There is no joy in Mudville

Oh, man.

Or maybe I should say, oh Manny.

The Red Sox have traded Manny Ramirez. He's going to LA. And he just hit his 500th homer on Saturday.

I know he's at the end of a long contract; I realize he's been getting paid a huge salary; I realize he's 36, which is 72 in baseball years.

Maybe it's the best thing for the team, but he was part of the team that brought the World Series back to Boston. I'll miss watching his trademark grin. I'll miss watching his dreads bounce around when he ran. I'll miss "Manny being Manny."

You know, nothing annoys me more than some pipsqueak of a mommyblogger complaining about feeling old. But for some reason, I do. I guess if Manny is old, I'm Methusalah's mother.

Yep, I'm just a grumpy old gal who thinks Manny Ramirez should still be playing for the Red Sox. With Carl Yastrzemski, Ted Williams, and Babe Ruth.

Tired. List.

1. I finished Bergdorf Blondes, and realized I didn't remember it because I had it confused with a Sophie Kinsella book. But I had already read it. And I realized that after only about 100 pages.

2. It's hot here. I'm really enjoying the air-conditioning. Unfortunately it's very dry, too, so I spent a long time today outside dead-heading and watering plants and engaging in pitched battle with Japanese beetles. I became extremely moist, and not in a fun, saucy, Bergdorf Blondes way.

3. Japanese beetles are disgusting. I catch them in my bare hand and throw them into a jelly jar full of soapy water. That I am willing to wrastle big ugly shiny bugs with my bare hands is a testament to how much I hate the way they chew through my roses.

4. Japanese beetles are also very slow and easy to catch. They tend to gather in twos and threes and they kind of cuddle inside the rose blossoms. I have come to the reluctant conclusion that they are enjoying a spot of post-coital Japanese beetle bliss. Which skeeves me out like you wouldn't believe.

5. I fed my children dog food for dinner. OK, not dog food. But a shameless amount of leftovers.

6. I made up for this by taking them to Starbucks for frappucinos and cake. Their treats and my grande skinny sugar-free iced vanilla latte cost me $17.33.

7. Have I mentioned that I'm giving away a $25 Starbucks gift card? If you haven't entered, please do.

8. I watched The Love Parade tonight (Paramount: Lubitsch, 1929.) God, I love Maurice Chevalier.

9. Marx Brothers movies like Night at the Opera and Duck Soup are even funnier if you've seen a couple of Ernst Lubitsch Ruritanian musicals.

10. That's the last semi-intelligent thought you're going to get out of me. It's late.

Here's another review for you while I run out and buy that Starbucks gift card

Bergdorf Blondes: A Novel by Plum Sykes

This book came in the mail today and I don't know why. Did I order it from half.com? Or one of Amazon.com's used book sellers? Did I win it in a Bloggy Giveaway? Is it a present? I have no idea.

However, I checked it for drugs, and it came out clean. No suspicious white powder. So I figured what the hell, I'll read it.

However. I'm only a couple of pages into it, and something about the rich, vapid women in "good buildings" on Park Avenue seems eerily familiar. Which leaves me wondering: has Chick-lit become so generic that it's become one big French-manicured blur--or have I actually read this book?

Only time will tell.

++++UPDATED++++

I'm very sorry to say this, because it means either Plum Sykes is a lousy writer or I have early-onset Alzheimer's, but I'm several chapters in, and I still can't tell whether I've read this before. Some parts of it seem familiar, like the passages about Brazilians.

But then, hasn't every single book about rich women in New York wasted gallons of ink obsessing about pubic hair? The only thing worse than the J. Sisters material in Bergdorf Blondes is a passage from a different book whose name I can't recall. Thankfully, it took place in London.

I say thankfully because in this book, the aging female protagonist decided, upon taking a new lover, that her nether 'do needed some touching up, so she got busy with a bottle of auburn hair dye and a toothbrush, and then finished things off with a spritz of some kind of hair sheen product that contained tiny bits of gold glitter--only to discover that it all rubbed off all over Mr. Wonderful's face.

And now, if you're mesmerized by a mental picture of a man walking around with the bottom half of his face stained a strange shade of orange-brown and twinkling with wee bits of fairy gold--in broad daylight, mind you--you'll know why I don't read more chick-lit than I do.

View all my reviews.

I can has Latte?

It's Bloggy Giveaway time and I'm giving away a $25 Starbucks gift card!

To be entered, leave a comment with your email address. I'll close comments on Friday night at 11:59 p.m and do a random drawing on Saturday.

Have fun!

It's that time again!

OK, not until tomorrow morning.

That's right--starting at 8:00 a.m. CDT (or whenever I get around to it) I will once more shamelessly whore myself out to my readers--and a bunch of random strangers on the internet--in order to get my statcounter whirring around like an airplane propeller.

Tomorrow I'll be posting the giveaway details. Chances are it will be a $25 Starbucks gift card. Why? Because gift cards are easy to mail, that's why. (As it turns out, I'm not so great at getting packages into the mail.)

Also, there will be no Barbies. Sorry, Jen.

In case the Blog365 SWAT team has me in their sights

I did post yesterday.* At Mamarazzi. Where I graciously informed the world about how to get a nice family Christmas card picture taken even if your child is a track-scratching rehab-avoiding junky.

