An open letter to Madonna

Dear Skeletor:



I'm taking my kids to see you in concert on October 26th. I realize you're English now and might not remember, but that's very close to Halloween. My daughter is a sensitive child who has been known to have nightmares.

So Madge, do me a favor; eat a bagel. Or two. And put the weights down. I'm begging you.

Because this is not a good look



for a girl. And you're almost there. Except in drag.

xxx,
Poppy

Poppy Buxom's Day Off

Believe it or not, I got so wound up getting the kids back to school--and all the fun that entails--that I sort of forgot we had a three-day weekend coming up. And so here we are in the middle of it, not going anywhere or doing anything.

It's bliss. Plus I get to sleep late three days in a row! That never happens.

So anyway, we decided this weekend was the perfect opportunity to continue our home-schooling projects. I may not have mentioned it, but we're home-schooling our kids. Because I'm sure the public school curriculum is lovely, but it doesn't include really important material like Table Manners 101, and Introduction to Film: Chicago at the Movies.

So tonight we watched Ferris Bueller, which was partly filmed right here in Newtopia. Now, I didn't know that when I first saw the film. Sure, I recognized the big Chicago landmarks, but at that time, my outlook was very limited. Still, we grow and change, and now I'm hep to the suburban landmarks, too. And hey, our condo shows up in some of the long shots of skyscrapers!

I KNOW. I'm the coolest blogger you've ever read, right? And I manifest my coolness by jumping up, running up to the screen, and jabbing my finger on an apartment building. "See? There it is!"

It's almost as bad as the time I went to see Chinatown and my mother kept chirping "That's a '38 Packard!" I mean, even when [SPOILER ALERT] Faye Dunaway was getting her eye shot out, all my mother could talk about was the cars.

So anyway, we all enjoyed it, especially my son. The shots of Chicago were awesome. And hey! I'm pretty sure I used to drive past Cameron's house.



And Charlie Sheen, in his film debut? Was smoking hot.

The hills are alive with the sounds of political bickering

Meanwhile, I'm at other blogs, talking about important issues, like lipstick, eyeshadow, and how Lindsay Lohan should write a book and call it Douche-y Dearest.

Maybe I'm just getting old

But I was kind of bored by the Democratic convention tonight. Barack is certainly charismatic, but I found Gore's speech more stirring. And the video was much duller than the one for Clinton.

So I found myself tweeting.

Is it me, or has the internet given me ADD?

I've decided to run as an Independent

Vote for me, Poppy B.!

Did anyone out there watch Michelle Obama's speech? Can you believe I missed it? Actually, that's typical behavior on my part. But this time, it's not my fault.

Honestly, you'd think the television networks would throw something normal at the American public after all the Oympics coverage. But no, it's PhelpsPhelpsPhelpsPhelpsPhelps PhelpsPhelpsPhelpsMichelleObama. Luckily, there's YouTube for people like me who can't keep track of things, spend way too much time organizing their kids' school supplies, and don't have TiVo.

I didn't need to watch it anyway. It wouldn't change my mind about Obama. All modesty aside, I think it's clear that Barack is too young to run this country. We need someone of riper years. And figure.

I mean, come on. Does the guy ever eat? He runs around all day looking presidential and inventing new flights of statesman-like oratory. He only stands still when he's posing for magazine covers.

Say what you will about Bill Clinton, you could always shut him up and slow him down by handing him a platter of ribs and a six pack of PBR. Frankly, I think Barack is too young, too energetic, too educated, too intelligent, and too thin to represent me and my interests.

And let's face it; McCain is too old--plus what's the deal with his cheeks? Have you noticed them, too?

It's like he has two fist-sized slabs of flesh on either side of his mouth, and I can't help wondering what they're doing there.

You know, it's highly possible that an Islamic fundamentalist terrorist cell is concealed there, on either side of his mouth. Yes, for all we know, Osama Bin Laden himself is concealed in McCain's face wubb.

So you'd better vote for me.

Happy Birthday, Sally!

I'm sending out heartfelt birthday wishes to my older sister, who is not quite down with this whole blogging thing and therefore, will never see this.

But in case you are as out of it as my sister, here is that completely priceless and justly famous video of Joe Cocker at Woodstock, which I'm emailing her, because she won't see this.



If you haven't seen it, watch it all the way through.

