Bloggy Giveaway Carnival--Hermes scarf, or, the best things come in orange boxes

Today's giveaway is yet another thing that I thought I would like, but didn't.



Mind you, I think the design is lovely. But my computer monitor misrepresented the colors. When it arrived and I opened the package, I recognized at a glance that this particular color--a shade I categorize as "gym uniform green"--was going to make me look, in the words of Helen Gurley Brown, "recently exhumed."



And so, Internet, I am giving you the opportunity to find out whether you find this particular shade of green flattering. It's a definitely more green than turquoise, but there is just a suggestion of blue in it. Other colors are a medium smoky blue and a medium rose pink, yellow, and taupe on a white background.



The design is called Marionettes blah blah blah--here's a close-up of it.



OK, I stand corrected. It's called Le Temps des Marionettes, which is French for "Ze time of ze puppets." And it can be yours! And I'm sure it will look lovely.

To enter, leave a comment. If you don't have a Blogger ID and profile, let me know your email address, too. I'll hold a random drawing on Friday. Polls close at 5:00 p.m. Central Time.

Good luck!

Bloggy Giveaway Carnival--Perfumes that aren't good enough for me All gone!

You know how it is when you read a ton of makeup and fragrance boards and people are raving about some fragrance, so you click over to some on-line perfume store and they have free shipping, and some of the prices are unbelievable, so you buy a bunch of fragrances based on their descriptions, and when they arrive, they're OK, but you never wear them? And you want to get rid of them because each bottle sits there collecting dust and reminding you of the money you spent that you can't get back? And yet, the average thrift shop or rummage sale isn't interested in a bottle of eau de toilette with a half inch missing?

No? It's just me?

FINE.

Today's giveaway/virtual rummage sale is the following used fragrances:

Jardins de Bagatelle by Guerlain
Madeleine Vionnet
Caleche by Hermes
Hiris by Hermes
Serendipitous by Serendity 3
Ombre Rose by Jean Brosseau
Allure by Chanel
Joy by Jean Patou
Eclat d'Arpege by Lanvin

Because there are so many bottles, I'll send them to the first takers. Feel free to pick two or three, but don't go nuts and ask for the whole bunch, because that's not nice.

Bottles will be shipped out Priority Mail, probably next week, but don't hold me to it.

Also, I don't remember when I bought these, but most of them are two or three years old and used, OK? Except for the tiny (.05 oz/1.5 ml) bottle of Allure perfume, which I got as a free sample at the Chanel store in Paris because my attempts to speak French made the French ladies there decide that Americans are pleasant enough, maybe even charming, but hardly their intellectual equals. So they felt sorry for me, and loaded me with samples.

"Allons enfants de la Poppy! She is giving free perfume!"

Bloggy Giveaway Carnival--Limited Edition Barbies, BNIB. A random drawing for Jen Lancaster anyone who enters.

You know, a lot of people would try to eBay this kind of thing, but I'm not organized enough.

Well, of course, I'm not organized enough. These are Barbies I bought for my daughter under the assumption that she'd become interested in Barbie some day.

OK, confession time--I bought one of them when I was pregnant with her. Yes, I really am that hopeless.

But anyway, my daughter's interest in Barbie evaporated a few years ago--and it was never all that great to begin with, as it was limited to extricating her from her package, losing her shoes, and messing up her hair.

(It seems pretty obvious that even as a small child, my daughter had a somewhat cavalier, frat-boy attitude towards her dolls.)

OK. Obviously, the interest in Barbie was really mine all along. Pathetic Baby Boomer that I am.

So anyway, for your Giveaway pleasure, I have the following:

The Avon Exclusive, Special Edition, Second-in-a-Series "Winter Rhapsody" Barbie, copyright 1996, which you could only get from an Avon lady
The Little Debbie Snacks Special Edition Barbie, copyright 2001, which you could only get if you sent in box tops. Of Little Debbie Snack Cakes. OK, we interrupt this shame spiral to bring you our final Barbie,
The Walt Disney World Resort Four Parks One World Barbie from 2002, which I bought for my kids' babysitter's niece ... and never got around to giving her. Because I am a LOSER.

You know, it's a good thing confession is good for the soul.

Anyway, I'm assuming these would be of interest to Barbie collectors, but of course, you'll be glad to know that none of them was made in China, so if you want to risk that whole choking hazard situation, you could probably let your children gnaw on the paint with impunity. Although if you do, you didn't read that here.

Leave me a comment if you're interested. I'll be running a drawing at 5:00 p.m. this Friday. Oh, and you have to take all three of them--no choosies.

(Did you notice they're all brunettes? I always had a soft spot for Barbies who had brown hair LIKE ME.)

***Edited to add***

Hello, friends of Jen! If you think Susie Sunshine should shut up and let Jen enter the contest, just like everyone else, I agree. So I'm entering her.

But I'm not entering Susie Sunshine. Even though I totally know she wants the Little Debbie one. Because I'm cruel--but fair.

***Edited again to add***

Yes, I'll mail overseas, so feel free to enter even if you live in Antartica. Also, be sure I have a way to email you--either a link back to your blog or your email address or both.

Bloggy Giveaway Carnival--Chick-lit and a token male author

The de-cluttering never stops around here. And now, I've found a new way to foist my belongings off on the world! Thanks and a tip of the hat to Shannon, of Rocks In My Dryer.

Here's how it works. I'm giving away some books. They have all been read or at least handled, but except for the Jennifer Weiner book (which looks like two beach-book-crazed Mommies wrestled for it at Border's) they are newer rather than older. (You might even be able to get away with regifting some of them ... but you didn't hear that here.)

I was going to post a picture, but because I am Poppy, Hear Me Make an Idiot Out of Myself Whenever Little Buttons Need to be Pushed, No, Not That One, And Get Your Mind Out of The Gutter, I can't figure out why I can't get the picture out of the camera and onto my laptop.

So a list will have to do. I'm giving away:

A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke
Confessions of a Slacker Mom by Muffy Mead-Ferro
GRITS Friends Are Forevah by Deborah Ford
Stop Dressing Your Six-Year Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark
Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner
This is Chick-Lit, edited by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

To win, leave a comment saying you're interested.

