Happy Halloween from the Mamas of Mamarazzi

I did it.



I actually used that press release to come up with a Mamarazzi entry.



Go check it out--and then come back and tell me what you think.

I hope you think it's a gem.

BWAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!

I used to really like Gmail

but then the spam started.

It's reached the point where the stuff I really want to read is buried beneath all the marketing crap I'm getting because of my semi-defunct shopping blog and my pathetic once-a-month contributions as a BlogHer Contributing Editor. My email address is now readily available to millions of mediocre marketing minions. And they are taking full advantage.

Mind you, Gmail is eating all the Viagra advertisements and the stuff with Asian characters. Which is good. Because this

巧虎 ... 讓喜愛巧虎的孩子,可以跟巧虎一起「唱唱跳跳」律動身體

probably means "Hello, stupid English-speaking American ... kindly give us your money before we waterboard you with our cruel and unusual Nigerian money-wiring scams."

But not all the spam is that obvious, so Gmail doesn't automatically send it to my spam folder. For example, tonight I received an email with this intriguing subject line:

Halloween Post: Hilda the Goat Offers Tips for Kids during Halloween

Well, who could resist Hilda the Goat? Not I. I immediately clicked on it to discover that

Hilda, the ReadAloud Spokesgoat has a great Halloween message for kids and parents.

And I think that message is "Delete this bizarre email before it eats your brain."

In other Halloween news, I learned that

"Monster Mash"™ Singer'™s Ashes Turned Into Diamond

Well. Who could resist that? If you're one of the unlucky few who did not receive this email, check it out:

Monster Mash Singer’s Daughter Turns His Cremated Remains into a Diamond.

Los Angeles, CA October 31st, 2008 – Bobby Pickett who co-wrote and performed "The Monster Mash", died at the age of 69 on April 25, 2007 in Los Angeles, California, due to complications from leukemia. His daughter Nancy Huus was at his side when he died.

After his death, Nancy had a .44 ct colorless LifeGem diamond created from his cremated remains. She wears it in a white gold solitaire ring. Pickett was diagnosed with leukemia 5 years ago, and he and his daughter Nancy talked openly about death. “I saw a show about turning cremated remains into diamonds,” said Nancy, “I immediately called my father and told him that I wanted to make a diamond from his cremated remains; he loved the idea.”

On Halloween Pickett used to say “They dig me up every year.” This year for Halloween his daughter is wearing him as a LifeGem Diamond Ring. “Bobby was a minimalist, not elaborate,” said Huus. Her simple solitaire ring reflects that personality.

Frankly, I'm surprised to hear that the Monster Mash guy was transformed into something so essentially dull as a less-than-half-a-carat colorless diamond.

I'd have picked him for at least 2 carats of a fancy colored stone.

And to think that I considered this spam! I'm ashamed of myself. This story is so weird that I'm tempted to post it verbatim on Mamarazzi.

Things I am sick of: a top 10 list

10. Twinsets. The thing is, I don't know what to wear instead.
9. Tea. It doesn't have enough caffeine. I've switched back to coffee. Hear that buzzing noise? It's me.
8. Celebrities. Even the ones without children.
7. Driving myself and/or my kids all over creation. For your information, Wednesday, chez Buxom, is the new Seventh Circle of Dante's Inferno.
6. Dinner dishes that take longer to do than the meal took to eat and cook. Broiler pan, I'm look at you.
5. Laundry.
4. The feeling that I have no control over my schedule. It's back-to-school/Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas and the next thing I know, it's the middle of January, I'm 15 pounds heavier, and I'm kicking myself that I'm not ready for the Valentines Day/Spring Break/Easter onslaught.
3. "Helping" my "kids" with their "homework."
2. Hearing bad news about the economy.

and the top ten thing that Poppy is sick of?

1. The 2008 Presidential election

In which I amaze you all by talking about television

[Spoiler alert: DO NOT KEEP READING IF YOU TIVO'D HOUSE, M.D. and haven't seen it yet.]







We good? OK.

I wanted to post something before I get too tired, and I should be telling you about the Madonna concert, but I don't have the energy to go into all that, and anyway, honestly, people--all I can think about is ZOMG!!!

HOUSE AND CUDDY???!!!

So. Was this a tease, or do we think it's going to go somewhere? OK, I'm dating myself, but I keep thinking about Joel and Maggie on Northern Exposure ... the series tanked as soon as they became serious about each other. Remember how Maggie was always killing her boyfriends? Well ... the last boyfriend she got ended up killing the greatest sitcom ever.

Srsly, even better than The Simpsons.