In other news, I'm putting together school supplies, which, frankly, sucks like the amazingly light Oreck vacuum cleaner that weighs only eight pounds, yet can glom onto a bowling ball. Because putting together a few pens and folders can't suck that much, can it? Well, yes, it can. YES, THAT MUCH.

And in other news, I'm making fun of Karl Lagerfeld-yes, again--over here.

"We're on the road to nowhere"

Because we're heading from Jamestown, NY to Newtopia today.

This is supposed to take nine hours, so last night I downloaded the eighteen hour-long unabridged audiobook version of Barchester Towers. Which is twice as much audiobook as I need. But if it's really engrossing, I'll drop my family off at the house and drive back to Jamestown.

Yes, I really am that in love with Simon Vance.

I am in Jamestown, NY.

After nine hours of driving from New Hampshire.

OK, I didn't drive the entire nine hours. My husband drove a bunch of them. But! When he wasn't driving he was writing a brief on his laptop. And whether he was driving or not, he was on his cell phone. Talking about legal matters in a VERY LOUD VOICE because his cell phone gets crappy reception.

Yes, it's Saturday, and yes, he's with his family, but he's a busy lawyer and so there we were, trapped in a minivan, but feeling like three flies on his office wall. Hello, now I know what it's like to be a lawyer. Three words: stressful, loud, and boring.

Is it any wonder that I ordered a giant cocktail when we went out to dinner?

Here, there, and everywhere

Oh my lord, people, I have been so busy. We were in Rhode Island yesterday, and then we drove to Massachusetts to have dinner with my bother (HENRY!) in Well-to-do-sly. And then, TODAY I ran all kinds of errands (some of them in Maine) trying to take care of a few last minute things before we leave tomorrow for Illinois (via New York.)

That's a lot of states in a lot of days, and I think it's your duty to be impressed. But let us move on, shall we? Because this entry is starting to sound like one of those dreary educational games my parents used to make us play during dinner so we wouldn't start food fights. (Even though it looks wicked patriotic, what with the red and blue states.)

But my point is, I have been all over the place, and I'll continue to be all over the place in the immediate future, so why don't you try it, too?

Click here to see how Jen Lancaster has won the Barnes and Noble Prize for Literature, and here to see how I think Gwen Stefani spent way too much of her young years watching educational TV.

When she could have been playing geography games around the dining room table, that big loser.

the food meme

Lifted from blackbird. Can Joke be far behind? (He's probably working on his as we speak.)


1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you have eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at Very Good Taste linking to your results.