I'll be holding a totally fair, objective, random drawing on Friday at 5:00 p.m. (This means Susie Sunshine will not automatically get them, no matter how much she whines.)

Then I'll post the name of the winner on my blog.

Have fun!

UPDATED because OK, I finally figured out the new camera. Happy?

And? It's been going on for months.

Note to the mothers of adorable, chubby-cheeked, baby-blue-wearing Thomas-the-Tank-Engine-loving little boys.

Nothing is going to get on your last nerve like the sound of your son's completely unmodulated, grating, cracking, is-it-up-or-is-it-down-please-I'm-begging-you-make-up-
your-mind adolescent male voice.

It will somehow manage to SEEM REALLY LOUD no matter where it's coming from: right next to you at the dinner table? Three rooms away? In the basement when you're on the second floor? It won't matter. It's OMNIPRESENT.

And? It will constantly remind you that CHANGES ARE OCCURRING. In case the fuzz on the upper lip and the giraffe-like height haven't already clued you in.

It's like living with a fog horn. That tells really bad jokes.

Just thought you'd like to know.

Quiz

Please pick the item, unearthed in our most recent round of decluttering, that would send you into the deepest shame spiral:

• posters from Mr. Buxom's college dorm room (he graduated 22 years ago)

• the George Michael "Faith" cassette I used to fuel my daily run the summer before we got married (19 years ago)

• a Macintosh Centris (released 15 years ago) complete with lots and lots of 3.5-inch disks of data

• the plastic smocks the kids wore to do messy art projects when they were in preschool (about seven or eight years ago)

• the Halloween costume my daughter wore four years ago

• a bag of quilted, heavy-duty diaper-service diapers I bought almost 13 years ago

and

• a single, much-worn pair of rubber pants

There will be no winners and no prizes. Because you obviously

wouldn't want anything I have. Because obviously everything I

have is covered in diaper cooties.

Help

Yesterday I was heading out for my voice lesson. I was leaving the house through the garage carrying my purse, music, and four packages I needed to mail.

I managed to slam the door on my fingertip.

I immediately pulled off my glove and checked, and my finger was not actually crushed--it just felt that way. It wasn't even bleeding. But my fingernail was already starting to turn purple.

So anyway, I drove to my lesson--whimpering--and when I got there, I got a glass of ice water and spent the next hour soaking my finger and singing a Mozart aria.

This morning, I was cutting a plastic ice skate blade protector so it would fit my children's ice skates, and managed to slice off part of my thumbnail with the bread knife I was (stupidly) using.

So I have only one question:

Where's Tom Cruise when I need him?

Guy spends all his time uploading videos of himself to the internet where he brags about how he's here to help. Hello, Tom, I needed someone to hold the door for me--or shorten those blade protectors--and where were you? Probably still talking to the camera.

What a douchebag.

House

Last night I totally crashed. I was in bed with the lights out before 10:00 p.m. And I slept until 7:45 this morning. Which adds up to what--over nine hours of sleep? And I'm still tired.

And it's not SAD, at least not today, which is freezing cold, but of such a sunniness that I want to throw out all my furniture and replace it with antique Swedish Gustavian stuff like this






and then waft around in a long dress like someone out of Fanny and Alexander.

OK, maybe not.

But did anyone see that episode of House, M.D. where the woman is sleeping 18 hours a day, and it turns out she has African Sleeping Sickness, and no one can figure out how she got it, and it turns out she was having an affair with her husband's jogging partner?

Well, my husband doesn't jog. So it can't be that.

But there doesn't seem to be enough caffeine in the world to pep me up. What will do the trick?

Treadmill? Geritol? Getting my ass out of this chair and away from internet?

176

I went to Weight Watchers today not in fear and trembling, per se, but not feeling all that great about it, either. I haven't been tracking my food, and I certainly haven't been working out.

See, I'm still getting the house back in order after last fall's construction project. Yes, still. Not to mention Christmas. Confession time: our Christmas tree went down on January 20th, mostly because it seemed a little silly to still have a Christmas tree up on Martin Luther King Day.

It's taking so long because I wanted to do this right. Not just put everything back into the kitchen--not to shove Christmas decorations into random boxes, but do things properly. This meant I needed to do a whole shitload of some decluttering.

So I haven't been working out, per se, but I haven't been sitting around eating bonbons, either. I've cleaned out a bunch of closets and made multiple trips with a van packed with stuff to donate to the rummage sale. I've moved furniture around. I've cleaned out the storage area.

(Which badly needed cleaning. I mean, I found a box of rattles. May I remind you that my kids are not 1 and 2 but 11 and 12?)

While I've been dejunking the house, I've been pondering my clutter situation. I decided that if you want to see a house that needs attention, maybe the first person you need to talk to is a woman with a weight problem.

Marcia Cilley, a/k/a Flylady, has a book out called Body Clutter. I haven't read it, and I probably won't, because to be honest, the Flylady stuff gets on my last nerve--all that stuff about Purple Puddles is so ... how can I put this tactfully ... not me.

But. It seems to me that weight problems and clutter problems very frequently strike the same people. And the reason is Freud's Pleasure Principle. You know, where you seek pleasure and avoid pain. Because let's face it: it's much easier to let crap accumulate than pare way down. And it's much easier to have the second helping, super-size the fast-food order, and sit on the couch and watch television rather than get up and move.

In both cases, the deciding vote is cast by entropy.

This means that if you don't do anything about it, what with the gifts, the junk mail, the outgrown children's clothes and toys, the collectibles, the books you're not interested in any more, the DVDs you aren't watching, the CDs you aren't listening to, the clothes you're tired of, the stuff that doesn't fit any more, the piles of antique linens your mother foisted off on gave you--you, like me, are up to your armpits in a lot of crap you don't use or love or have any real reason to own.

And if you sit around on your ass and eat a little too much every day, and drink a little too much every day ... you are probably carrying around a bunch of clutter under your clothes.

