Trash

It's that time again--the week where everyone in Newtopia puts out all the trash that won't fit in their garbage cans. And everyone gets to check out everyone else's discards.

Around here this is practically a holiday! And as is our usual holiday practice, Mr. Buxom and I fell down on the job. Sort of the way we don't get around to putting Christmas lights on the house until the neighbors start to peer at us through their net curtains and go "tsk tsk tsk" under their breath.

We meant to start putting out stuff on Sunday afternoon, but we were tired. Then on Monday it was raining (and snowing.) On Tuesday we forgot. All of a sudden I realized that the trucks were coming by on Thursday, Mr. Buxom was still at the office, and it was up to ME to haul all the crap out to the curb.

So I did. As an appetizer, I hauled out the old weird pieces of wood, rusty garden equipment, and disreputable yard furniture from the back yard. Then I moved on to the second course--the stuff from the garage. Out went my daughter's tiny pink bike, two pairs of pretty much untouched RollerBlades, a bunch of balls and toys--good stuff. I plated it prettily on the parkway.

The salad course was big huge pieces of cardboard--the stuff the new kitchen cupboards came packed in--and a couple of old wooden palettes.

Unfortunately this old lady pulled over when she saw the bike. She grabbed the bike and got busy tying it to the roof of her car. She was working really slowly because she kept checking out what else I was bringing out. She scooped up a few more things and then hung around waiting for me to bring out more.

But at that point I had started on the basement. There's this old coal cellar we never use, and my husband uses it as the place to put the crap he wants to put out for junk week. And it was stuffed with a bunch of horrible stuff--old computer bits and bobs, diskettes, a bunch of Time magazines from the 1970s, a broken wicker rocking chair, a bunch of old humidifiers. Stuff that got demo'd when we redid the bathrooms. And some old ceiling tiles that were probably asbestos.

I made trip after trip, HATING the old lady. And she kept trying to chat me up, while I was cringing in embarrassment that my "good" stuff was gone, and I was getting filthier and sweatier by the second, hauling all this crap out.

Finally the old lady gave up (good riddance to bad rubbish--literally) and moved on to someone else's trash pile. I mean, who can blame her? Isn't it lovely?


And this? This is the piece de resistance.

I know for a fact that this chair has been put out and rescued by at least two other women on my street. Every single one of us has thought "Wouldn't it be cute if I had it reupholstered!" And then in a couple of years, the chair ends up back on the street, sort of like Nana in Emile Zola's eponymous novel.

Speaking of streets, one year Santa came home with one of our babysitters:


She couldn't believe that people would put out all this great stuff. She'd go out with the double stroller and make the kids walk. Then she'd fill the stroller with Newtopian discards. Like this stuffed Santa, which frankly, is a little too ... southern for me.

Now listen, Southern wimmins, don't fuss at me--it's just that with no snow, you tend to get a little crazy with the yard decorations at Christmas time. You know those flat boards with Victorian carolers painted on them? That are all over Houston?

Well, we don't do that up here. I'm just sayin'.

(I won't even go into the way Southwestern wimmins put colored lights on Saguaro cacti.)

Anyway. Mrs. Buxom, who is apparently a big snob about big stuffed Christmas porch ornaments, has gone from trash picker to trash supplier. I've come up in the world, and now I've got an enticing selection of 1200 baud modems, old medicine cabinets, ten-year-old diaper wraps, and circa 2002 travel guides to Disneyland.

It's time that the less fortunate got the chance to take these very lah-di-dah discards home.

So everyone! Come on over and take anything you want!

(Anyone ... anyone ... Bueller?)

Numbers

Yesterday was a momentous day. You know how it's so cool when the car odometer turns over a really big number? Well, this week my Sitemeter went over 100,000.

Which would be kind of impressive, except I've been blogging for almost four years.

Yes, that's right, folks. Back in the stone age when I started blogging on my TRS-80, there was practically no one in the blogosphere. Well, except for early adopters like dooce, finslippy, Jen Lancaster, Melissa Summers, and the Daily Kos.

And now look how crowded the blogosphere has become. According to Technorati, every day the blogosphere (I swear that's the last time I use that word) welcomes 175,000 new blogs. And over 1.6 million posts per day.

It's like a Ponzi scheme of egomaniacal blathering. And yet, even with all this new competition, my hits continue to go up.

Yes, even without the steroid effect BlogExplosion produced when I joined in 2006 (and which completely jacked up my hits what with their Rent-My-Blog and Battle of the Blogs and all the other ways they've devised to get people to visit) more and more of you came by.

And of course, there are the people who are here for Christina Aguileras's butt crack, grotesque acrylic nails, shower dildos, and transvestite giraffes.

But you come. I mean, check out my numbers!

Oh, I know we're not supposed to talk about our hit counts. The same way we don't talk about our weight, bra size, and age, we don't talk about how many hits we get.

Well, "we" don't. But I do. Because basically, I have no shame.

So here you go: 178, 38DDD, and 51. But those numbers are just the beginning of my lack of boundaries! Check out these numbers:

On the last Monday of April, 2008, I had 173 hits.
On the last Monday of April, 2007, I had 74.
On the last Monday of April, 2006, I had 129. (Those are probably BlogExplosion hits.)
On the last Monday of April, 2005? I had four.

Now, am I impressed that it has taken me three years to go from four hits to 173? Of course not. Do I expect you to be impressed? No. But think about it. In the entire month of April, 2005, I got 167 hits. Now I get that in a day. This month I've had over 4,500 visitors.

These aren't "Woot! If I put ads on my blog, I'll sit back and watch the money roll in!" numbers.

But somehow it makes me really happy that I sit here typing in my drivel, and about a hundred and fifty of you show up every day to check it out.

So anyway, thank you. You are wonderful. And you have fabulous taste in on-line "literature." So let me know whether you'd like me to come up with something different--maybe pictures of Angelina's tattoos? Men who wear toenail polish? Just let me know. I've already admitted that I have no boundaries. I'm frank. I'm fearless. I like to think I'm funny. And when it comes to attracting readers? I'm a whore.