1. Venison - at my mother's. My brother shot it. With a bow and arrow. It was OK--you need to braise it.
2. Nettle tea - hate herb teas but occasionally drink it to be polite.
3. Huevos rancheros I'm sure they were inauthentic; I got them at my health club cafe.
4. Steak tartare--yeah, baby! In Paris and also at a private party at an ophthamology convention in Sarasota, FL
5. Crocodile - no, but alligator? Yes. In New Orleans. Tastes like chicken! But chewier.
6. Black pudding -- no, but I'm much more understanding about sausage than I was in my youth, so if I were in the British Isles, I would.
7. Cheese fondue -- It was against the law to ski in the 1960s without eating cheese fondue at some point in the day.
8. Carp - I believe so. Isn't it an ingredient in gefullte fish? Which I can't spell?
9. Borscht - Sure. I've even made it.
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari all the time. Fried calamari is the chicken nuggets of seafood restaurants.
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich.
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart, meat on a stick too - I will also include hot dog at a ball game and hamburger at the drive-in--all scary, if you let yourself think about it.
16. Epoisses - I don't know.
17. Black truffle - I once got a salad at Lucas Carton that was covered in truffles, but I didn't notice the color. I've also had dishes where they were shaved. I say let them keep their beards.
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes - Beach plum liqueur my stepmother made from Nantucket beach plums.
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream I don't like nuts in ice cream, but the flavor is good (it's usually almond)
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries have picked and eaten while picking.
23. Foie gras thank God it's legal again in Chicago
24. Rice and beans except it's spelled "beans and rice." Make it all the time. Serve with a couple of shots of hot sauce and some cold beer.
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche, no, just the ice cream and yogurt flavored as such.
28. Oysters raw, fried, in stew ... "she'd eaten every one."
29. Baklava too sweet
30. Bagna cauda fondue for people from Provence
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut my mother used to serve it on Thanksgiving and eat it covered in giblet gravy. I think that's a Maryland/Virginia thing, though. It's OK with sausages.
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar I have my standards, people.
37. Clotted cream tea at various shmancy pretentious hotels in the States and London
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O from the same batch as blackbird's
39. Gumbo and have made it, including the roux, all ye who think I can't cook.
40. Oxtail every winter, at least once. The whole family likes it.
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more it would be a waste.
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala I'm not sure--don't eat Indian food all that often. I may have.
48. Eel on sushi
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut and never again. And somebody, explain the name? They're neither krispy nor kremey. It's like the Holy Roman Empire of junk food.
50. Sea urchin Uni is sea urchin roe, right? I love it. And as the child is the father to the man, so the roe is the father to the urchin, and therefore, I have eaten it.
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal I've never had the meal, but I've had a Big Mac. Never again; it's terrible.
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV That Belgian beer qualifies, right?
59. Poutine I can't even remember what it is, but next time I'm in Canada, for sure. After all they only have one national dish. I owe them that much.
60. Carob chips Carob is the methadone of chocolate.
61. S’mores I've even cooked them!
62. Sweetbreads love, love, love these, but refuse to cook them. Not as easy as S'mores.
63. Kaolin (isn't this a kind of clay used in facial masks?)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian--that super-smelly fruit that tastes amazing? I'd try it.
66. Frogs’ legs--like chicken, except springier.
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake - funnel cakes are the best
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini In Paris. With Iranian blini, which you can't get in the States. Heaven.
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie and the hot apple pies at McDonald's, too. I'm strangely unpicky when it comes to dessert. Lard and/or Cool Whip-based? Bring it on!
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers pansies, nasturtiums, and lavender. Lavender tastes like soap. Avoid it.
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab yum!
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish popular in Chicago--I don't know why.
95. Mole poblano I've had mole sauce--don't know whether it's poblano'd.
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

I wonder why the following weren't included: bison, turtle, calf's liver, mock turtle, raccoon, squirrel, possum, whale, shark, ice wine, that fish that's poisonous unless it's done perfectly, tripe, sushi they slice from the fish while it's still alive, duck, real buffalo's milk mozzarella, plover's eggs, 30 year old balsamic vinegar, brains, pink peppercorns (remember those?) liverwurst, heart, camembert, goose, Fish House punch, moonshine, quail's eggs, tomaley, Indian pudding, and Grape Nut custard.

At least someone's camera is working

On Sunday we met my friend Steve and his family for brunch at the Silver Moon Creperie in Dover, NH--a tiny hole in the wall place with crepes and paninis and coffee drinks--that's all they have, and that's all you need, really.

Mr. Buxom and I had mushroom and swiss. Young Master Buxom had lemon juice and sugar; Poppette had Nutella. (She would--a bigger chocoholic you've never met. She gets whiny on Thanksgiving when there isn't any chocolate on the menu.)

Now, Mr. Buxom and I aren't height challenged, precisely. We are happy with our five feet eight or six inches, respectively.

But one look at this picture makes me think that I should have gotten the lemon juice and sugar crepe. Because if I had, I might have grown the three or four inches necessary to move me from Overweight and into Nicely Rounded.

Of course, I might not enjoy life as a giraffe in human form. I'll have to ask Young Master Buxom what the weather's like up there. (Somehow I suspect that it won't be the last time he hears that question.)

Tired

Today was one long laptop fest, so I have no idea why I'm so exhausted, but hello! I was just resting my eyes on the living room sofa. I was NOT ASLEEP.

OK, I was.

Quickly then: I mailed a short note of apology to my mother; then I made lobster salad from the extra lobsters that I only had because she walked out before dinner.

I then made a note to always buy an extra lobster and/or pick a fight with Mom whenever I have lobster. Because the two cold cooked lobsters made delicious lobster salad, nom nom nom.

A tale of two bats

OK, internet. I usually keep it light, but we have had some serious dramz in these parts.

First there was last night's bat. I ended up sleeping in my daughter's room, and I actually slept very well. I didn't wake her up going in or out, so as far as my panicked reaction to the discovery of a flying rodent in the house, nobody was the wiser. I did a pretty decent impression of a mature adult, instead of a screeching little girl.

Well, hold that thought. Because it didn't last.