So for the past couple of weeks, when I thought I wasn't working out? I really was. At least, I was doing something very similar to working out. I sure didn't want to do it. But once I got going, I got all energetic. And when I was done? I was exhausted, but I felt great. Also, I needed to take a shower.

So you see, decluttering really is like going to the gym.

And I think that's why I lost a pound last week.

First words

Yesterday at my daughter's birthday celebration my husband was exposed to a pungent and unusually muscular variety of dog or cat dander that had him sneezing his head off.

For hours.

When it was time to go to bed, I suggested--not for the first time, mind you--that he take some Benadryl. He'd never taken it before, but we keep a small supply of it around to keep the kids' ears from exploding on long airplane rides.

But this is Mr. Mistrusts-All-Over-the-Counter Drugs we're talking about. He's willing to take the enteric aspirin his doctor recommends. And he's been known to swallow the occasional Tylenol. But that's it. So it was only because he really was miserable, and he'd been sneezing and blowing his nose for about five hours, and he was about to go to sleep, that my powers of persuasion finally became strong enough to convince him. So after, oh, say, 10 or 15 minutes of explaining that an antihistamine was exactly what he needed, he finally agreed to take a single tablet of Benadryl. It's a miracle! And it only took 19 years of marriage!

And then, this morning, his first words to me were:

"Wow, I slept great last night. That Benadryl stuff is amazing."

and the kicker:

" You should have made me take it a long time ago."

Today is Martin Luther King Day. But it's also

the birthday of the Queen of the Known Universe. That's right, people. Poppette turned 11 today.
- - - - -
Dear Poppette,

Today you're one hundred and thirty two months 11 years old. This is you on your tenth birthday:



And now you're eleven. And you've grown up so much.

In many ways, you're still my little girl. You're crazy about sweets--especially chocolate.



You still have those cute baby cheeks.



Your room is still overflowing with stuffed animals--especially Minnie Mouse.

But you've had a lot of new experiences this year, and we've enjoyed watching you rise to the challenge. You were the flower girl at my sister's wedding.


You were absolutely perfectly composed for the ceremony. Then you danced like a maniac at the reception, ending up with a couple of Daddy/Daughter dances.


You went to a new camp, where you finally learned to swim. And you turned into a real water baby, much to the surprise and pleasure of the swimming coach--not to mention your parents.


And zut alors, you've been to Paris! Where again, you behaved beautifully. I will never forget showing you the Botticellis at the Louvre. As well as what's her name--the lady Da Vinci painted. You know the one.


Oh, that's right. Mona Poppette.

We are so proud of you.

Happy Birthday, Poppette!

Love,
Mother

Cold. (Updated with Celsius correction)

I'm not one to whine much about the weather in Chicago. First of all, it's been done before--and better--by people who have lived here longer than I have.

Ok, I might be able to put a fresh twist on a bare recital of the facts--add a little zest to things, say, with a description of the way my hand got frozen to the car door this morning--but chances are, anything I'd say would have been said before.

But I want to tell you about today's parking situation, anyway.

On Sunday mornings, I park around the corner from the cathedral where I sing. The garage I park in is part of a development: there are a few shops, a Whole Foods, a Blockbuster, and an apartment complex. It's a typical one-block city development. Usually it's pretty quiet on Sunday mornings. And today, it was extra quiet because it was freezing--literally. When I left the house this morning, it was five below zero (27 C) or, to the metrically-inclined, minus 20.5 degrees Celsius.

After church, when I went to pay, the machine kept telling me I was using an invalid ticket. I tried four times, and the same thing happened every time. So I had to call the garage office on my cell phone, and they told me to go to the office.

When I arrived, things were pretty chaotic. There were two angry customers in the office, and two more customers yelling at the girls via cellphone. The girls were pissed off, too. Pretty much everyone was pissed off--even me. I mean, at first, I was sort of glad to have to go to the office, because this meant the problem probably wasn't my fault. (Because--let's face it, after all these years I know myself pretty well, and most of the time, IT IS.) But after a while, I started to get pissy, too.

I mean, I really shouldn't have had to make three separate phone calls just to figure out where the office was. But I did. And then when I finally got there, things were so ugly, it was like someone had let a bunch of aldermen loose.

At least with all the yelling going on, I found out what the problem was. Apparently the computer that runs the parking machines got so cold that it wasn't working properly. That's right--it was so cold the computer died.

So that's Chicago for you: a unique combination of freezing cold weather, dead computers, surly incompetence, rude assholes, and bloggers who don't know when to shut up.

More consumer lust.

OK, I'm still madly in love with that AT&T Tilt cell phone ... and if I still love in a couple of weeks, my loving spouse has volunteered to buy it for me for Valentine's Day.

But today, I went furniture shopping.

OH MY GOD I am sick in love with some of the stuff at Carson Pirie Scott's furniture gallery. The Sherrill stuff is really nice. And the Hickory Chair? Is a wet dream.

Also, I am in love with the furniture salesman who took me around and showed me stuff. This guy was opinionated and knowledgeable, naturally he was. He's a salesman. But what was of primary importance, he was a first-class ass kisser. I mean hey, what's with these salesmen who don't kiss the customer's ass? Why do they think I go shopping in a real brick and mortar store in the first place, when you can go crazy shopping on line?

It's the ass-kissing, stupid.

And oh, the possibilities! I wanted a three-cushion, traditional sofa.

But which fabric do I like? The beige damask?

The red jacquard?

Or do I want to go completely mental and get green leather?

So then I came home with all these fabric samples and proceeded to have a lovely time draping them over every square inch of our uncomfortable reupholstered rummage sale love seat. And it turns out my husband and I liked the same fabric. And hated the same stuff, too!

It's kismet. We were meant to be. And I was fated--FATED, I tell you--to spend every dime of his money on new sofas. And side tables. And lamps. And also, I don't know about you, but I'm sick of my window treatments. And the rugs. Do I need new rugs? blackbird, what do you think? (I know you've never seen my house, but I'll do whatever you say.)