I think that's about all I accomplished. Except for doing a live and unscripted version of Monty Python's infamous Cheese Shop Skit, where the idiotic cheeseophile at Binny's played Michael Palin's cheesemonger role, while I took on the harrowing task of filling in for the much taller and funnier John Cleese.

"Why the fascination with cheese?" I imagine you asking in the nice cooperative way so favored by the readers who live in my head. As opposed to you guys.

Well, I needed to pick up some snacks because Joke was visiting fo shizzel (as opposed to talking about visiting and then canceling, which happened earlier this summer.)

I'm a fairly hospitable misanthrope, so I decided to ply him with the latest and greatest in Spanish cheese. I wanted to impress him with my foodie chops as well as ruin his appetite for the lackluster take-out meal I was going to feed him for dinner.

So I bought pretty much every kind of Spanish cheese they stocked that tasted OK (except Manchego, because I'd heard of Manchego and can, unlike Blogger, even spell Manchego, which means that Manchego is laughably old hat.) To flesh things out (since as it turns out most Spanish cheese tastes like ass) I also bought some sausage and smoked oysters.

Just so you know, the whole cheese and sausage platter idea? Stolen from the blackbirds. The oysters were an original contribution of my own, which might be why I felt free to eat most of them.

I'm pretty sure we had fun, but the details are a bit blurry. I know I had at least two Manhattans and one glass of wine, and therefore was not surprised that this morning I woke up with a hangover.

I don't know whether I'm going to see the Jokes later today. At the moment I'm sure they're out testing the truth of our assertion that Chicago now has the highest sales tax in the nation. (Yay Chicago! We're number one!)

And don't start whining about pictures. I'm pretty proud of the way my hams fill out my size 16 turquoise slacks, but Joke is shy.

* I realize I'm the only one who is watching over my blog-posting frequency, or is anal enough to care that I Follow The Rules. Let the record show that the defendent is innocent of charges of Breaking Rules, but guilty of OCD and an incredible amount of drivel.

How to make Girl Scouts more interesting: the Morphing Tabloids Badge

Take a Brownie and her leader,



change the Leader into James Spader

and then change the Brownie into Laura Bush

and then? Sell the story to the tabloids:

"Pretty in Pink Bad Boy Gropes First Lady Laura Bush."

In which I out myself

Guess what? I was involved in a super-secret start-up project. I didn't tease my readers by mentioning it in that hinting around, cryptic, I-can't-tell-you-right-now way because I refuse to leave my readers hanging like that. I like both of you too much.

Also, I'm mature.

(It would be really sad if I weren't, considering that our Wii Fit tells me I'm 63 years old.)

So anyway,

drumroll ...

I've become a Contributing Editor at BlogHer. I'm going to be getting paid. To review. Cosmetics.

I KNOW. What could be more perfect? I mean, I blather away about that kind of thing for free! But now I'm part of a site called Beauty Hacks, so forget it. No more free touting of products I love. Now they're going to have to give me big bucks and free supplies before I mention how much I love Estee Lauder Cyber White SPF50 sunblock and Giorgio Armani Fluid Sheer #3 mixed with Estee Lauder DayWear Plus Tinted Moisturizer.

So anyway, my first post went up yesterday afternoon.

Please head over there and read it. And leave a comment.

Especially if the BlogHer community doesn't understand my wry sense of humor and thinks that my kids are actually going to spend their lives flipping burgers at McDonald's because I'm spending all of their college tuition money on cosmetics.

I need you guys to get my back. Because you guys know better. You know I'm just kidding. You know I'm spending their college tuition money on earrings. And shoes. And scarves.

No, I really AM a pig

Guess what I did today?

Went out and bought a 40 inch flat screen television for the television stand my husband put together. And Guitar Hero Aerosmith for my son. And Wii Fit for my daughter.

Well, I've been playing Wii Fit.

You know how old Wii Fit says I am? 63 years old. SIXTY-THREE.

The bad news is that I'm obviously decrepit.

The good news is that the Social Security checks are going to start rolling in any second now. And that will pay for Rock Band. So I can play with my fellow dinosaurs.

BlogHere Day 6: Home again, home again, I'm a fat pig

Holy farking shnit, people, am I tired.

And I just realized why--I forgot about jet lag! My body is still on east coast time--it's an hour later there. And that's late, for the middle-aged. Which I am, at this point. I might even be elderly--I'm not sure.

I mean, is it elderly if you're not quite sure whether you need to go to the bathroom? Because if so, I qualify.

Also, like the elderly, I got up ridiculously early this morning. I had to go to the airport with Jen Lancaster and Susie Sunshine, and just to make sure we left in a timely fashion, with breakfast and a shower and clean clothes on, we got up at the buttcrack of dawn.

Well, I fooled them. I didn't have any breakfast, I didn't take a shower, and I was wearing a pair of recycled pants.

But it was OK. I don't think I smelled that much.

(Hey, I think I just explained the phenomenon of "old people smell." They can't tell they smell. Hey, Nobel Prize committee! Where's my award?)

So anyway, after eating everything on the plane, (including a stack of SkyMall magazines and one of those weird airplane pillows) I got home just fine.