After a day where I avoiding thinking about bats (and everything I had learned about them by obsessively Googling the subject--like did you know that a mother bat has her litter of pups and sometimes a baby bat gets lost and that's how you end up with one in your house--but there's also the possibility that the bat I saw was a member of a MASSIVE BAT COLONY that has set up housekeeping in the attic or under the eaves, ew) by spending embarrassing amounts of time fooling around on FaceBook, (and you should see my lil Green Patch. It's a virtual landscaping work of art!) and then I called my sister to remind her that I had volunteered to host dinner tonight.

This was to be my sister and brother-in-law's anniversary celebration. So first I freaked out because I'm used to having my husband around to help. And then I did my best to spoil the evening by arguing with my mother. That ended pretty badly, I think.

I mean, when I told her she could leave, I really didn't expect her to get up and leave. After all, she doesn't do that when she's in Chicago and I tell her to leave.

I suppose 900 miles is a long way to travel, even if your daughter is being a total bitch.

Well, anyway, she left. And there I was, still somewhat shaken by the encounter, and responsible for cooking corn on the cob as well as the stuff my children wanted to eat instead of lobster. And worried that I had ruined everyone's night.

Well, the weird thing is that even allowing me some time for self-recrimination, we ended up having a good time. We drank champagne, ate lobster and cole slaw and corn on the cob, had ice cream for dessert, played Rock Band, and generally had a nice time.

I don't want anyone to think I'm not filled with a certain degree of remorse for snapping at my mother. After all, she's 85 years old and I should be more patient with her.

But you know what got the whole thing going? I was talking about the public school funding in our town and said "referendums." She objected because "referendum" is a Latin word, and the plural is "referenda." I told her I regarded it as one of many Latin words that had become sufficiently English to have an "s" added to indicate the plural, and cited "circus" as an example.

This, my friends, did not go over well. So here's a little lesson for you: when someone's being all pedantic, it is best to let him or her wallow in their omniscience and feelings of smug superiority--and this I did not do. No, rather than sucking it up, I made the point that we talk about "circuses," not "circi." Well, how dared I, right?

OK, can everyone please start feeling sorry for me that I get into an argument with my mother over crap like that? Thanks.

So what do I do now? Well, for one thing, I won't feel guilty. My husband forbids it. When you get right down to it, I forbid it, at least, when I'm not thinking recriminating thoughts. ("Eighty-five! She's 85 years old--just let it go!")

This is what I'll do: tomorrow morning, I'll write a letter of apology, walk to the post office, and mail it right away. (It's always best to take the high road in situations like this. This leaves you with the sense that you've done everything you should have done, and--because you did it first--it gives you the moral advantage.)

Then I'll forget all about it. Because the ball will be in her court.

And thus ends Poppy's fable of the baby bat and the old bat.

There is a BAT in MY HOUSE

Can I even begin to describe how creeped out and frankly, terrified I am? No, I can't.

And of course, my husband is away on a business trip.

So of course, I'm sleeping in my daughter's room tonight. With the doors closed. And probably, the covers over my head.

I saw that House episode where the woman got rabies from being bitten by bats and I AM TAKING NO CHANCES.

One small step for Poppy.

I usually don't do a whole lot when I'm in New Hampshire. But it's so picturesque around here that if you read my August blog entries, you can't tell.

I take pictures of the cute little 18th century houses, window box plants, peoples' gardens, the seacoast ... so in a single hour's walk I can come up with material for several blog entries.

This is not happening this year. All I have is words, and as that Extreme song you always hear at weddings puts it, you need "more than words."

The problem is my camera. It's not working. And it's fully charged. I'm wondering whether I need a new battery. But in the meantime, I can't take pictures.

Not even when I actually get off my duff and go somewhere. Yesterday we drove to Charlestown and visited the U. S. S. Constitution. Which might not strike you as all that fascinating, but I haven't spent the past several years buried up to my earlobes in Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin novels without developing a taste for the Age of Sail. And being a strong-minded woman, I'm more than capable of dragging my entire family through a complete tour of the ship, the National Parks Service gift shop, the Constitution Museum, their gift shop, with a short stop to gawk at the oldest dry dock in the United States. I know! How fascinating!

But they knew that if I heard even a hint of protest, I'd keelhaul them.

