My Seven Last Words

"Holy crap," she blasphemed blithely, "that's-a-lotta church time." It really is! I just got the email with he coming week's rehearsal/service choir schedule. Check it out:

Tomorrow: Two rehearsals, two services.
Monday: No church. My last chance to get groceries, do laundry, and commit a couple of sins.
Tuesday: 11:15 call for a 12:00 service, which is The Blessing of the (Extra-Virgin) Oil, and no, I am not kidding. Somehow I suspect the oil will be Extra-Virgin-In-Perpetuity.
Wednesday: A two-hour evening rehearsal with orchestra.
Maunday Thursday: 6:30 call for 7:30 service.
Good Friday: 11:15 call for Noon Good Friday Service.
Saturday: 7:15 call for the 8:00 Easter Vigil
Easter Sunday: 8:00 call for services at 9 and 11

I'm estimating 23 hours at church this week, not including travel time. After all this, I fully expect to transubstantiate. Or bite the head off a chocolate Jesus. And then go get brunch.

So. Let me know if you need me to pray for your sins, or for the healing of your bodily ills, or even your flawed fashion sense, because by this time next week, I should be BFF with anyone Who ever played a starring role in a stained glass window.

Terra Firma

We made it back home yesterday evening and immediately went out for Japanese food, where we ran into the other Newtopians who had also returned to empty refrigerators.

Then, my brain sharpened with sushi, I went over to Mamarazzi to make fun of Madonna.

And now, inspired by the sight of Madge in her purty white clothes, I'm doing laundry.

Live blogging from Orlando airport. Again.

You know, I'm sort of a Pollyanna type, so my first reaction to dealing with adversity is to find the bright side.

Now the dark side of my situation is that lately, I've been spending an unbelievable amount of time in airports. Even though hanging around in airports is not my idea of Spring Break Bliss.

On the other hand, hanging around the Orlando airport is affording me the opportunity to drink Cafe con Leche and eat quesitos. Which is nice. And with luck, the fat and sugar calories will decide that what happens in the airport stays in the airport.

Although even the Pollyanna in me suspects that those calories are going to climb onto my ass and ride back to Chicago with me.

When you're a professional whiner, luxurious Bahamian cruises can't cramp your style

I thought I would take advantage of the free wireless internet service at the Orlando airport to copy and paste a rant from my Sent Email folder. I begin by replying to my friend's pleasure in my having to pay big bucks to read emails from her. And then I segue into a more general rant.

Aboard the Disney Wonder, At Sea

... I'm also paying to read myself. And I don't seem able to log the fuck off this expensive network, so even when I'm not using my laptop, I'm getting charged for connect time. Naturally I'm not happy about that. Sure, I enjoy throwing money around like all that water out there, but I'd like to get something for it, and unused internet connect time doesn't qualify.

The seawood wrap/massage thing I did this morning was pretty unpleasant. The seaweed wrap part of the event means you get painted all over with green goo in a chilly room, then wrapped up in one of those foil blankets they put on runners who have just completed a marathon, with some cotton blankets on top of that. Then I got a foot rub instead of the scalp massage because having just spent $45 on a shampoo/blow-out, I was damned if someone was going to rub oil all over my scalp. I suppose the foot rub was pleasant enough, but I spent the whole time thinking about the invitations I haven't yet ordered for the fundraiser I'm chairing in June.

Then I had to drag my seaweed-covered body into a shower stall while trying to keep a towel on my head to protect my hair from the shower spray, not to mention the seaweed. Where I used some kind of shower gel and then some kind of scrubby shit to get the seaweed off. I could have hung out in there for a long, long time because it was warm, unlike the room with the seaweed.

Then the masseuse gave me a back and lower leg massage. The parts where I was lying on my stomach were not excruciating, but not comfortable, either, since my boobs got in the way, and I couldn't really breathe with my face on a terrycloth-covered donut. I think my head ended up a bit lower than my torso, and my sinuses took the opportunity to fill. So there I was, mouth breathing and trying to prop my head up while holding my breasts off the table. And then, the masseuse found some knotted muscles and beat them up for a while, and then, when that wasn't enough torment for her to inflict, she went at my right scapular like a terrier with a bone.

I suppose I ended up all relaxed and shit, but it's been an hour and I'm already back to my usual tense self, complete with my signature loudly crackling shoulder joints. Not to mention that I'm supposed to be drinking water to help flush out toxins, but I hate water, so I'm on my second latte. I figure I might as well give the water some more toxins to flush, in case I they all came out in the seaweed wrap.