I love Chicago, but honestly

the weather is so bad it makes me crazy.

Check it out--my children are going to a Minor League baseball game after school. The three school vocal groups are going to join forces and sing the National Anthem.

In three-part harmony, bitches.

The school hired those fancy country-music-star touring buses so they wouldn't have to drive all the way to Geneva in plain old everyday school buses. The plan is that they'll be able to do their homework on the bus. (Shyeah, right.)

So they have their special music polo shirts on. And money for the concessions. And sweatshirts because even when it's almost May, it's still a little chilly in Illinois.

But it's been getting steadily drizzlier all day. And just now, I looked out the window and it was SNOWING.

Now, the snow looks fairly feeble. And we do get what they call "lake effect snow" in these parts, because we're only four blocks from Lake Michigan. This kind of snow doesn't stick. It melts as soon as it hits the ground.

You see? I understand all this and in general, I'm fine. Adversity builds character!

But a baseball game getting called on account of snow is just. too. crazy.

You know, there were indigenous people here when the white men arrived, but they were nomadic. When the bad weather hit, they got the hell out of here. Their intelligent choice survives in the practice of today's snowbirds, those old retired people who spend half the year in Florida. (But not the whole year, or they'd be bitching about the heat.)

I wish someone would explain why anyone decided to build a city here in the first place.

I realize that the climate in the continental United States came as a rude shock to everyone who encountered it for the first time. Whether you got off the boat in New England or New Orleans, you were either freezing your ass off or dropping dead of yellow fever.

(Actually, this is how Americans got rich. They invented central heating and air conditioning, and then sold systems to all the subsequent immigrants.)

But why compound the original error? I mean, if you're starting on the east coast, why even bother to go to Minnesota in the first place? Have you ever seen the stats on cold and snow in places like Wyoming, Minnesota, or Michigan? It's so cold in Wyoming that the state population totals two--and they're both United States Senators. They moonlight as members of the House of Representatives. It's true. The population really is that small. Because it really is that cold.

Hey, guess what just happened. A few buses just went by. I guess the game didn't get called, and the kids are going to go do their patriotic duty. And get snowed on.

Well, well, well. Say what you will about public education: it builds character. And that makes me feel good. Because after you've gotten frostbite singing the National Anthem in the snow, you can't possibly grow up to be as whiny as I turned out.

I married a random number generator

One of the valuable lessons I've learned from blogging is that husbands have a variety of uses. I mean, in addition to the obvious uses (telling me I look pretty; listening to me read blog entries aloud while I roar with laughter at my own hilariousness; fathering my children) a husband comes in handy when I need to pick a number between 1 and 240 in order to select the winner--in a fair and impartial fashion--for my Bloggy Giveaway contest.

He picked 223, which works out really well, because it means that all I had to do was count backwards from the 240th comment.

So I did. And the winner is ... Lomagirl!

I emailed her to let her know she won the $25 Starbucks gift certificate.

I'd like to thank all of you for playing, and most especially, for playing by the rules. I can't tell you how thrilled I was when I realized that people had included their emails. And no one had entered two days after the deadline. And people said nice things and basically, had lovely manners.

I feel like a mother hen, and you are all my fluffy little chicks.



I R TEH PROUD OV U! PUCK PUCK PUCK PUH-CUCK!

OK, maybe not a mother hen. Maybe a mother lolcat.

And now I think I'll go nag my husband. Before he gets a swelled head.

Saturday afternoon's all right for shopping

I had a double rehearsal today. We sang Handel. We also sang some modern guy whose name I can't recall. We sang a piece by Elgar of "Pomp and Circumstance" fame. Then we sang some Palestrina. By the time we got to the Palestrina my brain was completely fried.

So when my rehearsal was over, I went shopping. I needed moisturizer, so I stopped by the Estee Lauder counter. Yeah, I know. Estee Lauder is for old ladies. But I love this moisturizer. It smells like cantaloupe. And it's been a long time since I blew a lot of money on cosmetics. Since last August, I believe.

And anyway, I'm all about the retro. Have you seen the blue boxes Estee Lauder shit comes in? My inner Ethel Mertz is crazy about them.

So I went a little crazy and bought a tinted moisturizer. And a lipstick. And a lipgloss. And then I had to go to the ATM to get more cash.

To get to the ATM I had to walk by the Chanel boutique. Which is always good for some window shopping. Oh, my goodness, the evening shoes were TO DIE FOR. But if you think I went in and looked at them more closely, you overestimate my sang froid, my friends. Chanel shoes are expensive enough when the U. S. dollar isn't dans la toilette.

And then I went home and played with my new makeup. And had dinner. And did my nails. And typed this in, not because I think it's interesting or significant or amusing, but because Blog365 twisted my arm.

Hanging up my clean laundry in public

I swear to God, all I did today was laundry.

OK, I also went for a two-hour walk through Newtopia with my friend J. But then I came home and started doing laundry and it never seemed to stop. Wash, dry, fold, put away, repeat.

So I'm doing Sarah O's Six thing meme.

This is where I announce six random things about myself. So here goes:

1. I'm not afraid of bugs, spiders, snakes, the dark, having the house broken into, or public speaking. (I'll bet that last came as a huge surprise. HUGE.)

2. I am afraid of heights, mice, scary amusement park rides, and driving late at night on a two lane highway when I'm surrounded by eighteen-wheelers.

3. Being the last by whom the new is tried, I am catching up with this whole "television" thing. For a while it was all House all the time, but tonight I decided to try Inspector Morse. Did you know that the first Inspector Morse programs aired in 1987? I really don't fool around when it comes to putting things off.

4. I don't like parties. I used to think it was a sort of low-level misanthropy, but now I realize it's fear of boredom. I tend to find myself the most interesting person in the room, and if I'm going to be amused primarily by my own thoughts, why go out?