And if you like to live vicariously/get big furniture thrills--check out the Hickory Chair website. You can build your own sofa. And yes, there goes the rest of this evening.

God help me; I have cell phone lust.

Today marks the end of an era. The era when I made a parenting decision and stuck by my guns is over. Unfortunately. Because up 'til now, I haven't been the sort of person to cave just because someone whines, or pouts, or tells me that all the other kids have a (desired object).

But I just ordered my daughter a cell phone. Which I had vigorously resisted doing.

Her birthday's on Monday. She'll be 11. Viewed objectively in the cold, clear light of the internet, she's really too young to own a cell phone. Right? I mean, she loses things. A lot. Also, she has Asperger's Syndrome, which affects social interaction, which means she doesn't have dozens of little tween-aged friends to talk to and IM and text. Well, actually, she doesn't have any little tween-aged friends. So whom is she planning to call, anyway?

Oh, wait a minute. Me. If she has a charged cell phone on her person, in case of some scheduling snafu or other semi-emergency, she'll be able to call me. Even better, I'll be able to call her.

Although if she does have a charged cell phone on her person during a crisis situation? I'll have all the proof I need that I really did bring the wrong baby home from the hospital.

Anyway, I went to the Cingular website and ordered her a free phone--who cares about the model, the important thing is that it's red--and the cheapest possible monthly plan, and some limited texting ability, and an insurance plan for if when she loses it.

And then I fell sick in love with this:
People, it does everything. And it has a qwerty keyboard. And GPS and satellite radio. And MicroSoft Office. And tethers to a laptop as a mobile high-speed modem. WANT.

Unfortunately, it costs even more than an iPhone. And have I ever tapped into even a quarter of what my Razr can do? No, I have not.

So what. I don't care. Lust is irrational, and this is lust talking here. WANT.

It's ... alive!

Mobile post sent by Poppy Buxom using Utterz. Replies. mp3

Weepathon

OK, the people out there who have problems with my site loading really slowly are going to hate my guts, but anyway.

Linda of Straight Up and Slightly Dirty got me turned on to a new meme from Hedgewizard's blog: songs that always make you cry. (OK, it's more nuanced and subtle and shit. What am I, an echo? Go read it for yourself.)

So anyway, I'm going to play. For me, that song is "Parallel Lines" by Todd Rundgren. Here's an amazing live performance of the song on YouTube. (Actually, it's so amazing that it doesn't make me cry at all.) (And holy shit, did you know this entire album was recorded live? Thank you, Wikipedia.)





I guess this is where I explain why this song affects me. (Note how I said "affects" and not "impacts." Because I know that "impact" is a noun. I also know the difference between "effect" and "affect," so once in a while, I have this irresistible urge to flaunt my knowledge.)

OK, the question is, Can a hard-ass pedant like me be emotionally affected by a song? And the answer is, yes, even though you might think I spend all my time nit-picking about proper usage.

Amazingly enough, I also find it fairly easy to get over those late '80s hairdos. Particularly the bass player (I think) with that very strange-looking faux-hawk/quiff. And the backup singers dressed in those stretchy minidresses that look like they're being recycled from a Robert Palmer video.

See, here's the thing. Long before this song came out, I had a massive crush on a guy. I thought he was just perfect for me. Except that he was already taken. Years later, I heard this song, and it hit me--this is exactly what was going on back then--this man and I were on different tracks. We were always going to be in different life stages. And really--isn't that always the way? Your college boyfriend isn't ready to commit, so you end up with someone else; then he decides he wants you, but it's too late.

And musically, it's a great song. There's this suspension that really gets me where I live. I mean, people, this is TODD RUNDGREN we're talking about. Who's only--you realize this, don't you?--a fucking genius.

Now, maybe you'd like to know about the impact affect effect this song has on me. Have no fears. Everything worked out great. Mr. Buxom is a peach. He and I are happier than I ever thought it was possible to be.

On top of that, the guy I had such a crush on in the early 80s? Turned out to be a douchebag.

Who has been known to read this blog.

Heh heh heh.

Here's the button if you want to play.

177

This morning I went to my Weight Watchers meeting, and that's what I weighed today.

This is up from 175, which is what I weighed on December 19th, the last time I went to a meeting. In fact, I haven't weighed this much since Halloween.

But you know what? It feels great.

Because I honestly felt as though I'd gained not three pounds back, but 15. I feel seedy, all flabby and just generally icky.

It must be because I haven't been working at AT ALL. I haven't been to the gym since we all moved back into the house on December 5th. I don't have that I'm-made-of-Silly-Putty rubbery, bouncy, firm feeling you get when you're using your muscles to do something other than drink wine and eat cheese and crackers.

Still, it felt good to face the music. Especially because things weren't as bad as I imagined they'd be.

And so to help myself get back on track, I bought a WW magazine as I left the meeting, and a Shape at the supermarket (where I stocked up on broccoli, Clementines, shrimp, and Skinny Cows, OK?) I plan to steep myself in motivational literature. And start tracking my points again. And re-lose those three pounds.

As God is my witness, I'm going to get under 174 pounds. Even if I have to bore the internet into a coma.

A day of unusual glamour

We moved back into our house on December 5th after over three months of commuting back and forth to the suburbs from Chicago. This was because some long-unused portion of my tiny, reptilian brain knew--with the calm certitude that brooks no argument--that living in our house while a new kitchen and two new bathrooms were being installed would be Hell, capital h, underlined. In fact, it would be old-skool Hieronymus Bosch Hell, complete with pitchforks, bare rumps, and the screams of the damned (or the screams of Poppy, whichever would be louder and more unpleasant.)

And so, three months passed where I spent many hours at the gym, and attended more than my share of Weight Watchers meetings. And spent no time whatsoever in my house, and therefore, didn't worry my pretty little head about it.

And then we moved back into the house, and almost immediately, Christmas struck. Christmas and parties and performances, all washed down with loads of drinking. I managed to refit the kitchen with dishes and Small Appliances, and I even managed to get the halls decked.

But now that Christmas is over, it is time to deal with this house. And I am going to town.