So the relaxed/detoxed effects lasted all of twenty minutes--but what's a girl to do? I suppose I should just stop typing and mousing and using the internet. Also, I guess I should knock off sitting upright, brushing my teeth, or using my facial muscles in any way whatsoever.

Because basically, everything I like to do makes me tense. Life makes me tense. Tense is my natural state.

But natural is good, right? So what's with all the seaweed and oil? I feel like a cross between a maki roll and one of those shallow saucers they fill with oil in"Italian" restaurants because they don't think you like butter with your bread. Because, honestly, more oil please; I simply can't get enough of the stuff. Don't stint, JUST POUR SOME MORE ON.

And another thing. Do they all absolutely have to try to sell me seaweed bath salts and cellulite oil and other ridiculously unscientific mumbo-jumbo-laden overpriced products?

Are you getting the idea that I loathe spa services?

Well, I bought some AHA cream and some night cream. And a bottle of some kind of greeze (grease with a Southern accent) for my cuticles and heels and even hair, should I become emboldened to greeze up my head with it (only to have to spend an hour in the shower scrubbing it out ...)

All in all between the services, the tips, the products, and the gold Disney Cruise charm and chain I bought myself because I fucking felt like it, plus the expensive internet time I can't manage to turn off, I expect I added about $1,000 to our credit cards.

ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

xxx,
Name Withheld Upon Request

p.s. It's been an hour and a half and I'm still slippery.

If you're reading this, you should know this:

I'm not. My internet access is all but non-existent.

So I'll have to save the thrilling tale of our journey to Walt Disney World for one of those long winter evenings, as this is my first internet access since Wednesday, and I doubt I'll have much time for composing witty blog entries while on board a cruise ship.

BUT you need to know two things:

I have been hanging around with the Jokes.

And I'm staying in Tuvalu.

If you're feeling like shit / And you need a quick lift / Caffeine

I'm completely freaking out over EVERYTHING, but especially over other people's caffeine levels. Or the lack thereof.

Blackbird says she hasn't had caffeine in 22 years. That's a long time. I haven't known how to drive a car that long, but I've been driving around like the bat in the adage for a fairly long stretch, and always in a highly caffeinated state, or at the very least, wishing I were. I cannot imagine doing without for 22 years.

Then there's Joke, who claims to always drink espresso. With which, frankly, I can't be bothered. The cups are so small. The coffee, while robust in aroma, is frankly, pallid as to caffeine level. And the whole experience is over so soon. You might as well try to stay awake by sniffing the aroma from someone else's cup.

How on earth do they get anything done?

Me, I've got fifty-million things to do, and I'm pumping seriously heavy mugs of coffee to try to keep up with at least some portion of my to-do list. Which at the moment, includes the following:

1. Do laundry, empty refrigerator, tidy house, pack for Spring break.
2. Don't forget the sunscreen.
3. Do any of my spring clothes fit?
4. Crash diet time.
5. Where are our bathing suits?
6. Passports!!!!!!
7. Oh my GOD is it too late to call Disney and book shore leave or whatever they call it?
8. The Jokes are going to join us in Disney World. But are we going to eat any meals together? Probably not, since no one has called Disney Dining to book tables for eight incredibly noisy people--HEY--at least seven of which are not I, so don't look at me, OK?
9. Fundraiser 1: review invitation copy; deal with invitation list; deal with caterer.
10. Fundraiser 2: compose invitation copy, find sample invitation that has been lost for weeks, find similarly lost check from corporate donor, freak out, nag committee members to do their jobs.
11. Inform all teachers who scheduled tests for Friday that (neener neener!) my son and daughter won't be here to take them.
12. Tidy house again so the turtle sitter won't think I'm a slob.
13. Book eyebrow and leg wax, manicure, pedicure, shampoo and blow out for Wednesday morning.
14. Freak out some more.
15. And then some more, for good measure.

You can see why I marvel over other people's lack of caffeine consumption. And that's exactly what I'm doing right now, while drinking yet another mug of coffee, and blogging like a squirrel on crack.

Friday natterings

I'm sorry, Internet. I put all of today's ration of creativity into this week's Mamarazzi post. Check it out if you want to see why Donald Trump probably won't bother to get a paternity test for his latest wife's baby.

I got my hair colored and styled today. It looks good. The rest of me kind of sucks, but tonight we're going to see Cosi Fan Tutti. We sit in a box, and before the opera we have dinner in this special dining room for the Truly Big Donors. I enjoy swanning around there and feeling like Really Hot Shit, so don't worry, Internet; I'll slap on some makeup and get into the Little Black Dress du jour (whom am I kidding?* I only have one Little Black Dress. And it's "du soir," anyway.)