So what do you think? Are House and Cuddy going to end up together? I say "no way," for all kinds of logical reasons that I won't go into because I'm too tired. I think my husband agrees with me, although he just says "ew," so I'm not sure what he thinks.

And I'm too _ _ _ _ _ to ask.

From ho to wholesome

OK, so yesterday I was drinking champagne in a stretch limo (because what better way to head to the Madonna concert than as a reenactor of the "Music" video?) and then I was listening to Madonna and watching all the awesome stage-crafty showmanship things, and then I was getting kind of bored so my feet hurt so I was sitting down unable to see anything because everyone was standing except me, and then I was gathering together all eight members of our group and heading back to Newtopia and dropping everyone off and paying off the driver and falling into bed at 1:00 a.m.

And then today, I was heading to the Girl Scout store to buy Fun Patches to put in the Goodie Bags for the combined Juliette Low's Birthday/Halloween party I was running for my troop, so I was driving all over the place and picking out very marked down stickers and treat bags at Michaels and picking up the cake I ordered and carrying 30 pumpkins into the village house and then singing Happy Birthday to Juliette Low and then I was up to my elbows in pumpkin guts and then listening to my fellow leaders tell me what an awesome meeting that was.

So that's my life: a merry puddle of contrasts.

And I am too tired to blog about it any more, due to the above-mentioned 1:00 in the morning/crazy day combination.

I'm going to see Madonna tonight.

A group of us is heading down to the United Center this evening. The limo departs Buxom Hall at 6:00.

This gives me less than an hour and a half to bleach my hair,



work out like a maniac



add a gap between my front teeth



buy an armload of rubber bracelets



study Kabbalah



pretend to know how to play the guitar



do a bunch of yoga, and last but by no means least



cut the bottoms off my pantyhose.

This should make for a pretty busy two hours. Thank God I've already managed to bag myself a stud muffin



as well as a generous supply of funny-looking clothes.

First One to At Least Listen To ... or, Live Blogging SNL

OK, I'm going to see what you guys see in this television thing. So I'm watching SNL. And what's this? Two people singing"We love you Amy / We just can't wait to meet your baby."

You know, I'm miffed. Nobody said that to me. Well, OK, my name isn't Amy, but you get my point.

OK. Commercials: Big scary bugs attacking cars. Scary movie promo. Scary movie of giant squid attacking submarine. Scary my own worst Enemy promo. I'm guessing the advertisers enjoy the hell out of Halloween.

They do on SNL too. So here's Vincent Price's Halloween Special! Vincent Price and Liberace!

And what do we hear about? VAGINA! OK.

And now, more ads. Scary pale nerds stealing beer on the beach.

Back to SNL. Fake ads for Jon Hamm's John Ham. "If it feels like a slice of ham, don't wipe your ass with it."

OK!

And what have I learned tonight? Live-blogging sucks.

I'm going to bed.

It almost killed me, but I got this week's Mamarazzi post up.

First the site was acting balky.

Then I got a cryptic email from the owner of the server, whose emails can best be described as Esperanto Haiku.

Then when I tried to log on, I had forgotten my password. Damn these computers with their cute, sleek interfaces and dangerously slick salesmanship. They remind me of the Snow White's stepmother.

Laptop in the guise of a harmless old peddler woman: Would you like us to remember your password?
Poppy: Why, dear sweet harmless-looking laptop? So that I forget it? Of course!

So I spent quite a long time trying and failing to log on to my Mamarazzi account.

Then I remembered the desktop computer upstairs. Perhaps its warm, vanilla-scented, freshly baked password-remembering cookies would still work!

So I tried it. And it worked.

But at that point, the little sprightly funny idea I had was cowering in the corner like a whipped spaniel, whimpering softly.

Well, I posted anyway. But I just don't know about the results.

The downside of artiness

Here's the problem with including pictures: sometimes mine come out pretty bad.

How bad?


"This bad?"


"Just so you know, I'm not eating the microphone."
See, I was trying to catch the wonder that is the 77 year old Carmen Dell Orifice,


but the flash made her look harsh, overly made-up, and gray.

Whereas shooting without a flash left her looking blurry.


Although at least the blurry pictures convey more of her beauty, grace, and sense of fun.

"How do I stay young? Well, for one thing, I have a lot of sex."

Everyone adored her.

It was as if our guardian angel of style had dropped in for lunch.

Taking a break from eating Halloween candy to show you Rhode Island. All of it.

Naturally, this isn't hard to do. Even though as every sentient person in the lower 48 now realizes, Rhode Island has more people in it than Alaska.

