I've been working my ass off lately, and Chicago is trying to ruin everything.

Mah porch. Let me show it to you.


See? Isn't it cute? All red, white, and blue and New England-y and lobster-y?

OK, I admit that it's long and narrow, and since the nice new wicker sofa is placed almost exactly opposite the old beat-up futon frame (with the very faded denim futon cover) it looks like a railroad car. An extremely patriotic one.

But I wanted a porch that says "Poppy isn't from around here. Poppy hails from the Land o' Lobster. Poppy and Mr. Buxom spent their honeymoon on Nantucket."


I thought I'd show Chicago my New England roots, and what better way than to order a whole porch full of stuff from L. L. Bean? Right? But now Chicago has decided I'm some kind of uppity New Englander, and wants to ruin my good times. At least, I think that's what's up.

So Chicago, let's get this out in the open, shall we? I'm ready for some warm weather. Those pictures of the Pimm's Cup and tequila-on-the-rocks-with-a-wedge-of-lime that I posted last Friday because it was 80 degrees and sunny? A blip on the radar. The next day it was pouring rain and 45 degrees. I know this because I got frostbite on my toes when I wore flipflops to the garden center to pick out pansies and hydrangeas.


Chicago, I have been very patient with you. But my porch is ready. The yard has had its spring clean up. The new deck is built, and I don't think I'm being too high on myself when I say that it's awesome. My containers are almost filled. The new umbrellas and chair pads are pretty much ordered (OK, I'm still debating between brown and black as the major color scheme.)


In short, I have put a lot of work into creating a nice, Martha-Stewart-esque gorgeous summer lifestyle, and Chicago? You are not cooperating AT ALL.


I want the kind of weather that will have me forgetting about the existence of red wine, fires in my fireplace, and microfiber lap robes. It's almost May, Chicago. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Instead, you tease me with one gorgeous 80 degree day, and then you go all tweenaged girl on me--sunny one minute, stormy the next. You blow hot, you blow cold, and I am sick of this behavior, missy.


Come on, Chicago. You can do better than this. I know you can. After all, you're the home town of Michelle Obama's arms.

In which we welcome the first 80-degree day of 2009

In spring, a middle-aged housewife's thoughts lightly turn to new blogs to check out

And I suggest these blogs:

A Dress a Day

Dresses! Vintage and new! Cool old patterns that you'll find yourself buying even though you don't sew!

Crafty Carnival

On hiatus at the moment, but such cute things.

Oodles and Oodles

The style is so not me ... I don't do clutter-y collections of vintage stuff. (Except for china, sterling silver shite I can't be bothered to polish, and Official Preppy Handbook tchotkes.) Mostly I consider this an object lesson on why things--like dresser scarves--go out of style.

Brocante Home

I've been stalking following Allison around for years. Love her and her scrumptious, puttery treats.

Celebrate Creativity

Aprons! Thrifting! And believe it or not, this blog could actually get me interested in s-c-r-a-p-b-o-o-k-i-n-g.

And of course--what's a springtime voyeurism without a bit of garden p0rn:

Roses in Gardens

ZMG!!!!!11111!!!!!! You guys! Antique roses! Swoon ...

fairegarden

A Tennessee garden/photography blog designed to make me jellus on so. many. levels.

And since not much is happening around here yet--at least, there are no mouth-watering pictures to show off, unless you're seriously fascinated by buds, I head abroad to Ireland

Organic Growing Pains

to visit an organic community vegetable farm, then to France

Quatre Mains Au Jardin

to admire their peonies and lilacs

and elegant landscaping

Côté Jardin

and April charms

Miss Canthus

and finally ...

down to earth

is so completely inspiring, it actually gets me off my butt to do something about this place. No, really.

So ... what are your current inspirations?

The story of a dork and her blog

You know, when things are really hectic in the Buxom household, my husband and I look at each other and say "action packed!" We've been saying it a lot lately, because it pretty much sums things up around here.

You may not realize it, but we're quoting Mickey, the escaped convict in Pee-wee's Big Adventure. So anyway, when I started writing this, I wanted to find out the name of the actor who played Mickey. I feel I owe him something, because that line of his has been a catch phrase around here for a really long time.