And guess what? My house was clean. The laundry wasn't too piled up. My husband had finished putting together the "some assembly required" media cabinets for the flat screen t.v. we don't own yet.

There were groceries. We had steak for dinner!

Life is good.

Because it turns out that if you put the steak through a food mill, it doesn't even matter that you left your teeth back at Blackbird's.

A BlogHere08 Day 5 post for Joke

Because he whined.

Day Three involved exposing Susie Sunshine to new things, to which she invariably reacted by announcing "I'm from Michigan."

The end.

BlogHere Days 3 and 4: Beach and the City

What could be better than adding Jen Lancaster to our group and heading to the beach?

Nothing, that's what.

The day was hot and sunny, but much cooler and breezier at the beach, which was broad and sandy and clean. The surf was active, bugs were minimal, and Susie Sunshine was a complete lunatic.

Apparently there's nothing these corn-fed Midwestern damsels enjoy more than diving straight into a rip tide and getting pummeled by the surf for an hour of high-pitched hilarity, unless it's bringing their pal Jen along for the ride.

Let me tell you, that surf was crazy stuff. I kept my butt glued to my chair, and even I got soaked and ended up with sand in my swimsuit.

That evening was blackbird's low-key and lovely birthday celebration. 'bird's mother came over and she is hilarious--very chic and elegant. But she had this smoker's voice that made me think she could handle anything, and she could.

For example: she handled Susie's potty mouth just fine, which was pretty fucking impressive, if you ask me.

'bird's mother brought two of those Nabisco Chocolate Wafer cakes--the ones where you use nothing but chocolate wafer and whipped cream. Lord, were they good.

Much wine was drunk.

Today we got organized in the morning, then drove into the city to do a variety of individual things, all perfectly tailored to our personalities: Wendy hung out with her brother-in-law the publishing powerhouse; Jen met with some people to discuss a very big deal, Susie met with three possibly insane fans and then took a nausea-inducing backwards cab ride at 90 miles per hour; I shopped.

I went to Hermes and Scully and Scully and embarrassed myself by acting like a straw-chewing rube from the hinterlands, all "gawrsh!" and "shucks" and "does that come in any other colors?"

A good time was had by all.

Then Jen, Susie, Susie's new fan Sandy, and I went to what used to be called the Park Avenue Cafe and is now called Park Avenue Summer. Dinner was simply sumptuous; soft-shelled crab and steak and lobster and corn rissotto and friend artichoke hearts and stuffed squash blossoms and desserts galore.

Now we are stuffed and happy.

Jen and I tottered back to our digs for an evening of air conditioned peace and quiet, but Susie Sunshine and new fan Sandy headed downtown to meet Wendy and go to the Cubby Hole, a lezbean bar I went to about twenty years ago when the internet was young and you, dear reader, were merely a gleam in your parole officer's eye.

And so to bed.

BlogHere08: Days 1 and 2

After we had lunch in the diner, we went shopping. First a thrift store, and then

Blackbird introduced me to the joys of Anthropologie. I had never been to one before. I bought a bottle of this lovely stuff, that smells like a tropical beach.

Then we went out for seafood. Susie Sunshine discovered the joys of eating raw oysters on the half shell. Yes, raw oysters are an aphrodisiac. Which probably explains her expression.


Then we went home and hung around.

Wendy of Martha MacGyver gave the birds their host and hostess aprons. Here they are posing as Tuvaluan Gothic.

Here's a little teasing vignette of the bird's living room. The warmth! The exquisite taste! I'm breathless.

We spent a ridiculous amount of time Twittering and laughing our asses off.

On Day 2 we felt more sophisticated, so we went to the city to shop. The first thing we did was hit this Japanese store.


I felt bereft because I don't have a fabric shoulder bag.


Colors are not allowed. Unless you consider brown a color.

The lady with the red dress? Was being followed by store detectives the whole time. NO COLORS ALLOWED, SCARLET WOMAN!!


When we saw this section of blue t-shirts, we fainted dead away from shock and excitement.


This store had the smallest housewares I had ever seen. (But if you've never bought one of these clippy things for hanging up wash, you need to think about it.)

Then we went to the Chinese store. Which was a relief for our color-starved eyes.


... more later.

BlogHere08 Day 2: We went shopping

And shopping. And shopping.

Pearl River

Muji

Do Kham

Tibet Emporium

Purl Patchwork

and then the rest of the bloggers went back to Tuvalu for cocktails while I went to Model Nails and got the world's cheapest, best manicure and pedicure.

Then to the Virgin Records store in Union Square to buy a Ramones t-shirt for my son.

And this book. Because all I needed was a handbook, and I'm a plutocrat, baby!

Envy me, for I'm at blackbird's

being called a whore by Susie Sunshine.

We are sitting in blackbird's living room with our laptops open twittering insults at each other.

It's totally sixth grade and it ROCKS.

And now, a book review. To cleanse the palette.

Alternadad: The True Story of One Family's Struggle to Raise a Cool Kid in America by Neal Pollack


rating: *** of ***** stars

I bought this for the Peter Bagge cover. Remember Hate comix? Remember Weirdo when Bagge took over from Robert Crumb? No? Oh, you whippersnappers. Born too late to enjoy any of the really cool stuff, like Space Food Sticks, eight-track stereos, DeLoreans, Bicentennial Barbie, and the original, really big Lip Smackers.