Here's something you might not know about Rhode Island: yes, it is indeed very, very small, but it still takes quite a while to drive anywhere.

This is because as we Yankees like to say, "You can't get theah from heah." You keep having to drive around water. You see, Rhode Island, like the earth, is 70 percent water. See?



That's the view from my in-laws' bedroom window. Well, the whole state looks a lot like that, so as far as a Rhode Island travelogue goes, I'm done.

But I took a lot of pictures INDOORS, because I'm a nerd, and that's where I think the action is.

So here is a tour of my in-laws' house.

I've been hanging out in their house for over twenty years, so I've seen the old family pictures get even older, and new ones take their place.



This is the refrigerator. Up at the top, in the middle, there's a picture of us at Christmas from at least 15 years ago. Can you imagine seeing the same photograph on the refrigerator for 15 years? If I weren't usually TOO DRUNK TO NOTICE, I'd get weirded out.

OK, here's That Stud Muffin I Married. This picture was from when he was about 17.



No, it's not your eyes. And it's not my picture-taking so-called "skills." The picture's a little hard to see because it's a coaster. That's his father and sister on either side of him.

There they are, a row of little circles, like portholes into the past, trapped under glass, frozen in time ... waiting to have someone come and put a glass of wine on them.

(And that, my friends, is what I call good writing.)

OK, less verbiage, more pictures! This is That Stud Muffin I Married and me at our wedding reception. We're being toasted by my father-in-law. Just so you know, these pictures are also little bit distorted because they, too, are trapped under glass on my father-in-law's dresser. So you can't really see what we looked like. Believe me, we weren't actually this young and attractive.



The other thing you'll find indoors when you're in Rhode Island (OK, I realize my in-law's house isn't the whole state, but in a state this small, it must surely be representative of what's there) is a lot of books.

With my next picture, I will now answer the question that I know has been troubling many of you.

Q. What are you supposed to DO with these REALLY HIGH VOLUME CEILINGS you so often find in new construction?



A. Stack your MOTHER HUMPING BOOKSHELVES UP, THAT'S WHAT.

This is four big square bookshelves stacked on top of each other with another bookshelf on top. Combined, they are well over nine feet high. My father-in-law is a tall guy, but I'm guessing he has no intention of ever accessing the books on top. They're probably complete junk. I wouldn't be surprised if they were Reader's Digest Condensed Books.

OK, that's a lie. I would be very surprised. But I said it anyway. Just my effervescent sense of the ridiculous bubbling up again.

In which I get arty again.

blackbird has accused me of being arty. And while my first reaction is to say "Who, me?" my second reaction is to think, "Hey, why not? This is the internet. Anyone can be arty on the internet."

And it's true. Honestly, all you need is a digital camera, a Blogger account, and a Roget's Thesaurus for easy access to the occasional unusual word. (Tsk! See, that's all the proof you need that I'm old: young, hip arty bloggers don't use a thesaurus; they use the internet. Duh.)

So anyway, I've decided that artiness is the new drivel. And therefore, instead of my usual stream of ineffectual whimsicalities, I will tender you photos, a la dooce, with remarks that use DOOCE CAPS for HUMOROUS EMPHASIS or maybe just because I want to.

So settle back, dear readers, while I take you on a trip to lovely Falmouth, Massachusetts, where the Buxoms will go shopping under a Maxfield Parrish sky.



It's a beautiful day, so let's go hang around the used CD store! OK!



Inside Spinnaker (and HOW CUTE IS THAT NAME? I ask you) my family, culture vultures all, looked at albums.



I, on the other hand, being such a POP CULTURISTA, spotted this collectible Miss Yvonne figurine and immortalized it thus:



Unfortunately this doll doesn't convey even a tenth of the glamor that was Miss Yvonne in her heyday, so I left it on the ASH HEAP OF HISTORY.

At Puritan Cape Cod (which you have to love the name!) my daughter and I were dazzled by the Vera Bradley display. Oh, the colors! We bought a lot of stuff.



Then we walked back to the hotel. Past the town common. So here you go. The wonders of nature. The cuteness of history.



Yankee magazine, eat your mother-humping heart out.

We passed this house several times, and I just know that Martha Stewart would die, just die, if she spotted the baby PUMPKINS lined up on the PORTICO.



Which--just so you know--is the kind of word you can always check on the internet. No thesaurus needed.

Finally, Falmouth

On a dreary, cold, wet, rainy day like today, it's hard to believe that a little more than a week ago, I was enjoying a sunny Saturday of shopping in Falmouth--a village in Cape Cod that seems more New England and less Cape Cod. And I mean that in the kindest way, because I don't like Cape Cod very much.