Yes, here, where we listen to dinosaur rock and quote catch phrases from movies that are 24 years old.

And so I did a little Googling to find out who played Mickey. That's what you young people are doing these days--googling, right? When you're not on MySpace.

Anyway, I haven't found the actor's name, but I did discover a list of the top 50 grossing movies of 1985.

In doing so, I've discovered that not only am I out of it now, I've been out of it for decades. I'm so out of it I'm like Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. Do yourselves a favor and don't nod understandingly when I say that, because it will cement you in out-of-it-ness, like Fortunato being walled up alive in "The Cask of Amontillado." Ditto on getting that reference. Don't go there.

Anyway, I'm such a dork I've only seen three of the top 50 movies of 1985. Yes, still. I've had 24 years to catch up on Back to the Future, but have I done it? No.

Sure, I could watch these movies on cable or maybe go to my local independently-owned video store and rent them on Betamax, but at this point, why bother? Do Michael J. Fox and Sylvester Stallone need the ego boost? Wouldn't it make them feel even more like has-beens?

At this point I think it would be safe to fake it and pretend that I've seen Rockie IV and The Goonies. In fact, I think I'll fake my way through the last 25 years. Honestly, if you wait long enough, you can read a nice succinct summary of everything that ever happened on Wikipedia, thus saving yourself the tedium of catching up with that whole Nightmare on Elm Street phenomenon.

While I'm at it, I think I'll use Wikipedia to catch up on Steven Seagal, Hootie and the Blowfish, and Six Degrees of What's-his-name.

Which gives me a really good idea. I should write a Wikipedia article about myself. After all, I've been blogging for going on five years. Nobody's going to wade through my archives except a stalker, a relative, or the kids at my kids' school.

Of course, at this point, the article would say something like this:

Poppy Buxom has been blathering away on the internet since 1993, heedless of the fact that she is laughably out of touch with pop culture, and, according to a few discerning critics, Western Civilization in general. She claims this is not true, and that it's her husband who doesn't even know who Madonna is.

In addition to her husband, she has two children, who have been known to patiently explain to her what "hip hop" is.

The afterglow, or, it's too bad I don't smoke because in the movies? People would be sitting up in bed having a cigarette.

OK, I know what you're dying to know: how did Young Master Buxom do in Beauty and the Beast?

After all, I've only been mentioning on Twitter, emails , telephone calls and this blog that the rehearsal schedule was killing me him. Because, you know, it wasn't enough for him to play the male lead. Or for me to help with vocal coaching. No, I had to decide to help the costume committee, too.

This means last week we survived Easter only to be pitchforked into the tech rehearsal, two dress rehearsals, two performances on Thursday, the Friday performance where Young Master Buxom played a Villager, a Plate, and a Confused Noise Within, until finally--tah-dah--the Saturday night performance where he played the Beast.


Well, he did fabulously well. And all the girls (and women) in town are crushing on him. I mean this. Well, maybe not about the girls, but the grown-up ladies keep exclaiming over how talented and gorgeous he is.


I could go all faux-modest on you all, but actually, I soak up that kind of thing like a sponge. I mean, not only am I his proud mother, I am apparently such a notable stage mother that I'm glad Ethel Merman is dead, because otherwise she'd be playing me on Broadway.

So. Feel free to keep my comment box humming with congratulatory remarks. I've got a bottomless appetite for that kind of thing, and I need the internet to supplement the local supply of glad cries and hugs. And listen, don't worry that I'll be ungrateful. When Young Master Buxom becomes a big star, I'll reward you, his earliest fans, with his autograph, or my autograph, or my impression of Ethel Merman singing "Funny" from Gypsy, or maybe just a cocktail napkin with directions to my sister's house scribbled on it.


(Note to Jen: there will be no Barbies. Capisci?)

Tonight my son asked me if my blog is about sex, and other stories.

OK, yes, I admit it; I haven't been posting. And why is that?

Well, we have just been as busy as bees here in Buxomville. I finished up one long slog of tedious volunteer work only to be pitchforked into the boot camp that is the Eighth Grade Play.

