Barrister ---> barrista

That Stud Muffin I Married just gave me a cappuccino made with the new rock 'em, sock 'em, grind 'em, brew 'em espresso machine I gave him for our anniversary.

It. is. HEAVEN.

He just found a new career.

And I feel like I just got home

It's been a long day. Busy. Action packed.

I've got to figure out how to get Madonna to do my laundry. Imagine how fast it would get folded and back in the drawers.

Same thing, but leopard print

Oh, Internet. I am a disappointed woman. My husband gave me two gifts for our wedding anniversary, and one was a copy of Kimora Lee Simmon's Fabulosity.



My husband had never heard of her because I am his guide to mass culture, and I had never bothered to mention her to him. Because she is mostly beneath my notice. Amazingly enough, however, a couple of days ago I was emailing a couple of my friends about how incredibly vulgar she is. I've also made fun of her on Mamarazzi.

For me, she has no real importance, except as a punchline. Yet now, I own her book.

Internet, this bothers me. I feel very strongly that my husband's money should not be spent on Kimora Lee Simmons in any way whatsoever. No Baby Phat jeans, no Baby Phat perfumes, no Hello Kitty diamond jewelry. Instead, his money should be spent on something else. Like expensive bathtubs. Like the one in the window at Waterworks.

It hurts me to think that he could have been saving up for an amazing Waterworks bathtub, and spent the last $15 he needed on that book.

Also, Kimora Lee Simmons has leopard print carpeting in her closet. And so do I. Should I kill myself?

By the rubble of Newtopia, there I sat down.

So I'm sitting on the front porch, admiring the view of the trucks, vans, scaffolding, and ladders that indicate that house painting, post-storm cleanup, and construction are still the activities of choice on my street.

I'm availing myself of my house's wireless service to post today's Mamarazzi entry, in which I make fun of (WHO ELSE) Britney Spears.

Actually, the entry is in the form the prayers of Lindsay Lohan and her father. So while I'm in praying mode, allow me to extemporize one:

Oh Heavenly Father,

Thank you for not making me live in a construction site that is--all hyperbole aside--reminiscent of Dresden after the Allies bombed it.

Thy construction hosts have taped plastic sheets everywhere, with a special emphasis on the kind I have to unzip and zip back up after I've passed through them. I am no fool, Lord, and their plastic does not cozen me. I mock their zippers to scorn; I know that my house will be brimful of their dust. Verily, though they tape their sheets of plastic to mine walls, yet my vacuum cleaner's cup shall run over.

Oh Lord, your construction hosts are smiting my daughter's bathroom. Thank you for allowing me to rescue her Minnie Mouses and Madame Alexander dolls before the sledgehammering started.

Thank you also for providing me with a relatively quiet apartment in which to dwell. Even with all four Buxoms in residence, it is not, unlike my house, one loud United Nations-worthy babble of Spanish, Polish, and a radio tuned--not quite perfectly--to an oldies station playing a static-ridden version of "One Night in Bangkok."

In thy infinite grace, therefore, please allow thy construction workers to discover the beauty that is the MP3 player. With headphones.

Amen

Mother Theresa had better watch her back

I recently admitted that I've become obsessed with bathroom tile. And I still am.

But I'm not obsessed with my obsession. And I know today's trip to Home Expo and Home Depot, while thrilling to the tile connoisseurs out there, might not do much for the rest of you. So I'm not going to talk about it.

So I'm going to talk about someone else's obsession for a change. Because I'm not the only one who is obsessed. My daughter is, too. With VW Beetles--known in these parts as "Slug Bugs." Or "Punch Buggies."

Now, my kids have always loved Beetles. Way back when they were a lot shorter and watched the Teletubbies, they decided that since we are a family of four, and the Teletubbies are a family of four, their father needed to buy each of us a Beetle, one in each of the four Teletubbies colors.

I objected to this on practical grounds. First of all, they don't make purple Beetles. Where would that leave Tinky Winky? Hasn't he been having a hard time with the religious right? Is it fair to slight him again? And where would we keep four Beetles? And anyway, there is no way my daughter was going to let me have the red Beetle. Even though red is my favorite color. Because it's her favorite color. So she'd get the Po Herbie. Leaving me driving the yellow one. And looking like a yellow-car-driving loser. GREAT.

(Stop me if this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. And welcome to the world of being the parent of a three-year-old.)

Anyway, because in my limited amount of free time (take that! Anonymous) I do improving things like read the books of Jen Lancaster, I discovered the joys of playing Slug Bug! or Punch Buggy! (The name depending on how quickly my neurons are firing--for some reason Punch Buggy is easier for me to remember.)

And since we have a 45 minute drive to and from school every day, we play a LOT of Slug Bug! or Punch Buggy!