Whoops, I just realized that this is my blog and I can say what I want. OK, I fucking hate Cape Cod, OK? But Falmouth is awesome.



But don't let the decorations fool you. Our hotel wasn't that great.

OK, I'm too lazy to turn this picture so it's right side up,




but you have to love it, anyway. Or at least, you have to love the white steeple of the local Congregationalist church in sharp relief against an intense blue Indian Summer sky. It's like a Yankee magazine cover, for God's sake.


So anyway, on Saturday afternoon, we went shopping on the main drag. And we pretty much bought out the town, because there is no sales tax on clothes in Massachusetts, whereas in Chicago it's 10.75 percent, or something obscene like that.

So when we bought two North Face jackets, one for each child, a sweater for my husband, a pair of Uggs for my daughter (who doesn't realize that they're O-U-T of S-T-Y-L-E unless you're 11.) And some jeans for my son, and a Vera Bradley wristlet, and a necklace, and a hair clip, all for my daughter, and a pair of dress shoes for her AGAIN, and a black baby vicuna or llama (or whatever that soft South American wool is) knit wrap? We are saving money. Honestly!

On top of which, we really are sharing the wrap, which represents a huge savings right there. Except it doesn't really. But she has it on here.


And I took it away soon afterwards. You can tell she thinks she's the bee's knees, but the wrap? IS MINE.

Here are all the grandchildren from my mother's side of the family--a pretty decent display of the Malthusian population theory (which I'm only saying to sound smart) because this started with my mother and her brother, and yet this is a pretty good-sized bunch. And one kid is missing.


OK, let me know if you want to see more pictures. I'm going to bed now.

It's a roller coaster around here. A clickable one.

I have all kinds of Madonna tickets to get rid of. I won't tell you how this happened, because it's pretty embarrassing. But I'm trying to sell them on eBay and Craigslist, and I'm not seeing a lot of action. And when I do see action, I lose money on the deal, because I'm apparently incapable of performing simple arithmetic. Which is sort of depressing, especially since I don't see myself getting out of the homework-helping woods any time soon.

But doggone it, that SNL Palin rap was hilarious. You betcha!

But the Red Sox lost tonight, which means the Devil Rays are going to the World Series. And that depresses me for many reasons, the least of which is that the baseball caps for the Phillies and Sox would have been my initials.



And that would have been cool.

(See how my mind works? And yet, you read my blog.)

Oh, but check this out for good news. Stephen Fry is following me on Twitter! And what if my peerless wit makes me stand out amongst the other 7,636 people he follows, and he decides to be my new best friend? How cool would that be? Very.

And yet, his erstwhile colleague Hugh Laurie is not following me on Twitter.

Honestly, up/down up/down up/down ... if I were willing to show my age, I'd say it reminds me of an old Ohio Players song.

I always knew I married a prince

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...

You Are a Grace!

You are a Grace -- "I need to understand the world."

Graces have a need for knowledge and are introverted, curious, analytical, and insightful.

How to Get Along with Me

• * Be independent, not clingy


• * Speak in a straightforward and brief manner


• * I need time alone to process my feelings and thoughts


• * Remember that If I seem aloof, distant, or arrogant, it may be that I am feeling uncomfortable


• * Make me feel welcome, but not too intensely, or I might doubt your sincerity


• * If I become irritated when I have to repeat things, it may be because it was such an effort to get my thoughts out in the first place


• * don't come on like a bulldozer


• * Help me to avoid my pet peeves: big parties, other people's loud music, overdone emotions, and intrusions on my privacy

What I Like About Being a Grace
* standing back and viewing life objectively
* coming to a thorough understanding; perceiving causes and effects
* my sense of integrity: doing what I think is right and not being influenced by social pressure
* not being caught up in material possessions and status
* being calm in a crisis

What's Hard About Being a Grace

• * being slow to put my knowledge and insights out in the world


• * feeling bad when I act defensive or like a know-it-all


• * being pressured to be with people when I don't want to be


• * watching others with better social skills, but less intelligence or technical skill, do better professionally

Graces as Children Often

• * spend a lot of time alone reading, making collections, and so on


• * have a few special friends rather than many


• * are very bright and curious and do well in school


• * have independent minds and often question their parents and teachers


• * watch events from a detached point of view, gathering information


• * assume a poker face in order not to look afraid


• * are sensitive; avoid interpersonal conflict


• * feel intruded upon and controlled and/or ignored and neglected

Graces as Parents

• * are often kind, perceptive, and devoted


• * are sometimes authoritarian and demanding


• * may expect more intellectual achievement than is developmentally appropriate


• * may be intolerant of their children expressing strong emotions

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy

Mamarazzi cross post: Got Milk?