Anyway. The book. OK, the cover jumped out at me, so I picked it up and started to read. Right away I noticed that the action takes place in Rogers Park in Chicago. Peter Bagge and Chicago? Sold!

Unfortunately, the author and his wife waste no time in moving out of Rogers Park, first to Baltimore or Philadelphia or some other east coast city that isn't Boston or New York. And then they make matter worse by moving to Texas. Well, Austin, actually. Or near it. Where they enjoy and yet revile the trendiness that is almost-Austin.

Then their kid ends up in a day care where he spends a lot of time biting another kid.

And I'm all like, dude! Yes, you! Mr. Don't Want To Be Bourgeois! Biting != cool! Discipline your fucking kid!

And so I must reluctantly conclude that the book is actualy not all that good. And that the cover is better than the book. Which just goes to show you the cliché is right.

On the up side, this book makes me feel like a great parent. I'm really pretty mediocre. I mean, here I am with my face in the laptop AGAIN.

But these people? Are pathetic. Which means that I end up looking really great in comparison. So I wouldn't say I completely wasted my money.

And the cover really is great.


View all my reviews.

Letters to the Editor

Dear Poppy:

Can you see me making an "L" with my finger and thumb? Because duh, I wasn't lost; I was in the outside pocket of your bag all along.

Sheesh! What do I have to do, call you up?

Sincerely yours,

Your cell phone

---
Dear Poppy:

If you're one of those women who runs around putting everything away before the cleaning ladies show up? We shudder at what this place must usually look like.

Very truly yours,

Your cleaning ladies

----
Dear Poppy:

I'm sorry, but you really are a size 16.

Very truly yours,

The Talbots

---
Dear Poppy:

I can't believe you sit there and complain about gaining weight, and then order ice cream for dessert. With butterscotch sauce.

Very truly yours,
The wait staff where you ate lunch

p.s. We also saw you Hoover up your companion's fruit salad. And a roll. And a glass of wine.

---
Dear Poppy:

How are you going to go to sleep tonight?

Affectionately,

The laundry stacked up on your bed

---
Dear Poppy:

Don't you think it's time you refilled me? I'm empty, you know.

Sincerely yours,

The glass of wine next to your laptop

Slug

OMG people, today I really outdid myself. If there were an Olympic medal for sloth, I'd have won the gold.

That's right--instead of reading this blog, you should be shaking salt on me, so I could put us out of our misery by dissolving into slug goo.

I'm not just a slug, I'm a giant banana slug. Honestly, I belong on a Santa Cruz t-shirt.

I'll be better soon. I promise. Because Susie Sunshine expects me to be entertaining and chatty when we all get together at Blackbird's. She told me so. In fact, she tweeted it in in front of the entire internet. She probably hoped shame would get my adrenaline flowing. And adrenaline might kickstart what's left of my brain.

Now, you and I know she's being overly optimistic. But maybe, if I manage to get out of my pajamas--and my house--before noon. I might. Actually. Have a thought. Or two. Worth sharing.
---
OH! I just thought of one. And this is so hilarious!

I won a contest on We Covet. The prize was a copy of Sex and the City: The Book. So tonight, after the kids went to bed, I read the entire thing. (This isn't saying that much, since it's mostly pictures.)

Now why did I do this, considering I've never watched the t.v. show, and therefore have no real interest in the movie?

I did it so that if someone starts talking about the movie, I can say "I never saw the movie, but I read the book."

---
Have I ever mentioned that my doctoral dissertation was on film adaptations? And I actually had somewhat intelligent things to say? I mean, my dissertation adviser was deeply scary and at times I think she thought I was a complete buffoon, but even she admitted that once in a while I came out with something halfway decent in the way of scholarship.

Just think--I'm not a buffoon any more! Because I've become a banana slug.

Social butterfly turns back into caterpillar, film at eleven

OK, everyone, that's it. I am partied out. It's time for me to crawl back into my dark, dank, solitary cave and do a whole bunch of mindless internet surfing.

Friday night we went to the Zoo Ball.

Saturday morning I hosted a charity lunchtime cruise on some friends' yacht.

Tonight we went to a bring-your-own lobster cookout.

Too many people. Too much conversation.

Need internet.

kthnxbi.

p.s. Too damned much food, too. Coffeecake? Coconut cake? Cookies? Humus and chips? Beer? Pasta salad? Curried chicken salad? In a single day? Surely, Poppy, you realize this is a bit excessive?

Um, yeah. I do.

I should have been munching on leaves.

Hello, I must be going.

Guess what? The sprint triathlon thing is on. Again.

You can tell because I came home from the running store with new shoes, a calf-stretching gadget, a roll-your-muscles-flat gadget, a new pair of swim goggles, and this book.

Now, my dropping $200 on sports gear doesn't mean all that much. Spending two hundred dollars on sports equipment is like paying gym dues for three and a half months and then not going to the gym. Please raise your hand if you've never signed up for a gym, stopped going, and kept paying anyway.

OK, you? With your hand in the air? I hate you.