Now for the bad news. I need to get off my ass and pack up the minivan for a weekend in the city. I also need to talk my children into putting their clothes on, because they didn't have school today, and naturally, stayed in their pajamas.

Tomorrow I have four hours of rehearsals for a piece I don't like very much. On Sunday I'll have to perform it. If asked, "Poppy, do you like the Durufle' Requiem?" My answer would be "Feh." But do people ask? No, they do not. And therein lies the problem.

Oh yeah. It got cold again. On Monday it was 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Today it's 36 degrees.

There's an asshole parked on my street. The rear of his or her car is lapping over my driveway by about a foot and a half. Do I have your permission to smack him?

*Note correct grammar. See how easy it is? Why does this elude so many people, most of who should know better?

I, Curmudgeon

Middle age rocks. Or is that an oxymoron? Maybe it is, but let me tell you, being an old broad is liberating. I get to be as crabby as I want. I get to be uninterested in stuff that bores me. Which I always was, but now I let it show. And I love it. Because maybe I don't get enough sleep, but some things just don't seem worth the bother:

1. That whole coffee-house, espresso, latte, cappucino thing. I'll stick to a cup of coffee. American style.

2. Trying to do a decent job styling my hair. From now on, when I really need to look good, I'll let the professionals handle it. The rest of the time, I'll look like dog vomit. This is bad news for all of you out there--as well as local property values--but I don't care. I'll just avert my eyes whenever I pass a mirror.

3. Eating food I don't like. For example, I hate food that used to be alive when it's served cooked, but very, very rare. This especially applies to duck. From now on, I won't eat it. I won't even pretend to try to eat it. If the waiter wants to know why I'm ignoring the pulpy lump of protein on my plate, I'll tell him, "My gorge just rose."

4. Mass culture. "Bah, humbug" to movies, best-selling books, and popular music. If anyone asks me whether I've seen any good movies lately, I'll answer, "No, thank God." OK, my doctoral dissertation was about film, but it was silent film. I could talk your heads off about D. W. Griffith, but I couldn't care less about anything playing in the movie theaters now. Or what's on television. Or popular music. No, I didn't watch the Academy Awards. Or the Grammies. (I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Blackbird, and your posts about Survivor, but I don't know what you're talking about.) Admittedly, it makes it difficult to navigate the average conversation. For example, when I'm at the salon getting my hair done (see number 2) I find it hard to converse with the woman wielding the hair-dryer. I solved this by finding a hair-dryer-wielder who doesn't try to make conversation. Because--to be frank--I find myself far more interesting than the average hair-dryer-wielder.

5. Local politics. There is some kind of school budget referendum on the horizon. I've decided to ask my pal Fiddledeedee what it's about, and then vote accordingly.

6. My blog numbers are down. Way down. I DON'T CARE. Come here and read about my petty little problems or don't. I'm too grumpy to be funny for you people. Why am I grumpy? Today I have even more volunteer bullshit to do. I have to go downtown and get my picture taken, and I don't have time to get my hair done, so it will look like shit. Then I have a lunch meeting where I'll probably be served some sort of undercooked protein on that annoying baby lettuce (sorry, forgot to add that to my list) and the meeting promises to be boring beyond belief. Although people will probably not be talking about television programs. So there's that.

Awwwwwwww ... so romantic

My sense of humor is the only one being dated around here

I'm working my ass off with my usual housewife bullshit, not to mention the two events I'm chairing.

My anxiety levels are going through the roof.

I just found out that Diesel is starting a scoring system on humor-blogs.com.

I have a low score.

Allow me to inform you that the above is extremely witty, sparkling, and ironic in a hilariously post-modern Dennis Miller kind of way. You're just too unsophisticated to realize it.

That's the news and

I

am

out

of

here.

What is the sound of one hand holding a telephone?

I think it's internet silence.

Because I don't have much to say. So sue me, internet; I used up this week's supply of drivel on a bunch of marathon telephone calls.

Let me just say that 1) being allergic to telephones and 2) chairing not one but two fundraisers is a bad combination. And before you crack up into loud hoots of derisive laughter--OK, I'm talkative. I freely admit it, so you can stop rolling your eyes. My talking isn't the problem. I don't mean to brag, but when it comes to talking, I have a lot of natural talent. The problem is all the listening I have to do. On the phone. I hate phones. Especially cell phones, but land lines suck, too.

