"Oh good! Can I go back to work now?"

Listen people. I've got nothing.

The same thing just happened that happened this time last year. I made it through six straight months of non-stop Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas/birthdays/Valentine's Day/Easter/Spring Break/do-this/do-that/hey you! you're out of step! ... and then my son's birthday was over. And I had free time.

Did I spend this free time out in the fresh air, enjoying our shit-ass lovely Chicago so-called "spring"?

I did not.

Conversely, did I spend it coming up with witty blog entries? Duh, no. I did not.

Frankly, I've been sitting around in slack-jawed amazement that I don't have too much crap to do. And I've been playing with StumbleUpon. Which is making me feel all nostalgic for those early, amazing days of the world wide web, when I'd browse through the virtual on-line Louvre--at 1200 baud, no less--not because I was some kind of art history freak, but because it was there.

So anyway, I've been finding all kinds of cool shit. And so, I leave you with this YouTube clip:

More Shoes! Less Whining!

OK, here's an awful truth. I use my links to get to your blogs, but I also depend heavily upon Bloglines. And there are times when that gets depressing. Because Bloglines always tells me how many subscribers other bloggers have.

I simply can't get over these numbers. For one thing, it feels weird. Because in real life, I have a super-sized, life-of-the-party, hey-listen-to-me! oh-God-won't-someone-please-shut-her-up personality.

But on the blogosphere? Apparently not so much.

Check it out:

Badger has 31 subscribers. Which is not enough. But it's more than I have. So if you're reading this (even though I know you're not) you should subscribe to her blog. And by the way, this is not merely enlightened self-interest talking. Even though Badger sends me a lot of clicks. )

Blackbird has 71. More than me. And yet--greedily--she wants more. And has even designed a business card. Which I should think about doing. I guess. Even though I will feel stupid walking around Blogher handing out business cards when everyone will immediately sense, with that razor-sharp perception common to all bloggers, that I am a useless fat housewife who's only there for the margaritas. And something to blog about.

Then there's The Amazing Shrinking Mom, who, in losing 40 or 50 pounds, has gained 84 subscribers. Which, hello? I'm fat, too.

And now, as a sorbet to cleanse the palette, I will tell you that Miss Doxie has 469 well-deserved subscribers. Yes, that's a lot, but frankly, I think she should have more. This is because I have a crush on Miss Doxie. Either that, or I want to be Miss Doxie when I grow up. If she were coming to BlogHer, I'd probably follow her around and beg her to doodle me a picture of one of her dogs. But she's probably not coming, because she has a career. And, you know, a life.

finslippy has 861. Yes, there are 860 other people out there who like to keep tabs on exactly how difficult she is finding it to adjust to life in the suburbs. Come on, everyone. Haven't you been reading my blog? The suburbs suck, and I've been saying it since 2004. Oh, whoops, that's right. I forgot. Nobody reads me.

Go Fug Yourself has 863 subscribers--Yay, fuglies! You go! Beat finslippy!

Dooce has 4,576. (Would someone please tell me why? Because yeah, she's funny and cute, but aren't we all? Except for me, I mean. finslippy is just as cute as dooce, and Miss Doxie is even cuter. So explain this, please. I'm serious. Please tell me why, because if you don't, I'm going to suspect that it's a secret Mormon thing, and there go Milt Romney's chances with me.)

And then, the number that puts my whole ridiculous microdrama into perspective:

Manolo has 8,563.

And the moral of the story is: when in doubt, talk about shoes.

She must be feeling anemic-y. Because her diet doesn't have enough iron-y.

I had a very long day today. Very long, very tiring.

I was up until 1:30 this morning sticking mailing labels on the outside envelopes for the invitations for one of the fundraisers I'm chairing. I was up again at 6:00. I ran a meeting, attended a meeting, drove here, drove there. Came home, wrote a report, ran out the door, headed to the voice lesson I had rescheduled to accommodate all the meetings.

So I saw a car in the parking lot that I had never seen before. I guess they get a different crowd in the evening.

And maybe it's the four and a half hours of sleep and too much to do, but honestly. Please don't put a bumper sticker like this



on a car like this:



Because it's all kinds of inconsistent.

And I will hate you.

Stolen from Badger

Because her boy child turned 11 today.



Well, mine just turned 12.



Our sons are obviously clones. Because her boy child is funny, and smart, and musical,



and SO DARNED CUTE.



WELL, SO IS MINE. And I was here first. No, not blogging. Baby-boy-having. I pushed mine out (OK, actually he was a c-section) a FULL YEAR ahead of Badger. So I insist you admire my full-year-older boy! And say nice things about him!



And wish him a happy birthday!

Pete and Repeat

OK, kids--here's something really fun!

First, you watch this:

which is the trailer for Blades of Glory.

Then you watch this:

which is the trailer dubbed to Another One Bites the Dust.