So today, after having spotted three Punch Buggies in a row, my daughter said:

"I wish everyone in the world could have a Herbie."

My goodness, what a philanthropist I spawned, I thought to myself smugly, glowing all over in the thought that I was rearing my daughter up to be so thoughtful and unselfish.

"Just think of all the people we could punch!" she added happily.

In which Poppy confesses to a new obsession

with tile.

Yes, at the moment, for me, it's All About Tile. Tile 'R' Us. We be tile. Stone, ceramic, whichever, it's a stoned soul picnic around these parts, and it's not happening on a picnic blanket. It's happening on a bunch of TILE.

I notice tile everywhere I go.

In fact, that's all I notice.

Dinner out with Mr. Buxom? New sushi place? Music of the Baroque concert afterwards? Many, many hours of Haydn's The Seasons? You are nothing to me. I was looking at the floor.

I am not shitting you. Give me the slightest bit of encouragement and I'll tell you all about the bathroom floor of the Methodist church in Evanston, Illinois. If you really make nice, I'll describe the tile on the walls, too.

What? You need proof? OK.

As we were leaving the concert, I serenaded Mr. Buxom with the following:

What tile is this, that's laid to rest
Upon my bathroom flo-o-r
Is this the prettiest I could pick,
or should I have shopped some more?

Mr. Buxom assures me the concert was excellent.

I'm so glad the ticket money wasn't wasted.

She drives them right round, baby, right round

Like a record baby, right round round round ...

And welcome to the weekend wrap-up report, where I fill you in on my first week as the world's only Homeless Housewife^TM.
A week ago the Russian army showed up at my house and ripped out the kitchen and a bathroom. Because this would leave our house uninhabitable, my family and I moved to Chicago. My job, therefore, is to drive the kids to Newtopia every morning and drop them off at school. Then I kill time in various ways until it's time to pick them up and bring them back to Chicago.

I drop by my house every day to pick up the mail, check messages, talk to the workmen, and pick up something that my husband or kids (or sometimes--gasp!--I) left behind.

This leaves me with about six more hours to kill.

I go to the gym pretty much every day. Sooner or later I'm going to get my ass into the pool and swim some laps, but mostly I'm spending an hour at a time on the treadmill. I listen to an audiobook while I plod towards nowhere, so the time goes by fairly painlessly. I eat lunch there, too.

If I need the internet, I can brave the workmen and go up into my study at my house, use the public library, or haul my laptop with me and go to a cafe with wireless access. This is too complicated, so I'm spending waaaay less time on the internet. It's just like I'm traveling! To Paris! Except I'm at home. Sort of.

I also do stuff like visit tile showrooms, toilet showrooms, and lighting stores that sell beautifully-restored antique chandeliers. This takes an amazing amount of time. And energy.

So Internet, I have a piece of advice for you. If you are easily overwhelmed by sensory stimuli--if you are the sort of person who has difficulty deciding what color to paint the living room walls, do not go to Home Expo--or any other big block store. Even the little tiny tile stores where the tiles are artisanal and crafty and hand patted by blind Portuguese nuns--even those stores are out to get you. Yes, they are. Those cute little stores live to daze and confuse you. And the big stores want to saw off the top of your head, remove your brain, place it in a multi-layered DisneyWorld snow globe, and shake the shit out of it.

Poppy's brain

Poppy's brain on Home Renovations

Accordingly, much against my will, I'm going to become an amateur interior decorator. Unpaid interior decorating will join my other unpaid hobbies, such as singing in a church choir, blogging, having children, and driving them to school.

In each and every case, you get what you pay for, so don't come whining to me if my choir, blog, children, driving, and renovated bathrooms suck. out. loud.

I'm just sayin'.

Fifteen minutes of Poppy

Hey, Internet, the way things are going, you're going to be able to say you knew me when, before fame and fortune had me receiving a standing ovation on my much ballyhooed Oprah appearance, performing at the White House, having my private parts cast in plaster by groupies, and ending up bloated, purple, and dead on a toilet like Elvis.

Or, in the terse version: I'm getting really famous.

But don't worry; I remain the same old lovable Poppy Buxom. Ask anyone in Newtopia and you'll hear how I'm constantly being spotted picking out produce at my local supermarket, shopping at the Gap, dropping my kids off at school in the morning, and gassing up the minivan just like everyone else.

But don't let my I'm-just-a-housewife shtick fool you, because the honors and the kudos just keep flooding in. For example, this week my total weight loss reached five pounds, so I am the recipient of the coveted Weight Watchers Five Pounds Sticker.

I'm also in two magazines this month. I'm making a cameo appearance in Chicago Social and I'm also appearing in North Shore Magazine along with fellow North Shore bloggers John of Marathon Pundit, Localvores, Jim of StarbucksGossip, and ChaosDigest. We'll be there all month! Please tip your waitress!