5. I was green back when it was called "conservation." My formative years were spent reading books about how we got the Dust Bowl. Erosion of the topsoil, people. Then the 1970s energy crisis happened. Then we got yuppies, shop 'til you drop, and boatloads of cheap imports from China. But honestly, I never got past the topsoil.

6. I'm of English descent and wildly anglophilic--the literature, the television shows, the humor. Sorry--humour. Except for when it comes to liquor. My idea of hell is facing a life where I'm supposed to drink scotch, gin, or ale.

If you're doing Blog365, consider yourself tagged.

Bloggy Giveaway--$25 iTunes or Starbucks card! (Updated)

Wow, I almost missed out on this one--where have I been?

OK, I learned my lesson from the last Giveaway. No more giveaways featuring messy, breakable, or otherwise difficult items.

Also, I'm repeating the instructions IN CAPS like Garrett Morris doing News for the Deaf on the original-cast SNL.

So this time I'm giving away your choice of an iTunes gift card or a Starbucks card. Not both.

NOT BOTH.

All you have to do is leave a comment saying which one you'd like.

LEAVE A COMMENT.

Also, tell me your email address so I can confirm that you're the winner and get your snail mail address.

BE SURE TO TELL ME YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS.

Comments must show up by Midnight, Friday, central daylight time.

AFTER THAT, YOUR COACH WILL TURN BACK INTO A PUMPKIN.

I'll choose the winner via the randomizer web site. Flattering me or praising my blog will get you nowhere.

ALTHOUGH I ENJOY IT.

Also it would be nice if you email me to let me know you've received the card.

IF I DON'T GET A "THANK-YOU EMAIL" I'M OUTING YOU TO THE ENTIRE INTERNET.

Also I know I owe a couple of you a couple of bottles of perfume. From last time. Yes, I really am that lame. That's why I'm giving away small, flat, unbreakable item this time. And saving the Brand-New-In-Box American Girl Doll with accessories (squeeee!) for next time.

______
OK, people. Honestly. Keep it easy for the internet whore nice lady who is going to give you a $25 Starbucks card. (Or iTunes, for the music-addicted.)

If I don't know you, if I've never emailed you before, if you didn't receive one of my pricelessly funny Christmas cards this year, and especially, if you don't have an email registered in your Blogger profile,

INCLUDE YOUR EMAIL,

please.

Like this:

poppy2006 @ gmail.com

You, too, can design a men's fragrance!

Guess what I found out the other day. Women don't like men's cologne. We think it smells bad.

I know. "Duh," right?

I don't know where I read this. I'm pretty sure it was in some blog somewhere. But hey, so what if I made it up. Say it loud: Women don't like men's colognes! They reek!

The whole fragrance thing--I don't know. I've tried. But I kind of don't get it. Although you know what's fun? Hitting the Basenotes site and reading people's descriptions of fragrances.

But you know what's even more fun? Reading their descriptions of fragrances they hate. Like, say, men's colognes.

Honestly, I don't think I've ever hated anything straight out of the bottle as much as I hated Bond No. 9's H.O.T. Always, which to me smelled like a mixture of Jolly Ranchers and power brake fluid (a foul, garishly red liquid that looks like cherry soda and which smells like a tomcat peeing on a hot engine).

This is great stuff, right? So I poked around some more. And I noticed that for descriptions of fragrances, whether good or bad, there's a formula, along the lines of the way people write about wine.

It opens with a lively burst of X, but soon the Y kicks in. The drydown features Z.

So then I thought, hey ho, let's have some fun. Take your least-favorite, stomach-churning men's fragrance and write a description of it. Or what the hell--design a new one. How can you go wrong? I mean, apparently, men will douse themselves with anything. And fragrance is big business. There could be real money in this.

What's this? You say you lack the nose and the technical vocabulary? No problem. I've taken care of it for you. Traditional fragrances start with a burst of light fragrance, and as you wear them, reveal increasingly earthy basenotes.

Just select from the following categories, describe them in order, and add a few meaningless qualifiers like "warm," "creamy," and "elegant," and you'll sound like a pro. Soon you'll be dazzling the perfume snobs on Basenotes with descriptions like this:

"It opens with a combination of Windex and crayons, develops elegant heart notes of Purina Cat Chow and coffee breath, and dries down to a warm, comforting, creamy base redolent of tar and dried vomit."

Here are the categories with the kind of fragrance notes that men seem to like:

Topnotes: Vasoline, ChapStick, toner cartridge, antifreeze, bug spray, gasoline, freezer burn, hospital disinfectant, nail polish remover, tongue depressor, rancid oil, urinal cake, my basement

Heartnotes: bilgewater, cat pee, burning rubber, vitamin E capsules, Diaper Genie, armpit, anchovy paste, dirty sneakers, wet woolen overcoat, turpentine, hair dye, flea collar, vomit, that Rubbermade container in the back of my refrigerator

Basenotes: Topsoil, mildew, rotten eggs, compost, burning feathers, nursing home, decomposing flesh, creosote, canned dog food, fart, fertilizer, rotting potatoes, sulphur, bull's testicles, the bottom of my garbage can

Good things for Earth Day

To honor Earth Day, I was going to recycle an old post. But then I figured what the hell--I'll tell you about my day. Which was spent on the planet Earth.

Today the planet Earth was warm! And sunny! I walked around the house on tiptoe--I hear that reduces my carbon footprint. Then I sat outside and read, using the sun instead of a lightbulb. It's even better than a compact fluorescent bulb. Really!

Tonight I'm going to climb into clean, crisp sheets (that I washed in warm water, not hot, using a low-watchmacallit detergent that comes in a plastic jug that I recycle, sheesh!) But oh, the sheets! They're the Pottery Barn ones with the red dots embroidered on them. They make high thread-count sheets feel insubstantial and slimy. They're fabulous.