And I took all kinds of pictures--with my husband's camera. Because my camera isn't working. And now? My husband tells me that his left the computer cable in Illinois. So I can't upload any photographic proof of the cruel and unusual punishment my family has suffered at my hands.

So. A lot of good that will do this blog entry.

As for the rest of my vacation, it's been one long cycle of cooking and eating. I'm up to my earlobes in seafood.

Also my family will be descending on me tomorrow.

Wednesday we go to Rhode Island to visit my husband's family.

And after that, we're going to land on the moon.

(Well, what the hell. All of this could be a complete fabrication on my part. So, since I can offer no evidence whatsoever that anything I mention is real, I might as well do it right.)

What I did on my summer vacation; the "So Far" edition

drove to New Hampshire
unpacked
admired the scenery
cleaned up the kitchen
shopped
walked around cute little downtown Portsmouth
cleaned up the kitchen
stayed up late
slept late
laundry
visited the cheese shop
visited the fishmonger's
raided the library
ate clams, cod, swordfish, and fish chowder
ate Grape Nut ice cream
cleaned up the kitchen
ate Hood Cottage Cheese with Chive
watched my children eat ice cream
cleaned up the kitchen
read
watched Spider-Man
watched Spider-Man 2
cleaned up the kitchen
listened to my daughter play Super Smash Brothers Brawl
bought school supplies
cleaned up the kitchen

I think I could go on vacation anywhere and be perfectly happy, as long as I get to sleep late, eat well, and someone else cleans up the fucking kitchen once in a while.

Because the thing about vacation is they're always around. EATING.

And the proof is all over the kitchen counters.

I want you to do me a favor.

If you are at all interested in drug store makeup, please head over to my latest BlogHer BeautyHacks post and leave a comment.

I know it's a lot to ask, but I slaved over that damned thing--finding the pictures and uploading them was a big fat pain--but it's been up since last night, and no one has commented yet.

And now I feel like Stella Dallas's daughter that time when she was supposed to be having a birthday party and none of the kids she invited showed up.


Poppy tries to comfort her little BlogHer post

This illustration is designed to make you feel really bad for even contemplating blowing this off. Also, I'm cross-posting this entry at What Not to Buy. This is the current incarnation of my moribund shopping blog, which bestirs itself every six months or so and tries to grab some attention, only to continue to be ignored. Kind of like John Kerry.

In fact, I think my shopping blog (which believe it or not, used to get more clicks than this one) is ready to have an affair to take some attention away from this blog. Which in case you didn't realize it, is the John Edwards of blogs.

Because see how utterly lacking in integrity I'm being? Shamelessly whoring myself out, expecting to get away with my self-promoting sleaziness because of my good hair and boyish grin? See? Exactly like John Edwards.

So anyway, please head over to BlogHer, and if it isn't too much of a pain, leave a comment explaining why mine is the single most insightful post on how to make the transition from late summer to fall makeup for $30 tops, including tax.

(Of course, this is assuming you already have foundation, mascara, an eyelash curler, a my-lips-but-better shade of lipstick or gloss and a second gloss in a darker shade. If you don't already have that, you are way behind, and you need to get cracking.)

The Me Meme

Eye Color: The sort of murky greenish-hazel last seen on a ravening Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Hair Color: brown with highlights and lowlights
--Dyed or Natural: Natural. It grows out of my head complete with highlights and lowlights, and then once a month, it grows some gray roots.
--Curly or Straight: Straight.
Right- or Left-handed: Right
Tan or Pale: Pale and freckly in places. Never tanned.
Jeans or Khakis: Jeans.
Country, Rap, or Rock: Sigh. Why do they always assume I listen to pop music? Rock. I guess. Of the dinosaur variety. To go with my eyes.
Car: 2003 VW Passat wagon
Place in order of preference--T.V., book, movie, music: Books, Movies, TV, Music
Your heritage: 100 percent English from the Puritans who founded Congregationalist parishes in New England to my paternal grandfather, who emigrated from England as a child.
Shoes you're wearing today: none yet. I love vacations.
Your weakness(es): Buttered toast, full cocktail shakers, and boring parties all bring out the worst in me.
Your perfect pizza: thin crust, made by me, topped with sauteed shallots, mushrooms, red pepper, and blue cheese.
Favorite color: red
Favorite place: bed
Goal you'd like to achieve: to complete a sprint triathlon while wearing a size 10
Your most overused phrase(s): "Say 'please.'"
Your thoughts first waking up: "Where's my tea?"
Your best physical feature(s): Unlike most women, I've always been completely happy with my hair.
Your bedtime: 11:30
Your most missed memory: Making my father laugh
Pepsi or Coke: Diet Coke. Diet Pepsi is an abomination.
McDonald's or Burger King: McDonald's, but only because I know where they are. I get the fish sandwich wherever I go.
Single or group dates: After twenty years of marriage, a group date sounds great.
Adidas or Nike: Brooks.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: I utterly refuse to drink pre-made bottled, canned, or powdered iced tea.
Chocolate or vanilla: Vanilla
Cappuccino or coffee: Tea, but only if I make it. When I'm out, coffee.