Basically, I've just spent a week doing dishes, moving laundry in and out of machines, making beds, cleaning out the refrigerator, cooking, and tidying the house with one hand while someone keeps me on the phone for the length of (pick one)

a) a root canal
b) a complete detail job on a school bus
c) Ahab's quest for the White Whale

I'm so tired not only can I not think of anything to say on my blog, I don't have the energy to read yours.

Not to mention the tact that I don't have and SORELY NEED.

I find myself saying things like "That's a really good idea; I'll look into it," when my id is screaming "SHUT UP YOU MORONIC WINDBAG!" When I say "Thanks for calling," my id is shouting "IF ONLY THE FUCKING CALLER ID HAD KICKED IN!"

If only a utility existed that would translate people's conversation into a text file, and then email it to me. That I could look at the transcript at my leisure, say, at 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon, which is a depressing time anyway, with nothing good going on, so you might as well catch up with your emails.

Because these marathon telephone sessions are killing me. My mind has all the freshness and savor of the ancient chewing gum that has been stuck under a booth at the town diner. I've been going around holding up one shoulder for hours at a time, and I'm going to end up like Quasimodo.

Not to mention that people, please. Sometimes I need to pee.

Glub Glub Glub

Just coming up for a breath of air. How are you? I'm chairing two fundraisers; one in May and one in June.

In other words, I'm drowning.

Cue Paul McCartney

Yesterday was bliss.

Unfortunately, this morning I woke up to the dull realization that today isn't yesterday. And what fresh hell awaits me today? We won't go into that right now. Instead, I'll keep things light and breezy. I'll spread sweetness and light. In short: I'll talk about yesterday.

Oh, the blissfully blissful bliss of having blackbird as my personal shopper! (For anyone just coming in, she went through the hassle of buying a Wii and is shipping it to me.) We talked on the phone yesterday, and the bliss continued. Even though my my kids were home, they kept their contributions down to wandering on stage from time to time to say something to me in a duck-like quack. Which was not overly intrusive, not to mention that now blackbird knows I'm not making up the part about having children. Which gives this blog an air of verisimilitude.

Also: surprise! She's hilarious. (That was irony. Of course she's hilarious.)

Also: I actually had fun volunteering at my kids' school. I was a lunch lady. It was fine. My daughter even seemed pleased to see me.

Also: I baked Oatmeal Crispies for the Girl Scout meeting, using a new recipe, which I put together amazingly fast, thanks to my KitchenAid mixer. The resulting cookies were well received.

Also: Girl Scout "Thinking Day" went well, and what is crucially important, my daughter appeared to enjoy herself.

Also: I changed my kids karate class from Wednesday to Monday. The Monday class is smaller, and the students have with a wider range of abilities. My kids did great! And there were no moms waiting with me, so I read while I waited.

Also: dinner was at McDonald's. I know. I even ate there myself. I know. But double Filet-O-Fish^TM sandwiches, people!

OK, so. Now to deal with today. The two fundraisers I'm chairing. The lack of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches (even single ones.) And the engine light on my VW Passat. Which turned on a couple of days ago. Yes, the car that was in the shop for three months. And now has to go back again.

Envy me

for my powers of whining. Because apparently in this blog, I have, without trying, invented a potent cocktail that will, if you imbibe enough of it, cause you to give me what I want.

For example:

My son wanted a Wii for Christmas. I tried (not all that hard, I'll admit it--does browsing the internet count?) and failed to get one for him.

Reasoning that it was inevitable that the supply of Wiis would increase, capitalism being the way it is, I decided to bide my time. Surely right after Christmas the stores would begin to bulge with Wiis. In fact, a vast flood of them would threaten to engulf us all. (Remember Tickle Me Elmo? Cabbage Patch dolls?)

So my son got a gift certificate from Santa Claus, with the promise of a Wii by his birthday.

Well, his birthday is in April. And still no Wiis are to be found. (Not that I've gotten off my fat ass to actually go out and look for one, mind you. But internet searches and the occasional phone call to Best Buy are coming up with zero.)

And then, yesterday, when I was at church for four hours, not praying for a Wii (because I was too busy praying for forgiveness of your sins. Yes, yours, and yours, too) Blackbird was emailing me to tell me that she had bought a Wii, and if I wanted it, she'd send it to me.

Check her blog for the gory details of the getting up before dawn and the waiting in line at her local Target. I mean, how nice is she????

(You'll need to scroll down past all those pictures of Anne Hathaway needing better underwear.)