I did another movie/walk. Yay me. Tonight's selection was Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I'm watching all the Harry Potters because I'm getting the latest one through Netflix and I want to get up to speed. Yesterday's Harry Potter movie clocked in at 161 minutes. Azkaban was shorter, but you know that thing where your DVD player slows way down and you end up watching scenes in super-slow motion, and just when you think, alright, already, I'll Windex the disc, it gets better? Well, mine was doing that tonight. I think it added 10 or 15 minutes to my walk. If this keeps up, I'll be able to crack walnuts with my butt cheeks. Of course, using an electric treadmill and watching a DVD isn't very earth-friendly, so I think I'm going to have to make my genius husband convert the treadmill into a generator to power the home theater. Otherwise Al Gore will come and make a house arrest.

I didn't have to go anywhere today. So no driving. Excellent!

The phone didn't ring. Except for when my big brother called. You know how I hate to talk on the phone? Well, my brother is one of the people who never calls me unless he's just had a baby or something. I mean, the guy will talk your head off in person, but God forbid he destroy the ozone level for mere chit-chat. This time he called to tell me he was getting married. That's worth a phone call. Even a long distance one.

So you see? I celebrated Earth Day just like every other right thinking person.

And now, for something completely different. And I've saved the best for last. Tonight, my son asked me what a bombshell is. I told him the literal meaning, and then told him the word is also a slang term for "an amazingly attractive woman."

He said "Oh, like you."

And didn't laugh.

Yet another way to have fun waste time on the internet: genealogy

Guess whose daughter is doing a school project on Louisa May Alcott?
Guess who just happens to know that May was Alcott's mother's maiden name?
Guess whose grandmother's maiden name was May?
Guess who knows that both her grandmother and Abba May Alcott were from Massachusetts?
Guess who has been doing on-line genealogical research until her eyes are rolling back in her head?

If you guessed Poppy Buxom, you are right. And you deserve a prize.

Please bear with me while I think of a dirt-cheap prize to offer, since otherwise, the hundreds of people who will get this right will bankrupt me.

How to be a couch potato. With shin splints.

OK, maybe shin splints is a bit of an exaggeration. Let's just call it sore muscles.

See, I have a treadmill. In the basement, where the "home theater" is. And I've come up with a brilliant idea. Instead of watching television while I walk on the treadmill (which drives me crazy because of the inconsistency of the programming, not to mention the advertisements, which sap my will to live) or reading a book (the light is bad and there's nowhere to actually put the book, so I have to hold it) I'll just walk on the treadmill while I watch every movie I've never seen. I mean, just think! I'll finally get around to experiencing the Porkies franchise, not to mention the collected works of Charles Bronson.

After all, I already have a shitload of DVDs and a Netflix account. How could I go wrong?

This is how: I decided to watch Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets while I walked on the treadmill. Well. Do you know how long that movie is? It's about as long as the basilisk that lives in the eponymous chamber.*

One hundred and sixty-one minutes, people. So long that I had to do this in stages. I walked for an hour and a half before dinner, and another hour afterwards.

If I ever encounter a basilisk (and this is not as unlikely as you might think--you haven't seen my basement) I won't panic, and I won't wait for a phoenix to show up to help me. I'll just crush it with my mighty calf muscles.

* "Eponymous" = my graduate school dollars at work.

From Mrs Poppy Buxom

From MRS POPPY BUXOM
38 Rue Des Salopes
WEWANTYOURMONEY, PARTOFAFRICAYOUHAVENEVERHEARDOF

ATTN: MOST CREDULOUS INDIVIDUAL OF INTERNET

I am the above named person from GOBBLDEGOOKISTAN. I am married to Mr RESPECTABLE NAME, who worked with GOBBLDEGOOKISTAN embassy in PARTOFAFRICAYOUHAVENEVERHEARDOF for nine years before he died in the year 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days. DO NOT BE CONCERNED ABOUT HIS DEATH, FOR AS A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION, HE SUFFERED NO PAIN.

Before his death we were both born again Christian. YOU WILL TRUST US NOW. Since his death I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. I MADE THIS UP BUT IT SOUNDS GOOD. When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of $2. 5 Million (YES, THAT'S RIGHT, TWO AND A HALF MILLION DOLLARS) in the bank here in WEWANTYOURMONEY in suspense account. THE SUSPENSE IS WHETHER ANYONE IS ACTUALLY GOING TO FALL FOR THIS.

Presently, the fund is still with the bank. CAN YOU IMAGINE ALL THAT MONEY JUST GATHERING DUST? NEITHER CAN I. Recently, my Doctor told me that i have serious sickness which is cancer problem. The one that disturbs me most is my stroke sickness. GET IT? CANCER AND STROKE? I'M DYING. Having known my condition WHICH IS SERIOUS, I MEAN I'M PROBABLY GOING TO DIE ANY DAY NOW I decided to donate this fund to a church or individual THIS IS WHERE YOU COME IN that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I HOPE THAT SOUNDS KIND OF LEGAL.

I want a church that will use this fund for orphanages, widows, propagating the word of God PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE FACT THAT APPARENTLY IT IS POSSIBLE TO COMMUNICATE FOR FREE OVER THE INTERNET and to endeavour that the house of God is maintained. OR YOU CAN JUST BLOW IT ON A NEW CAR AND A WEEKEND IN VEGAS. WHATEVER. The Bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. ALSO BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN INTELLECT, FOR THEY ARE EASY TO FOOL.

I took this decision because I don’t have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are not Christians AND LET'S FACE IT: ALL OTHER RELIGIONS SUCK and I don’t want my husband’s efforts to be used by unbelievers. PEOPLE WHO BELONG TO OTHER RELIGIONS CAN FUCK OFF. I don’t want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly way. ALTHOUGH IT'S OK THAT YOU PLAN TO SPEND THE MONEY ON A NEW HOUSE AND MAYBE A BOOB JOB FOR THE WIFE. This is why I am taking this decision.