Jenny McCarthy says she cured her son's autism by putting him on a gluten- and dairy-free diet.



We're guessing he has a craving.

Peeking into the past

When I was at my brother's wedding reception, I discovered that my cousin Tori has gotten interested in genealogy. She's been researching her family tree and uploading her information. So I checked it out.

Imagine my surprise when I saw a picture of my parents I'd never seen before

Here they are with my eldest sister. Isn't my father sharp? And are you as in love with my mother's shoes as I am? I need to find out whether she still has them.

This is a nice article about my great grandfather. He was a physician and his three sons, all physicians, served in the armed forces during World War I.



My mother says she can tell her grandfather wrote the article himself.

And here's my grandfather in his WWI army uniform

Crazy

I'll spare you the details of my minutes-writing, bed-making, laundry-doing, taking-my-children-to-five-million-activities, picking up, dinner-cooking, dishes-doing day.

Because who wants to hear about that? Not me. I pay good money for high quality, top shelf booze so I can forget about it.

No, what I want to talk about is the government, or think tanks, or the media, or whoever gets to decide that we are officially in a recession. Not just "ew, gas is so expensive," but a real, live, genuine, certifiable, two-back-to-back-quarters-of-economic-shrinkage capital-R Recession.

Because--and correct me if I'm wrong, because this is just my impression--for months now it has seemed to me that the government has avoided using the "R" word. And so has the media. And so people lose jobs, and their houses are worthless, and gas prices are sky-high, and retail sales are flat, and basically, the economy sucks, yet no one is willing to say we're in a recession.

I think there has been a degree--not of hanky-panky, precisely, but a certain amount of pussyfooting around.

It kind of reminds me of the childish way I avoided talking or thinking about cancer, because I knew that if you even think about it hard enough, you'll get it.

Well, I grew up, and a few people I love very much actually did get cancer, and three of them died from it. It became pretty much impossible not to use the "C" word, but you know what? It was OK. I got over that particular superstition.

Well, these economics spokespeople have spent months shying away from the subject of recession. Because consumer spending represents two-thirds of our economy, so in order to keep the economy growing, we have to encourage people to spend. Even if they can't afford it; even if their houses are worthless, and their retirement savings have just evaporated, they must spend.

Or we'll have an "R" word.

So basically, there is a school of thought that says that if you say the R word, it will happen. (For some reason, it's stupid magical thinking when you're Poppy at the age of eight not saying "cancer," but actually true when you're a 54-year-old economist.)

And? Now that they've mentioned it, they won't shut up about it. And this is what makes me really crazy. I want to fly to Washington, D.C., find someone with an advanced degree in economics, and smack him. (Or her. I'm an equal-opportunity smacker.)

Also? I don't want to read one more goddamned article about how we've all been living beyond our means, and our profligate, wasteful days are over, blah blah blah.

Because I pay my bills and I don't need some numbnuts economics professor to get all earnest and inform me, looking straight into the TV camera, that I should stop living beyond my means.

And so I have something to say to all these economists.

CANCER.

You can tap into my fashion expertise--for free!

Did you know that I'm a fashion expert? Well, I am.

What do fashion experts do? Well, right now I'm listening to a bunch of guys drive a Bobcat up and down my driveway while they tear up asphalt.

And what do self-declared fashion experts wear to listen to their driveways being demolished?

Well, let's see: a pair of Target Merona bootcut jeans, a SnapShirts Opiate of the Masses word cloud t-shirt, and a black Target hoodie. Also a pair of strangely expensive Thierry Rabotin black kid ballet flats, thus giving the lie to the old adage that you can upgrade your look by pairing cheap clothes with expensive shoes.

Note to all the editors of every fashion magazine out there: it doesn't work.

Yes, there definitely seems to be a certain Tarjay-ishness to my ensemble this morning, which is a good thing, because it gives me street cred. You see, unlike Oprah, who has legions of shopping minions to find stuff for her, I'm doing this all by myself. And as you can see, I bring a certain amount of real-life, small town credibility to the task of ferreting out bargains at Target.

You see, here in Small Town America, we like to sit around the kitchen table and talk about what ridiculous new fads the fashion industry has produced this year, and how we won't stand for those gosh-darned Neiman Marcus prices, and how we can get equally faddy and ridiculous looking versions at Target, Old Navy, The Gap, and Hot Topic.