So. While any fool can tell that this blog is 99 percent drivel, the lesson to learn is this: don't knock drivel. Apparently, lots of drivel + whining + extremely short paragraphs = your own personal shopper providing you with exactly what you want. And even shipping it to your front door. So you really don't ever need to tear yourself away from your laptop.


+

=

Bliss.

OK, and now I'm feeling like Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia when he talked about how much he enjoyed killing people.

Because with 392 eBay feedbacks under my belt, I just left my first negative one.

AND IT FELT GOOD.

Meme a little meme of me

Shamelessly ripped off from Suzanne of Perfecting Procrastination. Whom I love. Why do I love her? Not only does she link to this blog, she links to Mamarazzi. And more than that, she totally gets it when I hint--fairly obviously--that the newly pregnant Charlotte Church might be morphing into Britney Spears. Even though the comparison appeared to be lost on almost everyone else.

To reward Suzanne for her perspicacity, I, the inimitable Poppy, a Partly-Digested Parboiled Squid in the TTLB ecosystem, am finally getting around to linking to her amazing blog.

I'm also going to do her meme. Which is about which music had your shaking your groove thing during your formative years, man. Also, which music gagged you with a spoon. This meme is the real deal-i-o, hep cats and cool chicks. Want to find out what kind of weirdo I was when I was 18? Read it and laugh.

First, here are the rules:

1. Go to popculturemadness.com and select the year (in the left sidebar) you turned 18.

2. Paste the list of the top 75 songs. (Except I stopped at 40. My readers don't have much of an attention span.)

3. Bold the ones you liked; strike the ones you disliked; and italicize the ones you knew but didn't exactly like or dislike. The ones you don’t know will stay plain text.

I don't know whether this is a spoiler, but it's clear that 1.) If you didn't dance to it, I wasn't interested; 2) I hated country; 3) I was completely uninterested in what was up-and-coming in the realm of rock (i.e., had never heard of Bruce Springsteen at this point) and with the exception of my dislike for Elton John's whininess, irritating falsetto voices, and sappy chick singers, had pretty well stabilized Truly Terrible Taste.

1. Get Down Tonight - KC & The Sunshine Band
2. Thank God I'm A Country Boy - John Denver
3. That's the Way (I Like It) - K.C. and the Sunshine Band
4. Cut The Cake - Average White Band (AWB)
5. Lady Marmalade - Patti LaBelle
6. Jive Talkin' - Bee Gees
7. You're The First, The Last, My Everything - Barry White
8. Shining Star - Earth Wind And Fire
9. Some Kind of Wonderful - Grand Funk
10. Send In The Clowns - Judy Collins
11. Boogie On Reggae Woman - Stevie Wonder
12. You Are So Beautiful - Joe Cocker
13. The Hustle - Van McCoy
14. Best Of My Love - The Eagles
15. Rock and Roll All Night (Studio) - Kiss
16. Low Rider - War
17. "They Just Can't Stop It" (Games People Play) - Spinners
18. Lovin' You - Minnie Riperton
19. Someone Saved My Life Tonight - Elton John
20. Free Bird - Lynyrd Skynyrd
21. SOS - ABBA
22. Nights On Broadway - Bee Gees
23. How Sweet It Is - James Taylor
24. Pick Up The Pieces - Average White Band
25. Saturday Night Special - Lynyrd Skynyrd
26. Wasted Days and Wasted Nights - Freddy Fender
27. Sun Goddess - Ramsey Lewis & Earth, Wind and Fire
28. It Only Takes a Minute - Tavares
29. Black Water - Doobie Brothers
30. Ballroom Blitz - Sweet
31. My Eyes Adored You - Frankie Valli
32. Shame, Shame, Shame - Shirley and Company
33. Long Tall Glasses (I Can Dance) - Leo Sayer
34. Why Can't We Be Friends? - War
35. Born To Run - Bruce Springsteen
36. Philadelphia Freedom - Elton John
37. Harry Truman - Chicago
38. Sadie - the Spinners
39. Feel Like Makin' Love - Bad Company
40. Killer Queen - Queen

In addition to new posts on this blog, there are a lot of things you don't see much any more.

Alka-Seltzer ads



Not that I miss these.



Or him.

Lifeguards with white zinc cream all over their noses

OK. Can somebody explain what this was about?


Maybe what I miss most ... Nicole Kidman's natural hair color. Why doesn't she want to be a redhead any more?

I liked them. (Are they still on?)


Psssssst! This stuff didn't work.

This didn't work either. And could be replaced with a wire hanger. Or cable.

Also:

telephone booths

women with curlers in their hair

Tokens. Subway or highway.