I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going. ALSO, I DON'T EXIST. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord. WHICH AS YOU HAVE PROBABLY HEARD, IS QUITE COMFY. Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the Lord will fight my case and I shall hold my peace. PLEASE DO NOT FIND IT ODD THAT WITH THE LORD ON MY SIDE I STILL NEED TO REACH OUT TO TOTAL STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET. I don’t need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health AND THE FBI hence the presence of my husband’s relatives is around me always I don't want them OR THE FBI to know about this development. With God AND THE INTERNET all things are possible.

As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank here in WEWANTYOURMONEY. I want you and the church to always pray for me because the Lord is my shepherd. AND YOU ARE A LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER. My happiness is that I lived a life of a worthy Christian. BLAH BLAH BLAH BIBLE. Whoever that wants to serve the Lord must serve him in spirit and Truth. THANK GOD RELIGIOUS PEOPLE ARE SO GULLIBLE Please always be prayerful all through your life. OK, I GUESS THAT'S ENOUGH TALK ABOUT RELIGION.

Contact me on the above e-mail address for more information’s. PLEASE SEND ME YOUR FULL NAME, DATE OF BIRTH, AND SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER. Any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing another church or individual for this same purpose BECAUSE THERE'S ONE BORN EVERY MINUTE. Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein. I'M TYPING MY FINGERS TO THE BONE HERE. Hoping to receive your reply SOONER RATHER THAN LATER BECAUSE INTERNET ACCESS DOESN'T GROW ON TREES, AND THE CAFE OWNER IS ALWAYS BUGGING ME TO BUY MORE COFFEE.

Remain blessed in the Lord. BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO GIVE

Yours in Christ, FOR MINE IS THEIR MONEY

MRS POPPY BUXOM

Pray for me.

My son is having his birthday party.

It's a sleepover.

Four 13-year-old boys.

Here's just a tidbit for you: during dinner they had a burping contest, and the dining room windowpanes positively rattled.

And I haven't even thought about trying to get them to go to sleep.

13

Every year you move further away from these images.


And this year you moved at warp speed.

And I just realized something. As an etiquette maven, I shouldn't call you Young Master Buxom any more. You're 13; you're not a "master" any more. You're not a man, though. (Even though this morning you said you were going to "miss being a kid.")

We're Episcopalians, so we don't do much of anything to mark the occasion. We don't have anything like a Bar Mitzvah. (It's just as well; I'd have disgraced myself by blubbering all over the place.)

Oh, I held it together while everyone was awake. We had a good day. We made breakfast to order: three hard-boiled eggs, two strips of bacon, and a toasted, uttered bagel. We gave you two boxes of Krispy Kremes to hand out to the kids in your advisory. After school, we went out together, and I bought you a new bike. One that would fit your long legs. And helmets for both of us. On the way home, "Slow Ride" played on the radio, and we laughed over the way it sounds when I play it on Guitar Hero. And sang along.

Dinner was more of your favorites: New York strip steak, baked potato, brussels sprouts. Yellow cake with caramel icing.

No, you're not a man. You're more like an adolescent giraffe, anyway. At 5' 9" and 115 pounds, you are the tallest, thinnest creature in Cook County. You're the tallest member of the family; you have the biggest feet. You have the deepest voice--and most of the time, the loudest voice, too.


The coolest moves, too. They were impressed at the Virgin Records Mega-Store on Hollywood Boulevard.

But you're still willing to pose with the Easter bunny.


Or next to the plaque commemorating the founding of a hospital by your great-great-grand-uncle. Yes, it's dorky, but you'll still pose to oblige me.


You know what? They never tell you what a crushing weight of love you're going to feel for the baby who turns you into a mother--(or a "Mamy," as you insisted on spelling it--in caps--when you were in kindergarten.)

Or maybe they do tell you--but you don't understand because nothing like it has ever happened to you before.

And another thing. They never tell you that the love never stops. No matter how stretched-out and long-legged and manly-sounding the baby gets.

Happy birthday, boy.

Love,
MAMY

Twitter

It started off as a moment or two in my early morning routine: check my "real" email, check my blog email, check yesterday's stats, head over to bloglines, oh, and fire up Twitter, the closest thing the blogosphere has to a three-panel comic strip.

This is not Twitter's stated purpose--far from it. Twitter is the answer to all those people who keep whining that my people's blog posts are too long. On Twitter, you get only 140 characters to describe what you're doing.

Except the best Twitterers, in my opinion, don't do that. (I mean, if I were on Twitter right now, I'd twit "writing a blog post," and the response would be "HOW FASCINATING" followed by a massive stampede over here to check it out, while my stat meter whirred around so fast the numbers would be a meaningless blur.)

But I jest. That, my friends, is hyperbole in action.

The really great Twitterers are not the ones who inform the internet that they're drinking their morning coffee. No, the great Twitterers are the ones who squeeze a tiny, hilarious blog post out of only 140 characters. And produce a haiku of funniness.

So now, I am Twitter's bitch. I need my daily 140-character funnies.

Well, OK I also follow twits by Red Sox Cast and Defamer and FameCrawler and Barack Obama. Because I don't just blog here, I also blog at Mamarazzi. So I need to know when Britney Spears drops a kid on its head and Manny Ramirez hits it out of the park and Barack Obama makes an amazing speech about it.*

But mostly, it's about the funnies. Like SarahO and SusanW and Schmutzie and Sweetney and Susie Sunshine and hey, that's just the letter "S" !!!

The problem is that there are not enough of them.

So internet, get off your lazy behinds and sign up for Twitter. And then start following me so I know you're there. Then I'll start following you. At which point, I'll require you to post at least once a day. And your posts had better be funny, or at least, vaguely amusing. Because you, internet, exist to keep me, Poppy, from being bored.

So get cracking.

(Drums fingers impatiently.)


* (Pronouns deliberately vague because I'm hilarious that way.)