DO YOU:
Smoke: No.
Cuss: Frequently. But not in front of children.
Have a boyfriend/girlfriend: No.
Take a shower: Once in a while. When I notice my family's nostrils flare when I'm upwind.
Have a crush(es): No, because so far I haven't seen any Olympic events. If I turn on the television while the male gymnasts are on the rings, though, all bets are off.
Think you've been in love: Once or twice.
Want to get married: No, thank you. Once is plenty.
Believe in yourself: I guess. I seem reliable enough.
Believe in God: Yes.
Believe in your government: It's better than some.
Get motion sickness: No.
Think you're attractive: No. But I think a lot of other people are even worse-looking, so it's OK.
Think you're a health freak: No.
Get along with your parents: Unfortunately, the parent I got along with died four years ago.
Like thunderstorms: Yes, but only if they include lightning. The constant rumbling gets boring without the excitement of the occasional flash of light ending with a tree falling on the house.

IN THE PAST MONTH, HAVE YOU:
Drunk alcohol: Yes.
Gone on a date: Yes.
Gone to the mall: No--but I've shopped Soho, Park Avenue, Madison Avenue, an Anthropologie store, a sports store in Wilmette, Illinois, a rug store in Winnetka, IL, a bookstore in Winnetka, a bookstore in Chicago, and two on-line cosmetics boutiques. I hope this demonstrates to all and sundry that I'm not some kind of stinking commie.
Been on stage: No. I've been in the choir pews, though, which is somewhat like being on stage. Trust me.
Eaten an entire box of Oreos: No. I have eaten some Oreos, but not an entire box.
Eaten sushi: No.
Been dumped: No.
Gone skating: No. I've only gone skating once. It's harder than it looks.
Gone skinny dipping: No, unless you count those times in the bathtub.
Stolen anything: Yes! I took some stationary from the Colony Club to write my mother a letter. I never wrote the letter and yet the stationary is still around somewhere.

HAVE YOU EVER:
Played a game that required removal of clothing: I honestly can't remember whether I actually played strip poker myself or only saw it happen in Metropolitan.
Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Yes. (It's extreme if you throw up, right?)
Been caught "doing something": Are we talking about playing hide the salami? Because if that's what you mean, don't be coy; just say so.
Been called a tease: No.
Gotten beaten up: No.
Age you hope to be married: 94. I mean, I hope that when I'm 94, I'm still married.
Number of children you'd like: Four. I only have two. And yet, I'm reasonably happy. I guess I'm a glass-half-full kind of gal.
Describe your dream wedding: Kimora Lee Simmons walks slowly down the aisle wearing a rhinestone-covered bikini and lucite platforms. She is getting married to Ted Turner, who is the only person I can think of who is single and enough of an asshole to actually deserve her. Her bridesmaids are Victoria Beckham, Madonna, Pamela Anderson, Sarah Jessica Parker, Anna Nicole Smith, and Dita Von Teese, each dressed in whatever they feel like wearing that day. Groomsmen are George Clooney, Steve Martin, Hugh Laurie, William Powell, Keanu Reeves, and Gary Cooper. The wedding is being held in St. Martin-in-the-Fields with music supplied by the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields. The reception is held in the Orangery at Kensington Palace. Toasts are given by best man Rowan Atkinson and maid of honor J. K. Rowling. There are two bands so that music is continuous; Peter Duchin and The Rolling Stones. At 1:00 a.m. the bands stop playing and the disco starts. The happy couple departs in a banana-yellow Rolls Royce, serenaded by Elton John singing "Goodbye, New York's Mold." Drunken guests seek out the duckpond in nearby Kensington Gardens and splash in it, then pose for pictures with the statue of Peter Pan. As they depart, guests are given gift bags containing a limited edition Hermes scarf commemorating the wedding wrapped around an Asprey convertible tiara.