And when we're done, we blog about it at BlogHer. You betcha!

I have so many opinions to share with you tonight.

OK, about the wedding weekend. What we had there was a failure to communicate. For example, on the night of the rehearsal dinner, all the grandchildren were sent to the bed and breakfast to eat pizza, but the woman who owned the B&B didn't know she was going to have seven children between the ages of 6 and 13 in her house. In a word, Yow.

Or the afternoon of the wedding when my cousin and his family came to our hotel to get changed in our room. Except we weren't expecting them.

Personally, I think whoever comes up with these schemes (and I'm dimly sensing the machinations of my maternal unit here) needs to hire a PR flunky. Because a few press releases would have really helped.

The rest of the event ran smoothly. But that wasn't really a surprise. After all, we've all been through this before.

You know you're getting cynical when you find yourself saying "My brother always gets married on Cape Cod." Because, sheesh, he's only been married twice. So I should just shut up and quit with the wisecracks.

But this is the second time I've seen my brother get married. And last August, I saw my sister get married for the second time.

So I'd like to make an announcement to my siblings. If you try it a third time, you're on your own.

Here's another thing you'll want to know. This morning, I ran into my brother in the parking lot of our hotel, and I actually had the nerve to ask him whether "the consummation devoutly to be wished" had actually taken place. Yes, I did. I wanted to make sure he was really married with no chance of an annulment.

You can relax. He is.

My brother is safely married.

We got to the ceremony location in plenty of time. Too much time. My cousin and his family had announced that they were coming to use our hotel room to get dressed. Under these circumstances, I thought it would be a good idea to get dressed and out of their way. So we did.

There was much hanging around.

We made it safely through the ceremony. I did a reading--don't ask me what I said, because I can't really remember.

The reception was OK but there was a little too much standing around in high heeled shoes. OK, that was my problem, not my husband's or my children's, but still. Some more chairs would have been nice.

One of my brother's oldest friends--a woman who has been married for 31 years--asked my son to dance. That was weird, but in a good way.

We left at 9:00. I didn't have any cake.

It's official. I've become an old fart.

I'm ovah heah, tawking about shawping.

Hiding in plain sight.

Now I'm in Cape Cod. Falmouth, to be precise.

We had dinner tonight at a place we picked because of the name. It was called Nimrod's. I ask you, what could be better than a restaurant called Nimrod's?

To get there, we drove past so many quaint little shoppes I was glad, yea, glad when I realized that I actually needed to buy something while we're here. We need some new shoes for Poppette, since the last pair of dressy shoes we bought her (six months ago) is at least a full size too small.

So anyway, we're pretty much hiding from my family. They called today to "check in," and I told them I was in Rhode Island, which was true at the time. But they don't know we're on Cape Cod yet. They think we're still in Rhode Island.

What does it say about my family that most of them have heard that I have a blog, and yet so few of them have actually bothered to check it out that I feel free to say that I'M HIDING FROM THEM?

Well, whatever. I have to go to the rehearsal tomorrow, and then the rehearsal dinner. I deserve a night off.

Right?

It's a miracle I'm alive.

You know how when you expect the worst out of people, you usually get it?

Well, tonight we were flying to Rhode Island to visit my in-laws before driving to Cape Cod to see my big brother get married.

And I've had a very ladies-who-lunch week so I was going crazy today trying to get my hair done and the suitcases packed (and MY GOD after all the shopping I did over the past two weeks to make sure my kids had the proper clothes to wear to a daytime wedding, they almost left their new outfits hanging up in their closets) so I'm running around like a maniac trying to get everything packed and ready to leave the house and rush to the airport! So we can sit around for over two hours.

You know, the usual.

But once we'd finished eating dinner at the Midway Airport Harry Carey restaurant, things started to look up.

First the guy behind us in the B boarding line for Southwest was kidding around with us. "I'm pretty sure you can't all be B-8. Let me see your boarding pass."

Then, on the plane, when we were rolling our suitcases down the aisle, I chided my husband for letting his suitcase fall over onto a passenger's arm. But the passenger said, "Honestly, it's the nicest thing that's happened to me all day."

And then, after I had settled my son and me into our seats and we were all buckled up, the flight attendant said, "This suitcase won't fit in the overhead compartment and will have to be moved" and of course, it was MY suitcase that was sticking out, so I was trying to get unbuckled up and out of my seat, but this man stood up and said "No, no, no, you sit right there, young lady--I'll move your suitcase up here."