Guess whose blog is the number one result when you Google "baby shower dildo?"

That's right. Mine.

And I've got the hits to prove it.

I've given some thought to retitling the entry in question "The Adventures of a Baby Shower Dilbert."

But then I remember how much I enjoy messing with people.

Nobody expects the sunshine!

First thanks to everyone who asked to be my pal on Facebook. Poppy feels popular, she said, slipping into Bossy-speak.

Today has one important thing going for it. My kids are at school, and my husband went to the office . . . office and school ... school and office.

Today has two things going for it: my husband is at the office and my children are at school, and it's NOT RAINING ...

The THREE THINGS today has going for it are the office, the school, the lack of rain, and my fanatical devotion to laundry ... The four ... no. Amongst the things today has going for it are such elements as school, office ... I'll come in again.

(After I do the laundry.)

And you guys! I downloaded Stephen Colbert's I Am America, and So Can You from iTunes. So. fucking. funny. I could fold clean clothes for hours.

And I probably will.

Leftovers

I've been so busy tweaking my Facebook profile tonight that I have nothing left for you guys. Go over and check it out, if you want.

You can even add me as a friend, if you think I need to find more ways to waste time and neglect this blog.

I mean, does it get any more fascinating than my score on The Dirty Dozen quiz? Or the fact that I can correctly identify 19 out of 20 famous actresses? I thought not.

(But-and I don't mean to cavil--but a note to the Famous Movie Actress quiz writer: if those actresses were really all that famous, I'd get 20 out of 20. Please don't go padding your numbers with nonenities like Jennifer Jones or whoever she was. OK?)

I'm out of breath, so you're getting a haiku.

Nineteen years married,
Ten years in Newtopia,
One hour treadmill.

Flickr Video, or, why I am not cutting edge

So I logged on to Twitter this morning and discovered that everyone is all abuzz about Flickr video.

Now, I don't do digital video, mostly because I can barely manage to negotiate the complicated machinery I already own.

Like my iPod, which is acting so randomly non-compliant and pouty these days that it feels like I've somehow managed to accumulate a third adolescent child. Or the laptop I'm typing on right this second, which has already crashed twice this morning--the second time eating this blog entry.

That's right; you're reading sloppy seconds.

Anyway, I went to check out Flickr video because I may suck at operating digital machinery, but nobody beats me at procrastination and general lollygagging.

And it's true. Flickr video was in beta, but now it's official.

(Beta? Isn't basically everything in beta? My iPod sure is, and for all I know, so is my laptop. I think my children are, too, which explains a lot. Maybe OffSpring 2.0 will work faster and better, without all the current release's problems with freezing, crashing, and data loss.)

Back to Flickr video. I checked it out. They're brand new, and they already have memes. The first is called Fridgets. The idea is you put your video camera in the refrigerator and shoot a video of yourself opening the refrigerator door. Then you upload it to the internet so everyone can click on the video and see how lame you are--and then crash their browser. Again.

Just so you know, Flickr user werewegian, my MacBook running FireFox 2.0.0.13 doesn't give a shit what you keep in your refrigerator. Asshole.

Go ahead and check it out if you want. Me? I'm going to go make sweet sweet love to my old football-sized videotape recorder, knowing that no matter how freaky I get with Mr. Sony, it will not adversely affect my laptop.

Or my iPod.

178, or, back on the wagon

Last night Susie Sunshine and I were on the phone talking about our need to get in shape.

And because I was already fed up with the way my jeans were biting me, and because I badly needed to prove the point I made earlier in our conversation (when I assured her that I am easy-going and not a bossy control-freak) I agreed to go back on Weight Watchers.

Well, of course. Susie Sunshine could talk you into doing anything. It's her way.

And so, here I go again. I'm back on the wagon, ready to count points and just say no to the snacks I supposedly buy for my children's lunch boxes.

And let me just say that I am glad I got this far in life before letting the crunchy, peanut-buttery, creaminess that is a Nutter Butter Peanut Butter cooky* into my mouth. If I had, I'd be much fatter. Because I would have wolfed down a few packages of those cute little peanut-shaped cookies. Damn skippy I would.**

OK. It begins with weighing myself. Now, my lying-sack-of-shit bathroom scale assures me that I haven't gained all that much weight. But if I haven't (and I have) it's because my jeans bit it off.

Still, this weigh-in gives me a ... a ... (damn this menopausal word retrieval problem!) baseline, like your first mammogram. Which is a very apt metaphor, because it's almost as scary.

And it said 178. It could be worse. In fact, it will be, when I get on a scale that isn't too intimidated by me to tell me the truth.

But I'm not going to any god-damned Weight Watchers meetings. My leader is annoying. You know how everyone thinks Weight Watchers meetings are nothing but a bunch of women whining and complaining?

Well, not my group. You can't get in a word edgewise around this woman. And for some reason, I don't enjoy listening to someone else dominate the conversation. So it's on line for me. And now, excuse me, I need to log on to the Weight Watchers website and log my weight. And then go do the treadmill for an hour.

* Note archaic spelling.
** (Pun intended.)

I'll be here all week!

Tonight at dinner, I was hilarious. The thighs, they were being slapped! Because the wit, she sparkled! And the mouth, she opened to play show with the baked potato!

My family? Is a beautiful audience. And nothing gets them like a good see-food dinner.

In fact, my daughter a/k/a My Toughest Critic, told me that she thought I should quit my job as an opera singer and become a comedienne.

These are words of high praise. I mean, usually she hates me. And when I make a funny, she has this way of twisting her mouth to prove that she's not laughing. And yet, here she was, advising me to switch careers.

I would totally do it, too. If I had a job as an opera singer.

What's in a name? Or, the Pottery Barn catalog cracks me up.

OK, just so you know, I was named after my great-great-great-great-great maternal grandmother.

My husband, who is half Jewish/half WASP, was named after an ancestor with an Old Testament name in a failed attempt to please both sides of his family.

Our son is named after both of his grandfathers.