Today I hung out in the basement. The cleaning ladies were here to work their magic upstairs, and I like to stay out of their way. And I had laundry to do. So I retired to the basement with a book, my laptop, and a DVD to watch while I folded laundry. But oh, my God, the mess. The chaos. It's always cluttered, but there were piles of things that got stashed there to keep them out of harm's way during the construction. And not just stuff I expected. But shoes. Tons of shoes. (What the hell were they doing there? I have no idea.) And papers from my study. And all kinds of other crap. All dusty and needing to be wiped and vacuumed.

So I moved furniture around, dusted, made with the shop-vac, threw out some stuff, bagged up a ton of stuff to take to the thrift shop. A few hours later, I emerged from the basement looking like a potato farmer. And of course, my house was spotless.

It was kind of like the scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy opens the door of the farmhouse and discovers that she's in Oz. My house was in technicolor. I, on the other hand, was sepia with dust.

And that is why I'm having such a good time reading all the nice complimentary comments on my last post. You know, about how I'm so glamorous. Where's blackbird's Leica when I'm cleaning the basement?

In Tuvalu. And you, internet, should be feeling very grateful right about now.

Holy crap, I almost forgot to post today.

I think I was too awestruck by what a simple link from blackbird can do. Awestruck, and struck dumb.



So I will leave you with a picture.

This is person-or-persons-unknown Susie Sunshine making mad, passionate love to my bag while I laugh my ass off, forgetting that laughing my ass off makes me look like I'm still demonstrating American Sign Language gestures that mean "I am performing oral sex."

In other words, holy shit, do I have a big mouth. I mean, even when I'm not talking.

A Quiz

Because I didn't get to bed until 3:00 this morning, I am stupid, incoherent, and incapable of blogging. Therefore, I'm making you write today's entry. Just answer the following questions:

1. Spending a weekend in the company of blackbird, Jen Lancaster, Jennifer, Wendy, Carol-in-Texas, and Susie Sunshine is

a. deafening
b. so funny your cheeks hurt from laughing
c. exhausting, exactly the way a marathon sex session should be
d. likely to get you evicted
e. all of the above

2. The majority of the time, blackbird, Poppy, Susie Sunshine, and Wendy were

a. Shopping, eating, talking, and drinking
b. Squabbling over who was sleeping where, and with whom
c. Swearing like fish wives
d. Taking incriminating pictures to upload to their blogs
e. Sitting around in their bikini panties, doing each others' hair and nails, and playing Barbie's Dream Date


3. Jennifer's Saturday night cocktail party really started to get good when

a. Poppy started drinking her fifth glass of wine
b. To make a very important point, Poppy started simulating giving oral sex
c. Poppy volunteered her services as a singer in her hostess's a capella group, and after she was politely turned down, insisted on singing "Happy Birthday" to her hostess. At the top of her lungs.
d. Jennifer started serving Jell-O shots
e. All of the above


3. One of the following did NOT happen:

a. blackbird and Poppy posed for Lesbian pictures


b. blackbird, Poppy, and Wendy discovered that they speak fluent Australian
c. Jen, Fletch, Susie Sunshine, blackbird, Poppy, Wendy, Carol-in-Texas, and Mr. Buxom rampaged through an empty model apartment commenting loudly on how grossly overpriced and underwhelming it was
d. Poppy spent all of Saturday afternoon cleaning and tidying her apartment and making it lovely and welcoming for her internet friends


4. Every single woman in Poppy's apartment owns a pair of Nick and Nora Sock Monkey Slippers except:

a. blackbird
b. Poppy
c. Susie Sunshine
d. Wendy


5. The single sexiest article of clothing worn to Jennifer's cocktail party on Saturday night was definitely


a. blackbird's black elbow-length Gypsy Rose Lee kid gloves
b. Susie Sunshine's amazing exploding white blouse
c. Wendy's low-cut chocolate brown velvet cocktail dress
d. Poppy's granny pants

Could it be menopause?

I just realized something. My idea of a fun day is cleaning house.

It's not that I enjoy cleaning, per se. It's that when I haven't been able to clean, because I've been so busy doing other things, cleaning develops a sort of Zen-like calming effect.

So I just cleaned out the coat closet. And straightened up the living room. And cleaned the kitchen. Where I left little tiny hand-printed signs (I used the back of my husband's business cards) around saying "ONCE PAINTED, NEVER TAINTED" and "Please no dirty dishes or tea bags in the sink--The Management"

Anal, yes. But it feels good.

And now I'm about to head downtown, where I'm going to clean up the condo. Blackbird and Susie Sunshine and Wendy will probably all try to horn in on my cleaning spree, but I saw the condo first, and it's mine, all mine.

I can't make the funny.

One of my best and oldest Internet friends is in the hospital. I just discovered something. This is where internet friendship gets frustrating ... I am scared witless--even more witless than usual--because my friend is so far away, and my computer, which made our friendship possible, can't help me get in touch with her.

Diet update: The good news is the scale said 174.

The bad news is the scale I used is the lying-sack-of-shit bathroom scale that I estimate is off by six pounds.

So I'll say I weigh 180. I'm actually relieved. Somehow I pictured myself as having gained every one of the 18 pounds I lost back. Mind you, that would have involved spending my Christmas vacation eating something like 3,000 extra calories a day, which, while not impossible, takes some doing. Training, even. You know, like someone getting ready to enter a pie-eating contest.

You know, I thought I was being whimsical when I typed that last sentence, but on second thought, I'm not. For a real eye-opener, check out this week's People magazine--the January 14th issue with the people on the cover who had lost half their weight. There's an article where they show what these people used to eat on a typical day, and what they eat now. Teresa Williams used to weigh 310 pounds. And Teresa Williams really did used to eat 10,000 calories a day. Want to know what that would entail? From Page 97:

Breakfast: 6 cinnamon rolls and a large chocolate milk

Lunch: 1 entire box of Lucky Charms and a half-gallon of milk

(OK, so at least she didn't have to worry about getting enough calcium. Plus, let's face it: when you weigh that much, simply walking around is weight-bearing exercise.)

