingernails (because yes! I've decided that sheer pinky-beige colors are JUST TOO BORING and it's time for color! Whee! and a happy belated St. Valentine's Day to me.) Where I clasped my hands in prayer, and prayed for (among other things) deliverance from my hangover, freedom from chipped nail polish, general forgiveness of my general sins, and then more specific forgiveness of my more particular sins--gluttony came to mind right away--followed by vanity--and then, because I'm generous that way, I prayed for forgiveness of your sins, too, Internet.

Which brings us to the present moment. So here's your update: I still have red nails. And you, Internet, still have a coal-black heart. You and your Viagra ads and pervy web sites and attempts to bilk African governments out of millions of $US. Not to mention how many of you don't link to my blog.

The Grinch Who Stole Valentine's Day

Today I was supposed to get all dressed up in something red and festive, head up the road to get my hair and nails done, then, while looking like a crazed blood clot absolutely smashing drive downtown to rehearse with one of my singing groups,



go to a St. Valentine's Day tea party here,



and then have dinner with my husband.

I just blew it all off. In short order, I canceled the hair and nails, the rehearsal, the babysitter, the tea party, and the dinner.

In case you haven't heard, it's snowing in Chicago. And about every five minutes, I get another email from the National Weather Service advising me to stay home. And who am I to argue with the National Weather Service? Especially since my car has been in the shop since November 19th, due to some trifling misunderstanding it had with the rear end of a Mercedes Benz.

Not actually my car. Or me. You can tell because this woman is
smiling,and I have not had the chance to smile while in
close proximity to my VW in months. And months.

And frankly, I'm damned if I'm going to plow downtown in my smoking hot minivan^{tm badger} only to smash that one up, too.

Don't it Make her Brown Eyes Pink, and other fine whines

On Friday my daughter got conjunctivitis. And was quarantined by the school nurse. Yes, quarantined. Holy shit, I felt like the people in a plague ship in an Audrey Maturin novel. These neighbors of ours came by yesterday to talk to us about some voting matter or other, and I couldn't let them into the house because girlie was still in her pajamas because she's sick, and as far as she's concerned, that means she doesn't have to get dressed. And frankly, I didn't feel like letting the whole world know that I let my daughter romp around in her pajamas for three straight days.

Even though I just told the whole internet.

Speaking of Aubrey Maturin novels, which I wasn't, but bear with me, I have a ton of horrible volunteer shit to do today. A fucking ton. (Notice how I'm swearing a whole fuckload? Yeah, that's just one of the symptoms that I have way TOO MUCH VOLUNTEER SHIT to do.)

But instead of preparing the little "How to Handle the American Flag" packets I need to make for the Girl Scouts meeting I'm running this afternoon, I'm noodling around on the internet, adding lots of books to my new account on LibraryThing, a "social networking" i.e., "I have more books than you" web site. (See, I did eventually get around to the novels I like to read, which includes Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey Maturin series, all 21 of which I own. In hardcover.)

I really have no business belonging to a site like LibraryThing, because why on earth would any sensible human being want the whole world to know that--fancy degrees in English Literature notwithstanding--she is apparently mindlessly accumulating every single book ever published that is 1. funny, and/or 2. G-rated.

I.e., I am a total fucking pottymouth, but my books? Are as blameless and pure as the driven snow.

Which, by the way, is piling up out there.

Oh well. Time to go deal with the fucking volunteer shit, she said, kicking aside yet another pile of P. G. Wodehouse books.

I am woman, hear me roar.

I know. It's Thursday. Where the hell have I been?

Mostly hunkered down at home. And when I've gone out, I've been an exercise in political incorrectness. I'm head to toe fur. Check it out:

silk/cashmere knit hat with mink trim
silk/cashmere knit scarf with mink
pompoms
mink coat
kid gloves with cashmere lining
black shearling boots with all
kinds of fluffy ski bunny shearling-ocity

You know those people who are always picketing in front of Neiman Marcus holding up placards with big gruesome pictures of skinned animals and signs saying FUR KILLS? They would be all over me about this outerwear of mine.

Except they're not there. I'm guessing it's too cold for them. Come to think of it, you only see them out there during the summer. Tsk tsk. What a disappointment to realize that the protester who spends his summers yelling "Nobody needs to wear fur" is actually a pussy who can't deal with zero-degree weather.

Maybe I should volunteer to carry the placards for them. (Suitably dressed for the weather, of course.)

Heh.

I love being obnoxious.

Because you know what? I agree with them. It's true. Nobody needs fur.