Now to the rest of my fellow losers: thank you. Yes, indeed I kept paying monthly dues at the Big Box gym, six months' worth to be exact, and I did stop going.

So the question is why am I bothering with the triathlon?

Well, I'm thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. I figure I've given this sitting-around-indoors-on-my-ass thing a couple of decades, and it's time to do something different.

So. Let's plan the next couple of decades, shall we?

Would I rather be an apple-shaped wheezing blob with bad knees and ankles, or one of those age-spotted, crows'-footed golf-playing preppy old ladies in the bright colored sports clothes with the short, sensible hair?

Neither, actually.

I'd rather be a stringy-looking old gal with wavy gray shoulder-length hair wearing yoga pants and a matching hoodie from Horny Toad, sandals, Me & Ro jewelry, and a pair of crazy reading glasses on a funky chain.

I don't want to be stuck in my living room watching t.v.

Or drinking iced tea and eating salads with three girl friends at the country club grill.

I want to be hanging around a non-chain coffee house drinking coffee, reading Harper's Weekly, and planning a trip to Hawaii. Or maybe Venice.

So that's why.

Monsoon Poppy's flying circus

I have two little cartoon angels sitting on my shoulders even as we speak.

What do you mean, you can't see them? C'mon. You know them--the little devil has a gravelly Brooklyn accent, and the little angel has a high-pitched voice and talks like Eleanor Roosevelt.

Well, see, Eleanor would tell you that my life is wonderful and I am so blessed. And she would be right.

On the other hand, the little devil would tell you that my life is seriously overloaded with a lot of shit I don't want to do. And he would be right, too.

I'm talking about unglamorous Mommy chores, my gym gerbil Habitrail regime, and a ton of unpaid volunteer crap, all of which make my life a virtual compost heap of mouldering to-do lists. For example, today I:

Called up my son's camp to talk to the director about the way my son is being bullied;

Had a three-or-four round wrestling match with my fax machine. (I lost);

Went for my personal trainer session in the pool. Got into my swimsuit, showered down, slicked hair back with waterproofing gel, donned stretchy rubber swim cap; padded out to meet trainer. My trainer was not there and the pool was closed due to lightning. So I was soaking wet, couldn't go swimming, and didn't have any workout clothes with me. I had to climb back into my street clothes and drive home with my hair in a weird Jheri curl do;

Upon reaching home, I spent about an hour watering window boxes, transplanting plants, and re-watering everything again only to have the heavens open with Illinois's first recorded monsoon.*

Now, see, all this would be groovy if I were getting paid to do it.

But I have to do this kind of thing for free, which takes all the fun out of it.

* OK, I'm exaggerating. But only slightly.

Thumb tack

Today I worked with my trainer and she found a whole bunch of exercises for me to do.

It's sort of like she handed me a huge bouquet, but instead of fresh-smelling flowers and foliage wrapped up in florist's paper, it was pain. A bouquet of pain.

Specifically, in my knees. OK, I realize that if my quadriceps were stronger, all those lunges would be a lot easier. And so would some of the positions the yoga instructor asked me to get into.

But all I know is that after working on lunges and then assuming the Angry Out of Shape Warrior pose for what felt like hours, I'm feeling a bit of discomfort.

In other words, it feels like someone has hammered a thumb tack into my kneecap.

Thank God for the internet. Not only do you inspire me to make chicken fajitas for dinner, you let me sit around on my ass while I eat them.

Things you might not have known

So I'll fill you in.

First of all, did you know that the phrase "baby smooth" doesn't refer to the quality of a baby's skin? See, I thought babies were just incredibly well moisturized. But "baby smooth" refers to the baby's hairlessness. Did you know that? Well, of course you did.

Apparently, I'm the only person on the face of the earth who had never noticed how hairless the average baby was until I gave birth to one. And then I'm like, woah! Check it out! Little dude is smooth!

Internet, I certainly hope you're smarter than I am.

Oh, and I should tell you something else. Driving a car? Is fun. Too bad I only realized this when I was 35.

Here's another little tidbit for you: I'm Neil's new internet crush.

OK, he doesn't realize it himself, but then, what man does? I mean, are we pretty much agreed that men tend to be a wee bit clueless when it comes to understanding their own emotions? OK, then.

I'm not saying the guy is a s-t-a-l-k-e-r or anything like that, but he has commented over here twice this week, and he's following me on Twitter, Facebook, and Plurk. If that's not a crush, I'd like to know what is.

I really hate to think about his disappointment when he discovers I'm married.

Of course, I might not be married much longer. Sure, it's been twenty years, and habits like sleeping in the same bed for decades can be difficult to break, but what marriage can stand up to the strain of putting together the faux cherry "some assembly required" media stand with the two matching cupboards from the Home Decorators catalog?

My husband decided to try to put together the media stand--the thing we're going to put our flat screen TV on--except (and take note of this; it's important) we don't actually own a flat screen TV yet. So there's this huge half-assembled piece of furniture with a single stated function--that it can't do--taking up valuable space in the middle of the living room.

And of course this was the day the housecleaners came. Everything was lovely. And now it looks like an explosion in a particle board factory.

And that is why, tomorrow morning, instead of a flat screen TV on the media stand, my husband will find a letter from my lawyer. Demanding custody of the kids and the flat screen TV (when we get it.)