Last but not least, I also received the You Make Me Smile award from Jen of Jen on the Edge and an honorable mention from Suzanne of Perfecting the Fine Art of Procrastination, two notable bloggers. (Girls, just so you know, I've got a jar of Vaseline and a bag of plaster ready to mix up any time you say the word.)

Live blogging The Biggest Loser

OK, this is the night you find out what a lying sack of shit I really am. Because all those claims I've been making that I don't watch television? Complete nonsense. Because here I am live blogging a T.V. show. Again.

And of course, my husband has to chime in. "What? More television for the smug?" Well--yes. Yes, it is.

===
Let me tell you, this is serious motivation for my Weight Watchers regime. Because these people look like Weebles. Remember Weebles? "Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down."

OK, they're on their first task. They're racing through the desert towards the two coaches. Whoever gets there first gets to be the head of one of the two teams.

(They're trying to make this look dramatic, but holy shit. These people CAN'T RUN.)

Oh, COOL. Phil, the 62-year-old, is one of the first two to reach the goal. Hey, you whipper-snappers? We old people ROCK.

Next comes Jerry, an ex-football player. Who weighs 403 pounds.



====
Now we find out that the two team captains get to pick the rest of their teammates. There will be a blue team and a red team. So it's time for some background about these people. The crying. The stories.

====
Now Phil and Jerry are picking their teams. The six who don't get picked will have to go home. Oooh, the tension!

(Are they picking the ABSOLUTE FATTEST people? Because they win by losing the highest percentage of weight. Would fatter people do better?)

Oh, the girl who came in dead last got picked. Now that's heartwarming. Am I tearing up? Um ... no.

OK, the teams are almost picked ... but we have to cut for a COMMERCIAL. Because don't forget, this is TELEVISION we're watching here.

I'm sorry, I just can't handle this amount of manufactured drama.

====
OK, back. Some of them are crying because they didn't make the cut.

But then! A new coach shows up. And guess what? It's Jillian. I guess if you weigh 400 pounds, Jillian is very famous. Famous for being an evil drill sergeant fitness queen glamazon. As one player puts it, "It's Jillian! She's a machine!"

Jillian tells them they're not really being sent home. Three teams will be competing, not two. They're the black team!

Shhhh, don't tell the red and blue teams.

====
Oh boy, now they're about to weigh in for the first time. And oh my lord, the MAN BOOBS.

But of course, it's time for another bunch of commercials.

===
Now they're working out. Picking up sacks of cement, flipping airplane tires around. In the hot desert sun.

More working out. Loading suitcases as heavy as the weight they want to lose onto jetliners and pulling them across the tarmac.

Reading their letters from home. Weeping. Sniff, sniff.

Oh great, one of them worked out so hard that she puked.

====
And now, more drama. The weigh ins! The weight loss! The man boobs!

Did you know it's possible to lose twenty-six pounds in a week?

I hate to say it, but this show is addictive.

I just hope it's not fattening.

It's Poppy, bitch.

So guess what? I'm live blogging the MTV Video Music Awards! Aren't I trendy!

Two things you need to know right away:

Britney Spear's big comeback vehicle, "Gimme More," or whatever it's called isn't just a lame song; it's a lame song that was being lipsynched by a zombie. I mean, you can't even call it lipsynching, because half the time she didn't even bother to move her lips in time to the lyrics; she just smiled a little bit. And looked like she was wondering whatever happened to the big snake.

As for dancing, Lucille Ball danced more energetically in Mame. And she was 63 at the time.

But even I, who practically made a career out of snarking Britney Spears over at Mamarazzi, felt sorry for her when as soon as she got off the stage, Sarah Silverman (the comedienne currently showing up in Gap ads)--came out and basically trashed the performance, trashed Britney, called Britney's kids mistakes--and got a bigger reaction than Britney did.

I felt a little sorry for Britney. And pissed off at this Sarah person. So I turned off the television. In protest, I guess.

Either that, or I was feeling territorial.

Because when I'm around, no one else gets to make fun of Britney.

Dies Irae

Well, yesterday they ripped up the kitchen. The stove and dishwasher are in the dining room. The refrigerator is in the porch, which gives the house a certain trailer park je ne sais quoi.

I'm sure my neighbors are enchanted.

After school I drove the kids to our place downtown, having only had to pack and unpack and repack the van once or twice in order to fit in all the food I rescued from the kitchen before it was ripped up.

And of course, it was as hot as a crotch while all this was going on. Wouldn't you just know it? Chicago felt like a big, wet, smelly sponge sauna after all of that.

And that was just the beginning of my fun-filled weekend!

We had a double choir rehearsal today, which involved sight-reading a cubic ass-load of new music, including a lot by Mozart.