But when it's zero degrees out, it's nice to put on the pelts. It's the difference between being miserable and having a kind of Hans Castorp-on-The Magic Mountain "I know! Let's go for a sleigh ride!" outlook.

But I guess you Vegans are going to have to trust me on this.

The Super Bowl Suck-Ass, and other musical insights

OK, I guess everyone knows that the horrible weather in Miami contributed to the severe ass kicking Chicago underwent at the hands of those girly-men in their pretty blue and white uniforms the Colts. Give us your ice, your sleet, your wind chill factors yearning to give us frostbite ... but for God's sake, don't expect good football if it's warm and rainy, because warm and rainy? Is for Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues. Not football.

And that's it. Since I didn't watch the game, I'm not prepared to comment any further.

See, I was going to miss the beginning of the game, because I had to head over to the cathedral to sing an Evensong service with a visiting choir, so I got my husband to tape the game for me. And since, when I got home, the Bears were already losing, I figured I'd watch the taped game only if the Bears won. I have suffered through enough nail-biting hysteria over Bulls playoffs and Cubs and White Sox games. No way was I going to undergo this after a long day of singing church music. So ... that's three hours of my life I don't need to waste.

Of course, I'll still check out my sexy little boyfriend in the half-time show. Even though my culturally-deprived children have never even heard of the guy. Which has me contemplating disowning the ignorant halfwits. Honestly! What are my tax dollars being spent on? Football squads? What's really needed in this household is Music Appreciation 101. They've heard of Michael Jackson. And Blondie. And for all I know, Boy George. So what have they got against my 80s dreamboat?

You know that scene in School of Rock where Jack Black diagrams the history of electric guitar on the blackboard? Something like that is called for.

Oh, and speaking of '80's music, I think I have finally seen the last person visiting this place looking for my karaoke version of the Super Bowl Shuffle. Which lately, totally blasted my hit counter through the roof. I'd even get emails asking for the an mp3 of the track. Gee folks, I'd have loved to have helped, but I couldn't find it, because that happened about three computers ago. And now I'm glad I didn't. One request was from a D.J. in Indianapolis. For all I know, they'd be making up insulting lyrics about the Bears. Or playing it during their victory parade, those Hoosier bastards.

In other musical news, the Evensong was so bad it was embarrassing. Luckily for us, a choir of 60 voices, there were only 20 people in the congregation. You know, it really cuts down on the crowding when you're singing a service on Super Bowl Sunday. The fact that it was 0 degrees Fahrenheit, -32 Celsius didn't help any, either.

Because the entire state of Illinois will be watching the Super Bowl

Except me.

Well, me, and a few other church choir weirdos, and a couple of homeless people sitting in the pews.

Because instead of sitting around drinking and watching Prince, (who is only my tiny little sexy badass guitar playing boyfriend, that's all--and has been since before I saw Purple Rain--more than once, I might add--back when it was playing in movie theaters) and all the new, high-budget television ads (including the one with Kevin Federline as a fast food worker, which I very justifiably made fun of in a recent Mamarazzi entry) and oh, yeah, a football game, I and my musical colleagues will be singing an Evensong service.

With our classically-trained voices.

It will be lovely. And no one will care. Not even us.

And so, in honor of classical music singers everywhere, I bring you Bryan Griffin (dressed as Ivan from the Lyric Opera of Chicago's recent production of Die Fledermaus) singing "Bear Down, Chicago Bears."



Go Bears!

This should be a meme. And now is.

I just figured out my perfect hiphop artist name: P. Biddy.

Isn't it just PERFECT???? I mean, with the connotations of being an elderly incontinent female (just so you know, I'm not there yet, OK?) so what could be better? Don't you love it?

So ... what's yours?

p.s. Today I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of Posh Spice, yes, again. And if you head over there, you will realize why I'm currently obsessed with hiphop names. Peace out!

We're all alive and kicking in da House. Of Atreus.

We feel fine. We survived the steak-left-out-overnight.

And we're thankful for this. Well, I'm thankful, anyway--because if you think I told my family what they were eating, you're completely overestimating my general level of candour. This is the kind of thing I tell the internet, not my family. In my opinion, wearing my Medea t-shirt to the dining room table constituted ample notice that the comestibles weren't exactly appetizing.

It's not my fault that my children lack even a rudimentary knowledge of Greek tragedy.

----
I'm also glad I don't own a cat:



(My apologies for the lame credit sequence. It has all the savor of a steak that has been accidentally left out of the refrigerator for the night. But soldier on, because it's worth it. And extremely high in protein.)