Well, that was a first.

Tonight I was hauling a load of darks out of the washing machine, and I was seeing the usual suspects: my son's dark green t-shirt with turtles on it from Sebastian, FL; his impossibly long thin pair of black jeans ; a black Talbot's Mom t-shirt* when I saw it:

a tube of Colgate toothpaste.

And I'm just a little puzzled trying to figure out how it got into my washing machine.

Of course, if it means that my son is walking around carrying tubes of toothpaste in his pocket ... I guess that's a good thing. I mean, dental hygiene is very important.

But tell me. And be gentle.

Teenagers aren't huffing toothpaste these days, are they?

* You've heard of Mom jeans, right? Well, way ahead of you, people. Mom t-shirts are a bit boxy, cut to conceal back fat, and have sleeves long enough to cover upper arm batwings. You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you? It's a phenomenon you'd sort of noticed, but never articulated. I said what you'd been thinking. You're welcome.

Hey Hans, shut the window!

I don't know whether you've read The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann. Mann was a German writer who wrote long, wooly, pre-modernist novels that I used to read when I was much younger and more pretentious than I am now.

The main character in The Magic Mountain was a young man named Hans Castorp. He traveled to the Magic Mountain to visit his cousin, who was a patient at a tubercular sanitarium.

The story takes place when tuberculosis was still a very big deal. In the pre-antibiotics era, what a TB patient needed was Pure Air, and apparently the air in the Magic Mountain was amazingly Pure. The patients sat outside every day--even in the winter, when they wore fur suits that Mann describes with a wealth of detail that obviously made a huge impression on me, because I still remember those passages quite vividly.

Now what does this have to do with anything?

Nothing, really, except for my fur fetish (which I probably owe to having read this book.)

But there are some interesting parallels with my life. Hans is young and susceptible, and when he visits the sanitarium he falls madly in love with an alluring older, more sophisticated and worldly woman.

Well, the connection there is perfectly clear.

There's also the fact that my husband's great uncle started a tuberculosis sanitarium in Los Angeles. It's still there--it's over by Dodger Stadium (which might seem a strange location for a sanitarium, but at the time, in the pre-smog L.A., it was believed that the air there was particularly Pure.)

OK. Then there's the Pure Air mania. My husband suffers from this as well. Look, I like Pure Air as much as the next former Girl Scout, but I would like to lodge a protest.

Because after we go to the trouble of having the space-pack air conditioning retro-fitted to our tiny old-fashioned house, and I decide that it's getting rather warm and very humid, and wouldn't it be nice to turn on the a/c, and my husband agrees with me?

I really, really resent having to go through the entire house closing windows. All of which he opened. And some of which he opened from the bottom up and the top down.

Over 14 windows and three doors needed to be closed so that the air conditioning could do its thing.

I am now a sweaty MESS.

This alluring, worldly, sophisticated older woman is about to head upstairs and kick someone right in his Pure A**.

Cookie-ology

Color me disappointed.

I thought I'd lighten my lonely hours spending baking dozens of cookies to bring to church tomorrow by inserting a Youtube clip of Dana Carvey as Church Lady.

So I went to YouTube and typed in "church lady."

What showed up? Not only were there NO Church Lady skits, but my search results included a big fat colored blinking ad for Scientology.

And when you click on it, you end up here.

I know. Ew.

Well, I'm sorry, guys. That you'll shill for your cult on the exact same media outlet that carried that mega-scary leaked interview with Tom Cruise--not to mention his couch-jumping shenanigans--makes you even less appealing that you ordinarily would be.

Not that you had a lot of appeal to begin with. I mean, come on. A so-called "church" that uses Tom Cruise, Kirstie Alley, and John Travolta as its spokesmen? Is it a church or an '80s pop culture icon convention? A church or a diet endorsement?

And anyway, isn't Scientology a bottom feeder, even for a cult? I swear, the Hare Krishnas have more credibility. Reverend Moon has more credibility. Mary Kay has more credibility. Oh, wait. Mary Kay isn't really a cult.

But even as cults go, Mary Kay cosmetics sales sounds like a better deal. You can even get a pink Cadillac out of it ,if it works out.

So, anyway, sorry, Thetans. I'm loserish enough to stay up past midnight baking cookies for Sunday morning's coffee hour, but this Episcopalian isn't loserish enough to get sucked into Scientology.

Perfect Fourth

Because I'm a music nerd, I'll mention that my title is a pun. If you click on the link, you will find out more than you ever wanted to know about the musical interval of the perfect fourth.

But let's not and say we did, OK? Because I'm talking about today's fourth of July celebration.

First--and my God, this seems like a week ago--I went to the gym for an hour with my personal trainer, Denise the Maharini of Massage.

I had an invigorating workout, which is my polite way of saying that she beat the shit out of me. I had to do sprints on the stationery bike while doing deltoid presses. I had to do squats while I did curls and rolled a medicine ball up and down a wall with my back. And when Denise tired of that sort of fun, she put me through a series of stretches that had me--and I know I indulge in a spot of hyperbole from time to time, but right now, I'm not--using my dimly-remembered Lamaze breathing techniques. "Does that hurt?" she'd ask, and I wouldn't be able to answer because I was too busy panting. "Yeah-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh."