Dinner: 2 Taco Bell half-pound burritos, 2 Reeses Peanut Butter Cups

Snacks: 2 brownies, 8 fried mozzarella sticks, 12 jalapeno poppers with ranch dressing, 1/2 gallon ice cream

At 5' 8", Teresa Williams now weighs 150 and is a size 8. I do not, and am not.

But I'm still down 13 pounds from when I started Weight Watchers. I don't have to panic that I've given away a lot of my size 16 clothes.

Basically, I'm only a few bowls of oatmeal--and 10,000 hours on the treadmill--away from my goal.

The Wednesday Weigh In that wasn't

You can imagine how enthusiastic I felt about heading to my Weight Watchers meeting this morning.

I just knew the meeting would be packed with all the people whose New Year Resolution was to lose weight. I knew the news from the scales was going to be bad, bad, bad. How could it not be bad when I spent the last month sitting on my ass, drinking champagne, eating chocolate, and watching House, M.D., where, for some reason, no one ever seemed to be dying of obesity-related illnesses like diabetes or hardening of the arteries or stuckinthebathtub-itis.

My weight gain? Hugh Laurie's fault. Damn him and his stubble-faced wonderfulness!

And then, at 8:00 or so this morning, when it came time to pack my daughter's backpack for school, I found a bunch of homework sheets that she had not done. So there I was, still in my pajamas, trying to get some of her homework finished and properly slotted away into the binder ... grumpy past all my abilities to describe, yet trying to sound cheerful and loving and not like the kind of mother who stomps all over her daughter's self-esteem, minces it, dips it in flour, deep fat fries it, and EATS IT.

So I sent her off to school, not in tears or anything like that. Yay. But at that point, I really didn't want to go to my meeting.

Mind you, I do want to get to the gym. I do want to re-lose the weight I just finished losing, for God's sake. I do want to be back on track. Why, on Sunday, I had sushi for lunch. On Tuesday, I had a grilled shrimp salad. Yesterday I spent 90 minutes on my new treadmill watching Bringing up Baby.

But baby steps for now.

So I'm wearing one of those god-awful Juicy Couture knock-off velour track suits. I'm going to make the beds, clean up the kitchen, and pack the van with a nice selection of rummage. If I have time, I'll get on the treadmill. (Maybe watch House, M.D.) And I will not drink champagne while I'm on it.

Tomorrow I will weigh myself on my friendly (i.e., lying sack of shit) bathroom scale. And I will post the number.

Honestly, what I do for my darling Hugh you people.

And I thought the way my wrap skirts fall off was embarrassing

I took a "which presidential candidate should you support" quiz at GoToQuiz. No, I won't link to the quiz. I won't do it that much of a favor. I'm pissed off at it.

OK, I found it on Belinda's blog. If you want to take the quiz, stop by her place for the link. Tell her I said hello.

Or don't. Because I just found out I'm a pariah. It turns out that I, a card-carrying donation-making Democrat, do not support Hillary Clinton. (Well, of course I don't. Bitch is married to my boyfriend.) Hillary was in the number two spot, though. Guess who was number one?

No, not Barack O'Boyfriend.

John McCain. JOHN MCCAIN. Who is a REPUBLICAN.

I can't remember the last time I voted for a Republican. Actually, I don't think I ever have.

I have no idea how that happened. None. But I blame the quiz. Because the questions are all about "hot-button" issues. And hot-button issues don't really interest me.

Like immigration. My ancestors immigrated a long time ago, so even if there was some law-breaking going on at some point--even if old Isaac Stearns shaved a year off his apprenticeship and got the right to vote illegally--my nose is clean. I get grandfathered in. (Get it? Grandfathered?) So who am I to act high and mighty about the current crop of law-breakers?

Abortion? Look, if people would stop having sex all the time, there wouldn't be so many unwanted pregnancies. Honestly, what's with all the fucking? What are you, people, anyway--animals?

Health care? Hey, going to the doctor sucks no matter who's paying for it.

Iraq? Well, yes, what an international diplomacy love-fest that's been. But now that we're in up to our armpits, do I have a solution? No, I do not. And therefore, I think it's unfair for me to expect all those Presidential candidates (and really, who the hell are these guys, anyway?) to have one.

But John McCain? You know who supports John McCain?

MY MOTHER.

Poppy writes a prescription

I'm not a doctor, but I know a sure cure when I see one.

So I'm going to pretend to be a doctor, and write a prescription for my readers, many of whom, (through some amazing coincidence) happen to be mothers generously blessed in the humor department.

If you're having a bad day, go read this. It's from finslippy's blog. Check out the comments.

I was ready to type in an entry today. My subject was going to be the combination of the two females of this household, a deadline, and a dearth of properly-working computer software and peripherals.

Why the good lord has been unusually lavish, even for Him, in the area of computers (six at last count, in a household with only four inhabitants--which, yes, seems excessive) yet doesn't see fit to bless me with a working copy of Microsoft Word or a printer that actually prints, I do not know. I was therefore planning on exploring these matters in a blog entry, the working title of which was "The Permission Slip Follies." The entry would have featured an accurate portrayal of a certain grimness, seasoned with anxiety and panic, and would have ended with both parties bursting into tears.

However, I have now read every single one of the over 160 comments to that entry of finslippy's, and now I don't need to vent.

Check it out. In fact, bookmark it. I'm the doctor, and finslippy? Is the pharmacist.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

OK, so yesterday we flew from New Hampshire to Chicago. The flight was fairly uneventful, except for the part where the guy sitting next to me practically exploded giving vent to the world's biggest sneeze--the kind where you can just picture the tiny droplets spreading rapidly through the entire plane--in slow motion--starting with where I was sitting. 

To make matters worse,  the flight attendants had just served our beverages. And I was really, really thirsty. 