Or did you mean a wedding where I get married? I already did it. Let's just say that marriage is a lot more fun than weddings.

What do you want to be when you grow up: Very, very old.

WHAT YOU LIKE IN THE OPPOSITE SEX:
Best eye color?: Blue.
Best hair color?: Brown.
Short or long hair: Short.
Height: 6’1” or shorter.
Best first date location: The movies, followed by drinks, and then dinner, if it turns out we actually like each other.
Best first kiss location: Outside my front door.

IN THE NUMBERS:
Number of people I could trust with my life: 1
Number of CD's: I have no idea and I refuse to count.
Number of piercings: Two. One in each ear.
Number of tattoos: Zero.
Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper: Twice. Hatched and matched, and we're still waiting for dispatched.
Number of scars on my body: One great big one from where my son took a detour on his way out of my va-jay-jay.

(Stolen from Joke)

I am in New Hampshire

And for the moment, that is all you know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Except: Happy blogoversary to ME.

(What do I notice, upon comparing and contrasting this entry with my first entry of four years ago?

1. Some things never change. I blogged drunk then, and I'm blogging drunk now.

2. I got the school paperwork over with a little bit earlier this year. Finally! Some progress in my life-long attempt to improve myself!)

If you ever go to dinner in Chautauqua, New York

don't order the mussels.

They're OK, and I'm not sick or anything, but they're NOT VERY GOOD.

Feeling suckulent

The good news is I don't have tonsillitis.

Mind you, the terrible sore throat is still there, but it's now being accessorized by enough upper respiratory action for me to conclude that I don't have tonsillitis; I have a cold.

This means there's no point in going to the doctor, and that's good, because I don't have time for that.

Instead I'll drink gallons of tea and stuff all kinds of cold medication into myself--medication that promises to make me even weirder than I usually am.

Generally speaking, I avoid taking cold medicine because it usually has me re-cataloguing my CD collection or alphabetizing the spice rack or some such.

I've already warned my kids that when they come home from camp, they'll find their suitcases packed in alphabetical order: bras, shorts, t-shirts, toothbrush, toothpaste, underpants.

Because, yes, tomorrow we're heading to New Hampshire. And I still have so much shit to do that it's ridiculous. The least of which is packing suitcases. Whether I adopt an alphabetical, chronological, or precedential approach--who cares? Only someone who's on cold medicine.

Be it ever so unsystematic, suitcases will be packed. Timers will be set. Bills will be mailed, and school forms--all hundred and fifty million of them--will be filled out and delivered to the school.

It's almost lucky I'm on drugs.

Oh, ick.

Not only did I spend my day doing all kinds of errandy shit, like

bringing my smoking hot minivan to the dealer for its 30,000 mile check-up,
lashings of laundry,
waiting for the Fed-Ex guy coming to take away the ugly rug I ordered from Home Decorators collection,
more paperwork for my kids' school,
dinner out with friends (OK, that part was fun)
and general overwhelming amounts of bullshit,

but

I'm also sick. Coming down with something. I don't know what. But it involves a

sore throat,
with some post nasal drip,
and general ickiness.

Where did I get this from? And how can I get rid of it?

I think I'm going to have to squeeze in a trip to the clinic for a throat swab while I'm dashing around doing all the rest of the shit I should have already finished.

Didn't I just go through that whole acute tonsilitis thing? Or am I so sick that I can't remember because reality is just an illusion--or some such?

Paris Hilton's campaign manager is a genius.

You've seen this, right?

Ceci n'est pas un blog entry

It's a pointer to a blog entry.

(Pardon me if you don't speak French. Or computer gibberish.)

See, here's the deal. I didn't have time to blog. I still don't. And why? Because I spent the whole damned day sitting at my dining room table doing piles and piles and piles of paperwork. Paying bills and filling out the forms for school and paying more bills.

So too bad for you that I didn't have time to blog about it, because my gosh, it was just riveting.

I'm so tired that I HAVE TO SHOUT

So here's the news:

My kids each had a friend over last night AND EVERYONE SURVIVED.