But see, when you start the day with a killer workout like that, you have every right to indulge in all the salty snacks, cocktails, and homemade vanilla ice cream you can get.

So I did.

We had tortilla chips and guacamole and drinks and barbecued pork ribs and a ton of different sausages and corn on the cob and tabouli and Badger's potato salad (with mozzarella, artichoke hearts, basil, and tomatoes) and watermelon.

Then we took a break while my daughter did the Mentos-in-a bottle of soda explosion.

Then we had home-made vanilla bean ice cream with fresh strawberry sauce, garnished with blueberries and topped with whipped cream, and it was GOOD.

Then we went to the Newtopian fireworks, which were AWESOME. It's the first time we actually bothered to go, and we only went because my son had a friend over who goes every year. But what a revelation! I'd say those fireworks were worth every penny of the the property taxes we've paid for the past decade.

I made home movies of the Mentos experiment. I also recorded some of the fireworks. I'm hoping to cut them together to make the soda bottles explode into fireworks.

Now, see, I'm sure you had a great fourth. But mine was perfect. Because it's going to win me the Academy Award for "Best Independence Day Special Effects."

I mean, exploding the White House? Pfft! Strictly for amateurs.

This for everyone who thinks I'm a total loser

Picture me jumping around the porch with a big styrofoam hand shouting "I'm number 1! I'm number 1"--kind of like Homer Simpson after a few too many Duffs--because I just won a copy of the Sex and the City: The Movie book from We Covet.

Which means that soon I'll be sitting at my ease on that self-same porch, getting the inside scoop on the movie, and drooling over luscious color photographs of high-end bags. And shoes.

So all you doubters? You nay-sayers? You people who don't think I'm cool? Who consign me to the Mommyblogger compost pile? Who consider me, in short, a DD-List blogger? Can just


Because I. am. a. WINNER.

Woo hoo!

Short of breath, yes, but still long-winded.

You know how you keep meaning to say something to someone, or you have this question you've been meaning to ask, but one thing leads to another and finally you just blurt it out because otherwise it'll never happen?

Maybe it's just me.

Anyway, there are these things I keep meaning to mention, and then I distract myself with my mad hip hop blogging skills, like yesterday's interview mash-up.

(God, I just love it when I can come up with an intellectually-pretentious justification for using other people's material!)

So anyway, here are the things I'm thinking about:

• Susie Sunshine, Wendy, and I are convening in Tuvalu at blackbird's for BlogHere starting on July 16th. (Please note, this is not Blogher--we did that last year) OMG! So fun! So drunk! So LOUD!

OMG what am I going to wear?

• Tonight That Stud Muffin I Married and I watched the last episode of Season 3 of House, M.D. I'm already starting to go through withdrawal. Send Vicodin Hugh Laurie stat!

• I don't talk about it every day, but I'm at the gym or doing something worky-outy every day. And just so you know, it's very difficult for me not to whine about the punishment that the Maharini of Massage is putting me through. I mean, the amazingly painful rolling of long metal bars up my legs is apparently breaking down my TCI bands or whatever the hell they're called, but it hurts. Also, you'd never guess I was getting any more flexible from watching me in yoga class. I know yoga isn't competitive, and we aren't supposed to compare, and this is our practice, and namaste and all that--but I'm pitiful.

• Whenever I get a large chunk of free time, I manage to fill it with stupid things like going to the gym every waking minute. I mean, what happened to the concept of summer as a time where I lounge around drinking lemonade and reading trashy books ? Hello, the gym is there all year 'round.

• I weighed myself yesterday.

I weigh 181 pounds. That's 30 pounds overweight. GODDAMNIT. But it's 12 pounds less than when I first signed up with Weight Watchers. (Holy crap, I must have looked like one of the larger marine mammals.)

• I don't know. I'm sensing twin desires: to hang out on my new sofa (when it arrives) and watch Season 4 of House (when it's released) but then there's a part of me that wants to go back and forth to the gym like a gerbil in a Habitrail.

And if this doesn't make any sense to you? You're in good company.

An interview with Poppy Buxom

Remember when that guy (whose name I can't remember) started this thing where everyone who commented was going to interview the next person who commented?

Well, Jessica at daysgoby drew me. About five million years ago. She very kindly emailed me her interview questions, whereupon I very promptly wadded her email up and stuffed it down at the bottom of my Gmail inbox where it languishes to this day, because I just remembered it.

But I will find it. And I will answer her questions.

But when I do, I'll send my answers to her, to post on her blog. So that will be her post, not mine.

My post was supposed to be the person who commented after me.

Well, it turns out that person is a woman in Chicago who has kids, blogs in several different venues, and runs her own on-line business. I thought we would have a lot in common, but as I checked out her blog, it turns out that her business happens to be home parties where sex toys are sold. And I don't know about you, but honestly, that particular detail of her life kind of overshadows everything else. I like to think that I'm not particularly prurient, but somehow, I can't think of any good questions to ask her. That business of hers becomes the elephant in the room. The battery-powered elephant-shaped dildo in the room. With a vibrating trunk.