Our daughter is named after my husband's grandmother, her mother, her mother, and her mother.

As you can see, in this household, we don't get creative when picking out names for their offspring. This is because our family names provide us with a rich enough supply of compost for recycling.

Because of this, we don't need to pick names from Jane Austen adaptations,* soap operas** or street signs.*** We don't decide, "oh, 'John' is so boring--let's name him Hans/Ian/Ivan/Jean/Juan/Sean instead."

We also agree that your name is supposed to reflect your ethnic group. Otherwise, you can easily fall victim to what I call "Lender's Frozen Pizza Bagel" syndrome. Yes, America is a big melting pot, but do you really think an innocent child should have to walk around being called Midori Himmelfarb or Mary-Bridget Lombardo? I mean, come on. Juan Epstein on Welcome Back Kotter was a joke.

Please. I'm begging you. Do not turn your child into a pizza bagel. Simple rule of thumb: if you don't drink Irish beer while eating crepes stuffed with edamame and seaweed salad, then don't name your child Yvette Kazuko O'Malley.

Anyway, in an attempt to make canvas chairs and beach towels look desirably upscale, the following names are currently appearing in the Pottery Barn Kids catalog. These names have now received the Poppy Buxom Trendy Name Kiss Of Death Award. Choose these names for your children at your own risk:

Abby Aiden Alexis Andrew Anna Brandon Brian Caitlin Cameron Chris Chloe Conor Cooper Ethan (my nephew) Evan Henry (my brother, and I don't know how happy he'll be when everyone assumes he's a nine-year-old) Hope Kate Jack Jason Justin Katie Lacey (Underalls) Lindsay (Lohan will drive this one's stock down) Max Meghan Molly Nate Oscar (fine if you want your son to grow up to become a gay playwright or a Muppet) Owen Rachel Sam Sophie Stuart Zoe

* Lydia, Emma, Charlotte, Mr. Darcy
** Adam, Alexis, Colby, Blake, Paige, Jason, Logan, Luke, Samantha
*** Darryl Hannah in Splash spawned a million Madisons.

Clarity

When you're a Girl Scout leader, you have to think on your feet. Especially when the school nurse, who was supposed to talk to the girls about puberty, bailed. And left us with a Girl Scout meeting to run, and nothing to talk about.

And we were sure as hell not talking about puberty. Not with our daughters in the room.

So we decided to do a badge about good grooming. Today was a mini-spa day.

And that's why, this afternoon, I found myself trying to teach the basics of good skin care to a troop of Girl Scouts.

I'm not trying to pass myself off as an expert. I mean, OK, I am just a little wee bit addicted to cosmetics and such-like. The problem is how do I take my knowledge of alpha- and beta-hydroxy acids, peptides, light-defusers, collagen, elastin, fermented seaweed broth, vitamin-C , and copper serums and turn it into a nice simple skincare regime for these adorable 10 and 11 year olds? With their adorable little faces that looked like perfect little peaches?

They're the ones who should be teaching me how to have beautiful skin.

I mean, here I'd read up on Benzoyl Peroxide and all the stuff they put in acne medications these days only to discover that my daughter is apparently the only one in the troop who has ever had a pimple.

There was nothing for it. They were already perfect. I told them to keep their faces clean and wear sunscreen. Then we played with the supplies I brought.

We smeared Queen Helene Grape Seed peel-off mask onto the backs of our hands and let it dry.
And when the goop dried, we peeled it off to see whether we could get it off in one piece. And shrieked with laughter at how weird it looked.

And now the top of my left hand is lovely, soft, and smooth. But the rest of me looks and feels like Granny Clampet. Or maybe Grandma Moses.

Without the outsider art talent.

And so, to Hell.

What I did at church today:

• Arrived early. Yay me!
• Put on mulberry colored surplice. (It matches my nails.)
  
• Warmed up. Rehearsed today's music.
• Put on cotta.
• Went outside to plaza. Got prayed at. Processed to the front of the church.
• Processed in while singing hymn. Loudly.
• Turned around and mouthed the word "DOUCHE" at the tenor who was singing an octave higher than the music indicated. Made him laugh. Also the tenor sitting next to him. Also myself.
• Read the bulletin. Admired my nails. And my rings.
  
• Listened to the sermon. Did you know our vicar hates eggs? NEITHER DID I.
• Sang.
• Took communion.
• Prayed.
• Processed out.
• Snagged a cup of coffee and two chocolate chip cookies.
• Rehearsed music for this afternoon's evensong.
• Lunchbreak. Skipped lunch and went for a walk with my pal Liz. (She says hi.)
• Went back to church. Back into the surplice again. Warmed up again. Put on cotta again.
• Checked out everyone's academic hoods. Asked rude personal questions about where their degrees were from. Processed in.
• Mimed handling snakes and drinking poison during the reading. Made sopranos laugh.
• Sang.
• Rolled my eyes over the extreme tediousness and length of the sermon.
• Admired nails and rings some more.
  
• Noticed that since there were more of us in the choir stalls than in the congregation, the preacher actually was preaching to the choir.
• Processed out.

Please tell me this is a joke

Spotted on a local Freecycle list:

Wanted: Canine Lullabies or other CD for dogs with Anxiety

My dog goes crazy every time it rains and more so when it thunders. He shakes terribly and starts trashing the house. We have tried everything from medications to other music, etc. It was suggested that I try a CD for these types of issues. Canine Lullabies is the one I know about, but if you have a different one for this anxiety-type issue, I will be happy to try it.

OK, I'm an asshole.

But I don't particularly like dogs. In fact, I pretty much dislike dogs, with a few exceptions.

I like dogs who belong to friends of mine. (I only met Jen Lancaster's Maisie once, but she is Mah Widdle Puddin, yes, she is! OK, FINE. I was drunk.)

But I'm also a sucker for pugs and Boston Terriers. In fact, I like most mid-size dogs, like terriers or spaniels.