And then you bow to the genius of the person who thought to combine them.

Good news!

I just checked out the back of the Entemann's "Ultimate Chocolate Lovers Variety Pack Donuts" box.

Between Frosted Devil's Food Donuts, Devil's Food Crumb Donuts, Rich Frosted Donuts, and Rich Frosted Donuts with White Drizzle, my favorite flavor, Devil's Food Crumb Donuts, has the fewest calories: only 260 as opposed to the appalling 310 calories lurking plumply and with malice aforethought in each and every Frosted Devil's Food Donut.

Isn't that great? To think that of so many choices, I am automatically most attracted to the least fattening one.

Although that still doesn't explain what the box is doing in my kitchen in the first place.

Yo, Mama!

Where've I been?

At the Elephant & Castle, because they generously donated a party to one of my charities. We got 90 freeloaders party-goers to attend. When I wasn't posing for pictures and wondering where I had put my drink, I went around ruthlessly shilling raffle tickets, and I twisted people's arms to the tune of $920. For the charity, she added hastily.

On Friday my cute little family of four went to see Yo-Yo Ma and his Silk Road Ensemble. We sat in a box because my husband bought the tickets. Box seats! And just so you know, the Symphony Center boxes leave the Lyric Opera House boxes sitting in the road, what with their better sightlines, closer proximity to the stage, and cute little closets. Also the goodies at intermission are much tastier. And the bathroom was like, right there. And the line was so short!

Jesus, I may have just talked myself into switching from opera to symphony. Yes, I really am that shallow.

And now, let me just explain why I don't blog more than I do. And why I'm still in my pajamas.

It's because my children TIRE ME RIGHT THE FUCK OUT. blackbird can testify how exhausting they can be, because she called me up yesterday while I was finishing packing for the weekend, and because yesterday was Friday the Thirteenth, which is obviously her lucky day, she caught my daughter in the middle of making a series of LOUD, NERVE-SHATTERING KEENING NOISES.

My daughter was making noises like a human siren because instead of being able to go to a private screening of High School Musical complete with candy and popcorn and the company of her fellow estrogen-laden peers, she was being forced to put on her Easter dress and go out to dinner and then to a concert at Symphony Center.

And just so you know, I am not perfect. No, really, I'm not, and having to make soothing apologetic remarks about it being her brother's birthday present, and that unfortunately, my husband had not written the date of the concert on the kitchen calendar, and it was too late to change our plans now, because the tickets were very expensive, while hearing that she hated me and was going to either run away from home or kill herself ... well, it kind of takes some of the luster out of what should have been a festive occasion.

And so, while dinner, which was at a child-friendly yet venerable Chicago restaurant with an excellent wine list was, in fact, very good, and while the music was both interesting and beautifully-played, and while Yo-Yo Ma is ADORABLE and energetic and amazing, and while he'd be my new boyfriend (except wonder of wonders, he's actually older than I am, and the rule is that my musician boyfriends have to be younger than I am) and therefore, the evening ended up being quite pleasant, if you factor out the hours between 3:30 and 6:30 ... I'm still recovering.

So that was yesterday's drama. Surviving it (as well as writing a Mamarazzi entry mocking Danny Bonaduce and incidentally affording my readers a glimpse of his pubic hair) was all I managed to accomplish.

And I'm still recovering.

Sweetness and Light

Today's to-do list is two pages long and counting.

And so, I have nothing amusing to say.*

Instead, I will tell you to click this. Because I live to spread sweetness and light.

And now, my work here is done.

* "Help!" doesn't qualify. Even when I use my best Graham-Chapman-as-a-Cockney-Housewife voice. I know this for a fact, because I've been practicing all morning.

And now, back to normal

Big sigh of relief here. Holy week is over, so that even though Easter continues to be celebrated in the Buxom household, with the chocolate and the baskets and the green stuff that's supposed to look like grass all over the place, my church attendance is back to its normal once-a-week pace, my music folder no longer resembles the Manhattan telephone directory, and while my laundry pile remains seemingly insurmountable, it's in the usual way--not a send-out-the-St. Bernards-because-I'm-dying-over-here way.

My free-floating anxiety levels remain, however, along with the Nativity scene that is still up.

The other day I mentioned the Nativity scene's being up as a little amuse-gueule of self deprecation. I hope you enjoyed it, even though I'm suffused with embarrassment that the entire internet knows what a lame-o I am--but does that get the Nativity scene carefully wrapped and stowed in the two big cardboard boxes it takes to store it properly? No, it does not.

So if you want that Nativity scene put away before Pentecost (that's 50 days after Easter, for the Christianity-impaired) call me up, and we'll arrange a time for you to come over and do it. Because I have laundry to do, people. And groceries to buy. And my son's birthday party to arrange.