Last night a storm knocked a huge branch off a tree in the back yard AND IT MISSED THE NEWLY INSTALLED AIR CONDITIONER BY A MERE SIX INCHES, YET NOTHING WAS DESTROYED.

Today when I was taking the kids home, I couldn't get out of my driveway because some asshole had parked a van across the end of it, blocking my access to the street. I left my car in park and headed over to the van to investigate. Surely the asshole who parked his van there left the keys nearby? And then the van's owner came running up with the keys, and told me I could move his truck. I told him, unh unh, nope, it was his truck and he should move it. And that in case he didn't understand these niceties, preventing someone from driving out of her driveway was not considered the done thing. And he and I exchanged a few sentences that were quite strongly worded, AND YET I DID NOT KILL HIM.

How to feel like a dork

First, you have to get trapped in an empty stairwell.

You start your day singing in a church choir, since that's about the dorkiest thing you can do on a Sunday morning.

Then arrange to sneak out of church a little early. Realize you need to hide your purse in the choir stalls so you can bring it with you as you sneak out.

Grab your purse and music and head upstairs from the choir room. At the top of the stairs, discover that the door to the sanctuary is locked. And then, when you go back downstairs, discover that the door to the choir room is locked, too.

Pound on the door until someone comes and lets you out.

Run around the outside of the cathedral until you catch up with the choir. In full view of the congregation, scurry down the aisle and squirrel your purse away. Hope that you haven't held things up too much.

Then, find something to do that is so incredibly lackluster, you're ashamed to admit it.

Begin by heading out--not to brunch with friends, or to the beach, or on a shopping trip--but to the annual meeting of a non-profit organization.

Because nothing spells d-o-r-k-y like spending your weekends doing--for free--what normal people would only do if they were being paid large sums of money.

Next, manifest dorkiness in front of the maximum amount of much cooler people.

Walk briskly down an elegant boulevard crowded with shoppers and tourists. Try to do this on a hot day, for the maximum in sweatiness. If you can manage it, try to get some chafing going in the inner thigh area.

As you get closer to Grant Park, where Lalapalooza is in full flow, notice all the concert goers wearing band and concert t-shirts. See the Led Zeppelin 1972? Daft Punk? The Police? The bands that are so indy-cool you won't remember the names later on when you're blogging it?

OK, now show these people your snappy outfit from the Talbot's.

"Hi," your outfit says. "See how my mouse-colored knit top and long skirt covered with a huge print of Montmartre? That are sort of Amelie-ish? Well, don't tell Poppy, but Amelie was probably a size 2, if that, and a skirt like this in a size 16 isn't going to look like something Amelie would wear; it's going to look like a backdrop for the stage adaptation of the movie."

Congratulations! You have attained the maximum degree of dorkiness! And it isn't even lunch time.

We have a winner!

OK! Here's how I did it.

First I went to random.org

and asked it to pick a number between 1 and 525.

Here's what happened:

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers:

78

Timestamp: 2008-08-02 22:21:55 UTC

Then I scrolled down through the comments--yes, by hand, because Blogger doesn't keep score for me--and the winner is ... Misty!!!

Who totally desesrves to win because she left the following adorable comment:

so glad you entered the giveaway because i love your blog!!!!

Then I emailed Misty to let her know she won.

Now, as for the rest of you ... well, I'm overwhelmed at the response. And as I scrolled through the comments, I just about fell in love with every single one of you. Your comments were funny and cute and gave me a serious case of the warm squishies.

So your consolation prize is this: I'm going to visit every single one of your blogs and leave a comment. Now, with 525 blogs to visit, this will take a while. But I'll get there!

In the mean time, thanks to all of you for playing. I <3 you all.

The suspense is killing you, right?

I have over 500 entries for the $25 Starbucks gift card, so before I get the random number and start counting posts, I'm taking my kids out for lunch and shoe shopping.

After all, a girl has to keep up her strength.

Back soon!

Friday's child

is over at Mamarazzi

and in the garden wrestling more Japanese beetles

and cutting roses and phlox and bringing them inside

and doing laundry

and picking up two bras that were special-ordered for her

and getting a manicure

and shopping for groceries

and making pizza dough

and straightening up the house

and drinking Pimm's Cup (made with Diet Canada Dry ginger ale, and it's not bad!)

and watching Get Shorty on the new big flatscreen

and cleaning up the kitchen

and lying in bed blogging.