I differ from the average Classical music aficionado in not giving a rat's ass about Mozart most of the time, and finding him a big fat pain in the ass during very long bouts with him, such as the recent bicentennial of his birth, where it was All Mozart All the Time to a degree that could induce bruxism in the most stoic. Another time Mozart gives me the pip is when I have to spend hours sight reading his choral music, such as today's adventure in learning the soundtrack to Amadeus, otherwise known as Mozart's Requiem.

One advantage to being in the city is that tomorrow, after my second day of sight reading long swathes of the Requiem, I'll be able to stroll back to the condo and collapse. I won't have to pack the car and the kids and drive to the suburbs on Sunday evening.

Instead, I'll be doing it first thing in the morning on Monday.

Where's the bull?

I spent all day moving stuff out of the kitchen and into the living room. There is china and glassware on every horizontal surface in there.

It looks like a china shop.

Which begs the obvious question (see title.)

(I think I'm it.)

It's a High Tech Life--UPDATED

When we last met, I had every intention of spending Labor Day weekend in labor--the light manual kind.

I was going to pack up all the china and glassware in my kitchen cupboards so the construction guys could come crowbar them off the walls.

But in one of those "for want of a nail, a shoe was lost" scenarios, I spent the weekend dejunking my study, packing things up for the thrift shop, moving furniture, and bringing crap down to the basement. And completely ignoring the kitchen.

See, my husband was using my old iMac for his iPod. And the iMac had been wheezing and groaning for a while. It had reached the point where it was doing the Macintosh equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death every other time he used it. So after spending yet another frustrating evening trying to get things to work, he decided to buy a new computer.

So off he went to the Apple store. And came home with the newest model iMac. With stereo speakers, a 24-inch screen, a Terabyte of memory, and an adapter so you can hitch it up to cable and watch this thing that you, Internet, are always talking about. You know, called "television."



I sent my husband away thinking we would simply swap one computer for another and get back to business. And he could help me pack dishes while listening to his updated iPod.

Foolish me. See, the thing is, a 24-inch screen begs to be watched. And not just alone, but with other people. And that meant some things needed to be added to my study. Like comfortable seating. And order. And cleanliness.

So it was out with the old, and in with the new. The trash went out. The recycling went out. The rummage-y crap went to the porch to await a drop-off day



The metric ton of crap that needs to be gone through or put into indefinite storage went to the basement.



And up and down, up and down, up and down I went, like a plastic bird dipping its beak in a glass of water.

So now, I have a nice new computer



in a tidy study



as long as you don't look too closely at the top of my desk



and I may never go outside again. And not because I'll be sucked into the new computer (although I will.)

It's because I still have to pack up those damned dishes. Because UPDATE: the construction company wants to demo the kitchen on Thursday. But I talked them into Friday, instead.

p.s. Moving boxes and bags of crap around counts as a Weight Watchers activity. A loss of 2.2 pounds says so.

Newsflash

Weight Watchers GIANT (sic) Chocolate Fudge Ice Cream Bars are really good.

Really, REALLY good.

No wonder that out of a box of six, my children have allowed me to have exactly one. They're that good. They don't have any fake sugar, either.

And they're only one point each!

This message brought to you courtesy of Poppy Buxom, who, not coincidentally, joined Weight Watchers on Wednesday. It is not a pay-for-post, even though it reads like one.

Sorry, the cute title is packed in a box over there.

Want to know what I've been doing? (OK; no, you don't. I can tell because you haven't clicked over here all day.)

Well, that's OK, because today I was too busy to blog. I was packing up the contents of our kitchen into boxes, bags, sacks to take to the thrift shop, and straight to the garbage can outside, because who remembers buying that box of Swan's Down cake flour? Not I.

(Hey, internet! Did you know that if you go over to Yahoo! Image Search and search for "cake flour" you get a whole lot of pictures of wedding cakes? I didn't either.)

So, anyway, this whole construction-workers-coming-to-the-house-to-rip-it-apart thing is taking everyone by surprise. Especially me. I've had home renovations done before, but not as a resident of the property in question.

Thus it is that not until I was well stricken in years, i.e., now, did I discover that getting ready to have your kitchen ripped apart has all the pain and none of the pleasure of actually moving out. You have to take everything out of the cupboards. You have to pack it--carefully, because a lot of it is breakable. You have to label the boxes, and find somewhere to put them.

Oh, wait. There is one pleasure. You don't have to clean anything. No matter how dusty and nasty. Because next week, someone is going to crowbar those cupboards right off the walls and chuck them into a Dumpster.

And my goodness, what a wild, reckless feeling that realization has given me! Tonight I sliced a tomato right on the countertop without using a cutting board.

Yes, it's Saturday night. Time to party!

Maybe I'll go in there and spill some red wine on something.