So I had to make a decision: skip the water, or drink it and maybe die, like Myrna Loy in The Rains Came. This was not an easy decision to make. The Rains Came is kind of a silly melodrama about a woman redeeming her misspent youth by helping out in a hospital during a cholera epidemic in India. Eventually she forgets about the general germiness of life in India during a cholera epidemic, lifts a glass of water to her lips, and drinks. I'm all "MYRNA! Don't drink that!" but she does anyway. And you just know she's going to die.

Admittedly, I don't think raising my children to say "please" and "thank you" exactly qualifies as a nursing-the-cholera-patients level of self-sacrifice. But the glass of water with the sneeze juice in it seemed just as deadly as Myrna's.

At this point it's probably a good idea for me to mention that I spent my Christmas vacation watching marathon amounts of television episodes on DVD. And that in the space of three days, I watched the entire first season of House, M.D. And that is why I knew for sure that that sneeze COULD HAVE BEEN DEADLY.

And yet I drank the water anyway. I know, ew. But I really was thirsty. And I'm still alive!

Of course, when I walked into my house with its Christmas decorations all over the place, suitcases needing to be unpacked, laundry to do, plants needing watering, the turtle needing fresh water ... by the way, have you noticed that "thirsty" is today's secret word?

I leave you with two thoughts: this house is going to kill me. And I think I'm going to go get a drink.

On the Twelfth Day of Blogmas, my true love gave to me

11,


Ten,

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

and a.

A shout out thank you note to my homies the nice people who link to me

If I made New Year's Resolutions, and I don't, one resolution I'd make would be to catch up on my correspondence.

At this point, I'm 12 or 13 years behind. This means I'll never catch up on the thank-you notes.

The weird thing is, I collect etiquette books. And I'm not just the president of Hair Club for Men; I'm a client. I read those etiquette books. I know the rules. I realize I should be writing thank-you notes for presents and dinner parties and such.

But I'm so organizationally-challenged that finding a pen that writes, some pretty writing paper, and stamps with the right amount of postage is well-nigh impossible for me. Just ask anyone who got a Christmas card from me.

How many of you received a card from Poppy? How many received it before Christmas? How many of you noticed that your card had a 37 cent stamp on it? (With some penny stamps added.) Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case.

Anyway. If you were supposed to send thank-you notes for Internet favors, I would owe these fine bloggers a note. Because I checked out my stats. And the following are the top twenty wonderful bloggers who keep sending the clicks my way.

1. Mamarazzi (but that doesn't really count, since I'm one of the writers.)
2. Badger at Badger Meets World. This is very cool, because she's the one who got me into blogging in the first place. Yay Badger the enabler!
3. Susie Sunshine, who, alas, has gone pro and no longer posts to her delightful blog. One of the first "big name" blogging gals who linked to me.
4. RW formerly at Chasing Vincenzo, now at 1stepbeyond. A fellow Chicago blogger with a deservedly big fan base.
5. Joke at Same Thing But Different. Another long-time internet pal from way back when Usenet was big. Before blogging. Before FaceBook. Can you hear my knees creaking, children?
6. Sarah at lemon life. Another Chicago blogger, who chucked life in the la-dee-dah North Shore and moved to Colorado.
7. Blackbird at Say La Vee. Incredible blogger--blogs almost daily, so I stalk her. We have partied in real life. She has wined and dined me at her eponymous restaurant in Chicago. She has met my husband. Also my brother HENRY.
8. Jen Lancaster of Jennsylvania. OK, this is where I get incredibly dorky. I spotted someone holding a copy of Bitter is the New Black when I was boarding a flight at Midway airport and totally humiliated my son by saying, loudly, "I know her! She's a friend of mine!" I could have added "and she links to me," but people were beginning to stare. So I'll say it now. SHE LINKS TO ME.
9. Elizabeth of Suburban Cupcake and the late, lamented Preppy Cafe. She isn't blogging much these days, but she's still sending people by. I hope she starts blogging again soon. In the mean time, I'm sending her pink and green thoughtwaves.
10. Spring at Serenity. Oof, what a year she's had. Let's hope 2008 is lots more fun.
11. Nobody comments more than Flutter at Flutterby me Garden. Just watch out for her when you're on your way to the DMV.
12. Sarah Louise at pink sneakers n'at--a librarian h great taste in books who still finds the time to read me, bless her.
13. Boomama, who runs an annual Christmas tour of homes. I'd never read her blog, but when I found out about the Christmas tour, I ran over there and added my link. Like the shameless attention whore I am. And what a response! I mean, hello, she only starting sending people over here in December, and she's in the top 20 for the entire year. You should check her out--she's a great, self-deprecating writer, and her blog is a really fun read.
14. Jennifer at Jen on the Edge whom I heart for so many reasons, but especially because we're both going through an insane fix-up-the-house period. If you've ever tried to redo your kitchen and not pop for new cabinets, you need to read this post.
15. Diesel at Humor Blogs, a site I joined way back when, based on a fundamental misunderstanding on his part: that this is a humor blog. Unfortunately, this is more of a Poppy Cracks Herself Up blog, so I'm not very active over there ... but Diesel, I'll be back reviewing any day now. Just as soon as I finish writing my thank-you notes.
16. Denise at Do You Have That in My Size? writes about many of the things that drive me crazy, too, like our shared tendency to be plumper than we'd like.
17. jessalogic at Days Go By is freezing her ass off in Nova Scotia! It's cold and dreary and Christmas is over. Send her some love!
18. Now that I'm addicted to House, M.D., I have even more respect bordering on reverence for anyone doing a hospital rotation. Especially one who who just had a baby. Hello? I'm still recovering form childbirth, and my youngest is 10. Therefore, I am honored to be getting clicky love from the kilowatthour.
19. Kim from Sydney at All Consuming. Her blog is home-like, yet exotic. And when she writes about food, it's drool-worthy.
20. Diesel again, this time at his main blog, The Mattress Police.

Thanks and Happy New Year to all of you!

On the Eleventh Day of Blogmas, my true love gave to me

Ten,

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

and a.

I caved. But I got better.

Well, of course I caved. I predicted it.