And so, because I need to post today, and because I've decided that the internet is like a vast virtual paper shredder of new ideas, where an idea really once did belong to someone, but now it's out there to be sliced and diced and used as packing material for something else (does this make any sense at all?) I'm going to interview myself.

By stealing the questions that Leah Peah asked Sweetney. OK?

Let's get on with it, then.

Blog Birthday:

I started The Opiate of the Masses in August, 2004, but I've been tormenting the internet since 1993 via usenet groups like alt.tv.mst3k and alt.fashion.

Why do you blog?

I love to write, but I'm not particularly creative. I mean, I'm not going to start drafting a screenplay any time soon.

Basically, I find myself incredibly interesting. If I couldn't blog, I'd be following people around like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, blathering away until their ears ran blood. On the internet, I'm much easier to ignore. And if you don't believe me, check out my stats.

What do you talk about?

Myself and why I find myself ludicrous. Also various assorted rants on other people's bad taste and rotten manners.

What don’t you talk about? Why?

My sex life, my husband's sex life (naturally, I'm assuming these are the same thing) my husband's job, people I know in real life, my family.

I do use pseudonyms, but at this point, it's mostly through force of habit. I don't see any real reason not to blog under my real name, I just don't see any real reason to change.

Worst/best experience re: something you wrote in your blog or put out on the net?

I think the funniest (which to me equals best) was when I was participating in a Bloggy Giveaway. I was giving away a Little Debbie Snack Cakes Barbie. Well, Jen Lancaster read my entry, called Susie Sunshine up, and then basically blogged their telephone conversation. Jen wanted the Little Debbie Snack Cakes Barbie, and Susie Sunshine told her she couldn't enter my giveaway because it wasn't fair.

The next thing I knew, literally hundreds of women were entering my giveaway, many of them swearing that if they won, they would give the Barbie to Jen.

My hits went through the roof. The comments became more and more impassioned. Even though I mentioned several times that this drawing was going to be random, these women were pleading for the chance to give Jen her Barbie.

I now know what it's like to be God. So many prayers; so few Little Debbie Snack Cake Barbies.

Favorite/worst thing about living where you live?

I live in a suburb of Chicago that I call Newtopia. It's lovely and green and peaceful and it has an excellent public school system, blah blah blah. My favorite thing about it is getting into my not very impressive car, backing out of the jerry-built garage attached to the back of my teardown, rolling down my cracked asphalt driveway, and cruising around getting a vicarious thrill out of other people's money. OMG their houses! Their gardens!

Frankly, I'm surprised anyone in this town will speak to me.

The worst thing? Well, 99.99 percent white, crime-free, "exclusive" suburbs with excellent public schools don't tend to rank very high on the hip, sophisticated, trendy, or edgy scale.

I mean, sadly enough, by virtue of the fact that I blog, I might very well be the trendiest thing in town.

If you were president of the US:

I'm pretty sure I would stop announcing to all and sundry that I have no idea WTF is going on.

What actor would play you in the movie of your life?

Julia Roberts. But I'm very sorry to have to admit that she would have to pull a Robert de Niro and eat her way up several dress sizes. And then a few more.

Favorite color:

Red. I'm a scarlet woman. Albeit a scarlet woman who is too embarrassed to interview a woman who makes her living selling s-e-x t-o-y-s.

Favorite food:

I like food that is full-flavored and uses high-quality fresh ingredients. I don't care whether it's scallops ceviche or collard greens simmered with ham hock with some corn bread to sop up the pot likker. Just keep the canned cream of mushroom soup far, far away from me. (I actually have a moribund blog, Horrifying Foodstuffs, where I make fun of food like that.)

When you were 10, what did you want to do when you grew up?

I wanted to be a backup singer for Ike and Tina Turner. Yes! I wanted to be an Ikette. This teaches you three things about me: I'm old, and I'm self-deluded, because I'm white.

What do you hate?

Selfishness. Deliberate unkindness. Rudeness. Excessive amounts of swearing (but I get to decide what's excessive. If I say it? It's justified. If it comes out of the mouth of one of my children? It's not only excessive, it calls for punitive measures.)

What do you love?

Anything funny.

What do you want to tell other bloggers, if anything?

Be generous. Leave comments; link to people; email people. You'll make someone's day.

Astounding facts about you:

I've never had morning sickness.

Are you Windows or Mac? Why?

Mac. Since 1985. I joined the dark side only once, for a 17-inch HP laptop that crapped out on me after less than a year.

Do you have a mantra?

No. I'm an Episcopalian. We don't really grok that whole mantra thing.

Who are your heroes?

Phyllis Diller, Roseanne, Aline Kominsky-Crumb, and Margaret Cho.

How would your husband/family/friends describe you?

Funny, smart, bumptious, busty, annoying, musical, self-deprecating, idiotic.

What are you working on right now?

Other than busting my ass at the gym? Getting a new template and advertising for Mamarazzi. I don't want it to go over-the-top commercial, but I'd like it to pay for itself.

What do you do to stay sane and keep healthy?

I have a lot of ways to fend off depression, which is the black dog that follows me wherever I go (unlike, say, every other blogger on the face of the earth.) So I work out. I try to get outside in the fresh air whenever I can--especially in the summer, because sunshine is key. Gardening is good. Decluttering this damned tear-down. And then telling the whole internet about it.