I don't see the point of long-haired little yappy dogs like Papillons and Bichon Frises. They seem noisy, and messy, and high-maintenance and annoying.

And I especially don't see the point of city or suburban dwellers buying dogs who were specially bred to help people hunt or take care of their sheep, if they're going to keep their dogs crated, stuck indoors, or penned up in a yard 90 percent of the time.

Until they're neurotic.

And need their owners to buy them fucking lullaby CDs.

Two Good Things About Today

1. My son, who has the Asperger's, was invited for a play date this afternoon and went straight from the playdate to a drop in for 7th and 8th graders. Meaning that he was hanging out with his peers for something like seven hours after school today. Also, while he was out being a social butterfly, a kid from his karate class called to invite him for a sleepover.

Which means that my son, who has problems with social skills, could use a social secretary, otherwise he could end up double-booking and disappointing his public.

2. Meanwhile, yesterday my husband and I looked at our calendar and realized that we had NOTHING to do tonight. And NOTHING to do tomorrow night. And we are positively fizzy with glee over the prospect of spending time mooching around the house doing nothing and seeing no one and acting like reclusive socially-crippled losers.

Even though we don't have the Asperger's.

I can not even begin to describe how thrilled I am with this state of affairs, she typed, feeling as happy as a socially rejected internet weirdo can.

Karma kicked my can

So tonight I had to get dressed up and head downtown because the president of my college was in town on a big fundraising/PR jaunt, and a classmate of mine was giving her a dinner in a shmancy private club.

Now if you've been reading this blog at all regularly, you will probably remember how little I enjoy

1. getting dressing up

2. heading downtown

3. behaving the way shmancy clubs like people to behave

because I'd much rather wear jeans, hang around the house, and burp and fart as much as I want.

Not to mention that before the dinner I met with someone from the Development Advancement Euphemism-For-Give-Us-Your-Money Office. This was to allow her to ask me for money, and allow me to tell her I don't have any.

Now while I had her in a receptive mood, i.e., before I told her I had no money, I was quite eloquent on my determination not to listen to a fucking word about my college's new engineering program or my college's new $60 million science building.

They are so proud of these things, and they won't stop bragging about them. And I don't give a shit and want them to shut up.

First of all, I don't really care what they're doing now. Hey, I got my B.A. and apres moi, le deluge, which is kind of a stupid way of putting it because my B.A. isn't in French, but whatever.

I'm also kind of ticked off over what I consider to be a colossally unfair allocation of assets. This whole engineering/science shtick is being taken advantage of by a minuscule amount of students. In the past four years they have graduated 100 Engineering majors. Twenty-five a year. Meanwhile the vast majority of students are still majoring in Government, English, Psychology, and Art History. Hello? It's a woman's college.

I can't help feeling a little resentful that wads of money are being spent on a tiny number of students. Even though I know that donors are picking up the cost, and anyway, English majors are way more cost effective than Engineers. We are the cheapest dates ever. (And yes, I probably do mean this in every way.) I mean, shit, nowadays we even have Project Gutenberg, so you don't even have to buy us books. We can get all the old stuff on line for free.

But anyway, for a variety of reasons I want people to shut the fuck up about engineering programs and talk about something interesting, instead. Like John Keats.

Well, my friend had place cards for the dinner. A classmate of mine and I went into the dining room to scope out where people were sitting. And guess where my pal placed me?

NEXT TO THE PRESIDENT.

And guess what the president wanted to talk about?

THE NEW ENGINEERING PROGRAM AND THE SCIENCE BUILDING.

OK, kids, this is where you learn something from the socially adept likes of Poppy Buxom. My solution to situations where people insist on boring me comatose about my college is to

1. cut my food into minuscule bites roughly proportionate to the percentage of students who are majoring in Engineering, and to

2. drink wine proportionate to the number of students who are majoring in the Humanities.

Which meant that dinner was low on protein and high on ethanol. Which is the way I like it.

Me and Greta Garbo want to hang out alone together

I need some alone time. Especially after last week's family "vacation."

This is because vacations of any kind must be paid for. No matter how bad a time you had listening to your daughter barf on the plane, no matter how difficult it was to be mewed up in a single hotel room listening to your children bicker, you're still going to have to pay for the privilege of going on a family vacation. And pay with both money and toil.

So, what did I do on my first day back? Rest? HAHAHAHAHA. No. In addition to washing load after load of laundry, picking up the house, putting away suitcases, and getting the smelly stuff out of the refrigerator, I had to drive downtown to hear Bach's St. Matthew's Passion.

Was I in the mood for St. Matthew's Passion? No, I was not. I don't know about the rest of you, but I already know how it ends. Also, wasn't Easter, like--last week? And didn't I hear the passion according to St. Matthew then? Yes, I did. But hey, what's an extra crucifixion between friends?

OK, I'm not really that unappreciative. But after a week in church, and then a week traveling with my family, I wasn't really in the mood to drive downtown and listen to several hours of sacred music, even if my husband is the early music geek of all early music geeks.

So, alone time. I'm not getting it. And Jebus on the cross? Getting a little too much of it.

So I went to the concert with my husband. But I made him leave early.

Yes, that's right. I left Jesus hanging.

Big changes--updated!

I didn't mention it before, but one of the things we did while we were in CA was meet with the partners of a very large law firm that had been trying to recruit my husband for a long time.

Well, they just called and made him the proverbial offer you can't refuse. He accepted the job, which will be starting on June 15th. A week after the kids get out of school.

So rather than getting my house in order for us to enjoy, I'm getting it ready to put it on the market. Like yesterday.

And so I've spent all morning on the phone with real estate agents.

It's all pretty mind-boggling.

But how can I give up this?



Or this?



When it's snowing outside even as I write?

I mean, let's put this in perspective. How hard can it be to move across country when it means I'll never have to shovel snow again as long as I live?

-------
APRIL FOOL!!! she shouted like the dolt she is.