But you know, it's very difficult for me to come up, quickly, with a tactful way of telling people that I think their idea sucks. At the idea of shopping with other people, my brain is too busy screaming "HATE!" for me to come up with an alternative activity that would please both parties. ("OK, think of something we could do instead--quick! Movie? Lunch? Museum? Historic house? Whale watching? Jell-O^TM wrestling? THINK!") I get all overwhelmed and end up doing what the other person wants.

But I do hate shopping with other people. With so hard of a gem-like flame that I might substitute it for my hatred of Ann Coulter on my 100 things about Poppy list. But I am, as I said, a wuss. So when my sister asked whether I'd like to go to the outlets in Kittery, I said I would.

I even ended up in the Cuddledown outlet store, just as I predicted.

And I bought a lot of stuff. But enough about that.

Here's why I hate shopping with other people:

1. I don't go shopping often, and when I do, I spend a lot of money. An embarrassing amount. OK, I don't reenact the Rodeo Drive scene in Pretty Woman, but I spend plenty. It looks like some kind of crazy binge. It's kind of like the way a really skinny woman will order the Everything Nachos and a frozen Margarita, then get the combination enchilada plate, and finish with fried ice cream and coffee with Tia Maria and whipped cream. You don't know it, because you didn't see it, but for the past week all she's eaten is two Kashi bars and a Hershey's Kiss. The rest of the time, she lives on skim lattes. Well, I'm like that when I shop. I'm there, I actually tried on the clothes, and they fit, so why not? I mean, what am I supposed to do, drive all the way to Kittery to browse through racks of shit and not buy any of it? I might as well stay home and surf the web.

2. I hate spending time in stores that don't carry any merchandise I'm interested in. I think I spent 20 minutes in the Coldwater Creek store, and the whole time I was kicking myself for not bringing a book. And wondering how much a cornea transplant would cost, because OUCH MY EYES.

3. I hate bringing people who dislike the kind of merchandise I like into stores that carry it. I sense their boredom. Actually, I don't need to sense it; sometimes it's quite clear. I breezed through the Aging Hippy stores my sister likes with nary a word of complaint. (No, really. It's true. Why do you think I have a blog?) But then she called the stuff at the Dana Buchman/Ellen Tracy outlet "dowdy." And them's fighting words. Especially coming from my sister, who, trust me, is no Kate Moss. Or even Kate Hepburn.

Let me just add, though, that I did show some signs of developing a spine. For example, when my sister said Dana Buchman's clothes were dowdy, I mentioned--in the mildest manner possible--that these things are subjective, and that funnily enough, I felt the same way about broomstick skirts.

Which I somehow sensed she tended to buy. And wear. (And I was right.)

Also, I didn't actually answer when she mentioned that she was thinking about taking my family and our brother-in-law out to dinner last night. (I figured I deserved a night off from my siblings.)

And, to her suggestion that she, my other sister, and I should do a girl's day out on Friday, I remained staunchly non-committal. And then, I will probably use my husband as an excuse.

I will conclude today's whine-fest with a piece of advice to the single women out there: get married. Among its many other advantages, marriage offers you the single easiest way to be completely non-committal about every single thing under the sun.

Examples? You need examples? OK. To a contractor pushing for a signed contract, I'll say "I'll have to talk it over with my husband." To someone inviting us to a party: "I'll have to see whether Mr. Poppy is free that night." To a sister wanting to force me--at gunpoint if need be--to go out shopping with her again, "Sorry, Mr. Poppy has to go to Boston that day and I need to stay home with the kids."

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

and a.

Internet, I hardly knew ye.

It's not like obsessed with my stats, but I do check them from time to time. OK, a couple times a day. And something strange has happened. Many of you nice visitors are here to find pictures of Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. I don't know why.

But I figured I might as well tell you something. She's not here.

(Seriously, people, has something else happened in the Kennedy camp? Why is everyone looking for pictures of John-John's wife?)

Also, I am not here. OK, I am, I just wish I weren't here, i.e., in my house, because I'd rather be here, i.e., on the internet.

I love my family quite a bit, considering how weird and attention-hogging they are. (I come by both characteristics quite naturally, thankyouverymuch.)

But I cooked a big Christmas dinner on Christmas. On the 27th I flew to NH, where the dishwasher is completely verfuckt. On the 29th four family members came over, and I prepared a glazed pork roast, potatoes Anna, green beans, salad, and ice cream with chocolate ganache and whipped cream. On the thirtieth my in-laws came by. On the 31st, New Year's Eve, my family descended again and we made lasagna and more salad and an apple pie. On New Year's Day other family members showed up and we made fried chicken, Hopping John, rice, sauteed Swiss Chard.

You remember that my dishwasher is dead, right?

Well, yesterday I spent about three hours in the kitchen until there wasn't a dirty dish or pan or pot anywhere, all the counters were shining, everything was put away, and it was House Beautiful-ready.

Today the dishwasher repairman came by, but he needs to get a part before the dishwasher will be fixed.

So I'm thinking, hey, paper plates until that sweet, sweet time arrives. AND NO MORE COOKING. AND NO MORE FAMILY except my cute husband and our demon spawn.

Then the phone rang. It was my sister wanting to know whether I wanted to go anywhere today. I played for time. The husband was out in the car, so I couldn't go anywhere, anyway.

The honest answer would have been, of course, "No, unless you mean back to bed, curled up in a fetal position."

But she likes to shop. She really, really likes to shop. So she'd interpret that remark to mean "I want to go to the Cuddledown Outlet store. Maybe they're having a sale!"

I'll probably cave. Before you know it, I'll be out shopping with my big sister.

On the Ninth Day of Blogmas, my true love gave to me

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

and a.

p.s. The fried chicken was a hit, and people had seconds of Hopping John. And then I did dishes for hours and hours and hours, or at least, it seemed that way. Leftovers for dinner, an episode of House and Clueless on the DVD player, much wine and no more visitors make for a happy Poppy.

p.p.s. Can you believe that Clueless came out 12 years ago? Yes, it really was that long ago that girls were running around in miniskirts and those tall socks (or were they short stockings) and saying "whatever." Oh, well. Whatever.