I also have an unbelievable amount of volunteer crap to do. But we're not talking about that! Because talking about it doesn't get it done! Neither does venting! And both talking and venting increase stress, and increased stress increases cortisol levels in the blood, increased cortisol levels tell my body to add fat cells to my abdomen! Yes, you read it here first; it is increased stress levels and not Easter basket candy that is making me get fatter by the second.

So we're not going there. Because there is not enough spandex in the world, people.

So if you're reading this and you're on one of my committees, DON'T WORRY because everything is under control. Sort of.

An invitation to Internet crimestoppers

Inspired by blackbird (who says she was inspired by Alice, but didn't provide a link.) Thank you Alice, by way of bb, for starting me on the road to righteousness.

Because everyone knows that the first thing you do, if you want to reform, is confess your sins. So Internet, feel free to swoop down and make a citizen's arrest if you see me doing any of the following:

1. Not drinking water. Everyone tells me to do it, but no one manages to make it any more palatable.

2. Not giving a rat's nether regions for the fiscal well-being of my children's school.

3. Not exercising.

4. Especially by not going to the expensive gym Fiddledeedee talked me into joining.

5. Not watching television, and so

7. Not knowing what people are talking about most of the time.

8. Not getting dressed, but slobbing around in my pajamas until 12:47 on a Saturday afternoon.

And then the Christmas tree fell over and crushed the Easter Bunny

There are three signs that Easter is coming to the Buxom household. And when you hear what they are, you will know why you should ignore everything I say.

1. The temperature is hovering around freezing, and it's even thinking about snowing. Easter in Chicago is so much like Christmas everywhere else that I'm tempted to sing carols.

2. Instead, I am constantly driving to rehearsals, donning my choir robe, and singing lugugrious Tudor motets. My children have forgotten what I look like and about to flunk out of school. They've got the collywobbles from a non-stop diet of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and hot dogs. My study looks like a bomb went off.

3. Our Nativity scene is still up.

Not that I want to complain--yet again--that I'm overbooked and completely unorganized, but I am. And this means that according to this household, the Baby Jesus never went to Egypt with the rest of the Holy Family. He's still on the table with the rest of the gang--angels, donkeys, shepherds, the cute campfire, the tiny well, camels, Wise Men--the works.

Boy, is He going to be surprised that while he was lying there in the manger, being gazed at by an adoring Virgin Mary figure, He grew to manhood, was put to death, and then came back to life.

Internet, my housecleaning team joins you in finding me deeply strange.

Nobody expects Mrs. Buxom!

I'm way too busy. And yet, I needs must check into the internet to waste time I can't afford to waste. Amongst my time-wasters are such elements as: surprise, fear, a fanatical devotion to the Pope, and Googleism.

You know about Googleism, right? You search for your name and see what the internet says about you. And then you post your search results, heavily lightly edited, as a sad excuse for the blog entry you don't have time to write.

Here are my Googleism results. Remember: if you read it on the internet, it must be true.


Mrs. Buxom is the daughter of Mrs Not-As-Buxom
I like to think I evolved into a more buxom state. Think of it as Survival of the Buxomist. Either that or it's the hormones in the milk. The cows' milk, that is. Not Mrs. Not-As Buxom's.

Mrs. Buxom is married
Well, DUH.

Mrs. Buxom is no less enterprising than her worthy husband
He's not worthy! He's not worthy!

Mrs. Buxom is in a unique position
Actually, Mrs. Buxom is lounging in bed. Next to her worthy husband. Again.

Mrs. Buxom is a member of the First Presbyterian Church of Berkeley
Berkeley, CA? Where hippies came from? Are you sure? This doesn't sound like the Mrs. Buxom I know.

Mrs. Buxom is survived by her husband of 64 years
Wait a minute. Mrs. Buxom is dead?

Mrs. Buxom is also living
Oh no I'm not. See above. Sheesh.

Mrs. Buxom is being brought back to Cortez to be laid to rest next to her husband at the Cortez cemetery
See? I told you I was dead. And so much for my enterprising and worthy husband. The guy's a stiff. How enterprising can he be?

Mrs. Buxom is a member of the Old Union Christian Church
Wait a minute. I thought I was a Presbyterian Hippy. Or something.

Mrs. Buxom is survived by a son
Excellent! Even though I'm dead, I can rest easy, knowing that my son survived me. This means I never killed my son in a matricidal rage. However, I notice it doesn't mention anything about my daughter.

Mrs. Buxom is taking orders for school jackets and bookbags
and if you give her one, you're even stupider than you look.

Mrs. Buxom is still attacking gerald
Hey, who doesn't? (We're talking about that annoying guy on T.V., right? The investigative reporter? With the mustache?)

Mrs. Buxom is interviewing her Japanese visitors on the recent earthquake
Unfortunately, she doesn't speak Japanese. And they don't speak English.