Well, I mean honestly. "YOUNG LADY?" while I was probably in the middle of an overheated-airplane-induced hot flash at the time, so how in love with him did I fall? Very in love.

And I said "Wow, every one in this flight is being so nice!" And a guy walking by me said "Yeah--which means the flight will probably crash."

Well, exactly. Because I've watched a few episodes of Lost.

And that's why I'm so amazed that I'm alive and blogging this.

I ate, I sang, I conquered

I've survived one lackluster performance and two ladies-who-lunch gatherings, although the second was a pretty close-run thing. I'm not absolutely certain it didn't kill me.

I mean, I'm no foodie, but creamed chicken and mushrooms in a patty shell? Followed by coconut cake with that awful boiled icing? What is this, 1963?

More later. Very tired.

One good thing about today

My alarm clock didn't go off this morning. The first thing I was aware of was the sound of my children, dressed and breakfasted, yelling goodbye as they got ready to leave for school.

So much for my job security.

I've been replaced by an iPod with the alarm clock setting.

Oops, I did it again

Even as I sit here with my laptop, I'm blowing off another social engagement.

This time I had showered, laid my clothes out on the bed, plugged in the hot rollers, and lined up the spackle.

I was glumly inspecting my roots in the bathroom mirror, wondering when I was going to get a chance to have them touched up. I ran through this week's rich, indigestible feast of unenjoyable activities.

Suddenly I realized that this week was even worse than I said it was in yesterday's post. I don't have a rehearsal on Wednesday. I have a performance followed by a luncheon.

This means the week looks like this: tea, luncheon, luncheon, capped by my brother's rehearsal dinner and wedding, at which point I'll be in the presence of the Wicked Witch of Boston and Vicinity, otherwise known as my mother.

This is a week straight out of Emily Post. It's a vast cornucopia of ladylike events, and frankly? I'm no lady. I can pass for one, but it's a strain.

The cry goes up: " Too much Talbots! Not enough Eff word!"

Honestly, the more I thought about this week, the more my heart sank, and the more I realized that I badly needed to make some cuts.

Then I thought about how much I really didn't want to get dressed up and drive downtown to meet Carmen Dell Orifice at a tea.

Well, the tea party won the prize for the event where my absence would be the least noticeable. There won't be seating, and only a couple of people will even notice that I'm not there.

So here I am, being my bad-ass jeans-wearing self.

You know, it's lucky I met Miss Manners two weeks ago, because if I saw her today, I'd have to dive under the table and hide.

I'm not good enough at math to come to any hard and fast conclusions

but I think I need to figure out time travel. And fast.

See, I've figured something out about myself. When I have to do something I don't want to do, afterwards, when I'm safely home again, I feel entitled to spend 2 to 3 times the amount of time I spent doing the crappy activity doing what I'd rather have been doing instead. Call it "decompression time" or "down time," but when I get home, I feel that I have the undisputed right, nay, the duty to bury myself in some kind of misanthropic people-ignoring activity to get the taste of society out of my mouth.

Example: if I go to a party that turns out to be pretty boring, I spend (party time) + (getting ready for party time) + (commuting time) + (time getting out of my Spanx and stashing the contact lenses) ... well, you see how it starts to add up.

Today, for example, I was at church for three hours, doing choir-y things and keeping my son in overpriced Starbucks goodies to bribe him into attending his confirmation class.

So then I had to rest up from all this time spent 1. acting civilized, 2. not saying the eff word, and 3. trying to order things correctly at Starbucks.

OK, so THEN I'm sitting on my bed, listening to an audiobook, drinking tea, and maniacally rearranging my Facebook lil Green Patch (and if you haven't seen this stunning work of art, you really must) when my son came into my bedroom and reminded me that I was supposed to take him out clothes shopping.

So I reluctantly dragged my weary ass off the bed and drove to the mall and bought him his fifth or sixth navy blue blazer (honestly, when will I learn? He'll just grow out of it) plus a pair of shoes and two pairs of jeans and my lord, it almost killed me.

Remind me never to take him to a maul without doing some reconnaissance work first. I mean, I had no idea where to get him a pair of jeans at this mall. We searched through about six stores just to find something that didn't have all kinds of stupid-looking embroidery all over the back pockets.

But I finally found a Gap, so that was OK. Anyway, my point is that when we got home, I retreated to my room and fooled around with my Green Patch until dinner. I completely blew off an afternoon service at church that I was supposed to be singing at. (I think it was my unconscious deciding that I still wasn't ready to find out what Taize services are like.)

So I think today I spent maybe five hours doing things I wasn't all that into. And about the same amount of time reading and fooling around on Facebook.