So I'm volunteering again, but it could be worse, because I'm actually spending a lot of time in a dark auditorium taking craptastic out-of-focus pictures of the play, which means I'm watching a play, and that isn't exactly scrubbing toilets, you know?

Also, my son is the male lead, which means I get to spend extra time with him, and, unlike many of those other mommybloggers out there, I actually enjoy doing that very much.

For one thing, he laughs at my jokes.

And yet, there are moments when I question my ability to plumb the depths of his almost 14-year-old brain. Like for example, tonight, when he asked me whether my blog is about sex.

Now, I explained the difference between writing a blog about sex, and writing a blog where I actually use the occasional swear word. For example, when I say "shit," I'm definitely not talking about sex, and I apologize to all of you for getting your hopes up.

But, even though my blog is not about sex, I'm not feeling so minty-fresh about posting.

See, the kids at school have discovered my blog. And my mother-in-law has discovered my twitter. And between the little kids and the grandparents, I've developed a touch of writer's block.

Well, not really. I just haven't fucking felt like posting. Not with all of you reading over my shoulder, for Christ's sake.

See? Now I'm swearing, and my son is squirming in embarrassment, and mothers of the kids who are reading this blog? I totally apologize for my use of robust Anglo-Saxon phraseology.

But allow me to reiterate: I'm still not talking about sex.

Oh God even as I type, kids are texting all over town MRS BUXOM = POTTYMOUTH.

But I guess that's OK.

I mean, honestly. I've been on the internet since before they were born. It's time they knew. All that internet danger they hear about? I INVENTED IT.

Blogger is the new mullet

It's not fashionable to like Blogger. I know.

I know that Movable Type and Wordpress are more powerful and flexible and blah blah blah blah blah.

I know that using Blogger is like having an AOL.com in your email address. It's like using webtv to surf the web. It's for dweebs and n00bs and people with low self-esteem.

I know that if you're sitting in a room full of people in a seminar on blog design run by Mishelle Lane, Leslie Flinger, and Deanna Garretson, and Megan from Velveteen Mind is running around with the microphone so people can be heard when they ask questions, and asks a few of her own because that's the way she is--and it's delightful, but I digress--and you hear:

"How many of you are still using the standard blogging template?"

and you raise your hand, you will feel like the only person in the room still wearing a mullet.


But there are things about Blogger I really like. For one thing, it's really easy for me to customize my links list. And Blogger sorts my links by time of update.

Which means sometimes I check my blog, and a super-popular blogger like Jen Lancaster or Finslippy will have just updated. Which means I can head right over there and be the first to comment.

Call me immature, but being able to type "FIRST, BITCHESSS!!11!11!!!" really makes my day.

And I just know that if I switch to Movable Type or Wordpress, I won't be able do that.

So this is how it stands: not long ago, post Blissdom09, when the peer pressure was really getting to me, I broke down and bought my domain name.

Yes, I'm the proud owner of www.poppybuxom.com. But Blogger, I can't quit you. The whole looking for a host/designer/administrator thing I did recently for Mamarazzi? I'm just not ready to go through that again.

What's a girl to do?

My dreams of a career in telemarketing are as ashes in my mouth

OMG, you guys, I. am. such. a. loser.

Know what I've been doing for the past week? Not just driving to New Hampshire and back

and eating lobster,

although that's a factor. Not just doing the mountains of laundry that erupted from the suitcases when I unpacked them.

Not just attending rehearsals of the eighth grade play


or ruthlessly purging old books and toys from my son's room


or inventorying the snowdrops in my yard.


I've been calling up members of a woman's organization and asking them to serve on the board. And unfortunately for the woman's organization, doing a rotten job.

I can't get anyone to say yes. ANYONE. I feel like a short, scrawny, acne-ridden high school geek who has--despite his taped-together glasses and pocket protector--decided to ask every single member of the cheerleading squad to the prom.

I'm drowning in rejection over here.

DROWNING.

(Also, why do I have to spend so much time on the phone with people who are going to tell me no? Can't they at least keep it short?)