Which isn't too bad, but this does not bode well for the rest of the week, which is the point I'm trying and failing to make. I have a tea party to go to tomorrow, where I'll meet the incredibly old and scary lovely and gracious Carmen dell Orefice (whom I will NOT call Carmen dell Bodily-Orifices.) On Tuesday I have another Ladies Who Lunch event that promises to be about as grim as they usually are. Wednesday shouldn't be too awful, but on Thursday we fly to New England because my older brother is getting married (again) and I'm going to see my entire family, including my MOTHER who you may remember is giving me a royal pain.

When I get back I'll have to spend three straight weeks trading virtual plants with total strangers on Facebook. The only way I'll be able to get the beds made and pack the lunches is if I get my hands on the Time Turner thingie from Harry Potter and I Forgot Which Book It Was In. Otherwise my face will meld with my laptop from the sheer horror of having spent so much time dressed up in uncomfortable clothes not saying the eff word.

I've died and gone to heaven.

It had never occurred to me that I could find old episodes of How Clean is Your House on Youtube. But they're there.

In fact, it's a vast cornucopia of Television for the Smug.



I'M IN LOVE.

Mamarazzi says "Consider the source" and comment here

Can you believe that comments are still broken at Mamarazzi? Actually, I'm sure you can.

But did you know that we're actually thisclose to revealing a swanky new design? Well, we are. THISCLOSE.

Meanwhile, what do you think of Cate Blanchett

Photo source: Marie Claire.com

being told What Not to Wear by Pamela Anderson?

OK, this one is all over Google. And Google is all over her.

Let me know.

I had all kinds of adventures today

but I don't have time to tell you about them now.

I'm too busy playing Palin Bingo.



Sure, the debates are over, but this is what YouTube is for, right?

Does this cupcake make me look fat?

Well, my friends, tough titties if it does, because it's a blog award, and I'm all about the ego strokes.

This award is from tutugirl, who has excellent taste in blogs, and I'm not just saying that because she picked me. Listen up, oh ye of little faith; she also picked the Hotfessional, so there. Also a couple of gals I've never heard of before and now need to check out.

And let me tell you, not only am I thrilled to win this award on its own merits, I'm also thrilled because it gives me something to blog about.

I don't know whether you've noticed, but blogging has slacked off around here. It's not that I'm not blogging regularly, because I am. I take that whole Blog365 thing very seriously. (Too seriously.)

But there has been a certain ... meme-ness seeping in. A tendency to indulge in the facile or the quick-and-dirty. A certain reluctance to engage--to talk about what I'm actually doing.

The cry goes up: This is Poppy's blog. Where's her slice of life?

It's up there, disguised as a cupcake.

Which pretty much sums it up for me at the moment.

First of all, if I were to really let it rip, the slice-of-life stuff I'd write is so brutal and ugly that it's unthinkable. I mean, my readers would quit on me in total disgust if I told them this stuff. And it's not that I think Sarah Palin represents the nadir of modern political so-called "thinking," because I said something along those lines yesterday, and it worked out fine.

No, the indigestible truth is this: my mother wrote me a very unpleasant letter about two weeks ago. And it really pissed me off. Big time. And now, every time I think about blogging about something going on in my life, all I want to do is post about what an asshole my mother is.

The thing is, she's really old. I should show some respect. And anyway, she won't be around forever, so I should just suck it up. And anyway, a mommyblogger knocking her own mother? This just seems wrong. We get to BE lovably imperfect mothers, but do we get to HAVE them? I don't know. I don't notice a lot of women knocking their mothers on their blogs. Kids, yes. Husbands, hell to the yeah. Mothers? No.

So there's that.

Now my other real-life stuff just reveals that I'm a brat who is spoiled rotten.

I mean, you aren't about to weep vats of tears over the fact that my cleaning ladies move my stuff when they dust and don't put things back when they're done, and I have to go around and rearrange my mantelpiece and my perfume bottles and other little knick-knacks. And it drives me crazy.

See, that's petty, right? And I'm spoiled. Somehow I don't think that would generate 137 supportive comments and ((((hugs)))). You know?

So, these days either I feel like a turdball for simmering away, full of repressed "OH YEAH, WELL FUCK YOU" type feelings that I refuse to actually express about my mother, or I feel like Marie Antoinette sitting around blogging while someone else deals with my wretched refuse yearning to be put out in the trash can.

I'm telling you, sometimes you just can't win at this blogging gig.

Except for today, because I just did! I won a prize.

Thanks, tutugirl!