Links and dip

I'm constantly fiddling with my links list. If you suspect (or know) that I read your blog but you're not in my links list, it's probably because I don't need a link to get to your blog. Either I've memorized your blog's url (www.dooce.com, anyone?) or I blog hop to it from one of the many blogs I check daily.

Actually, more than daily.

Yes, I badly need to get a life.

I actually do this with blogs I don't even like. For example, there's a guy who made it over here once and left a comment to the effect that mine was the single most tedious stream of bilge he'd ever read. Once in a while I blog hop over to his blog to reassure myself that his life remains as uninteresting and essentially vapid as he believes mine to be.

So please don't feel neglected. (Unless you're an asswipe who has nothing better to do than leave pissy little comments on my blog. Because if you are, I'll make fun of you--beginning by calling you an asswipe.)

In other news, my diet veered onto the rocks and sank without a trace today due to the siren song of the leftover Costco multi-layered Tex-Mex dip and Restaurant Style White Corn Tostitos. Now, I'm not one for conspiracy theories, but what the hell is IN that stuff that makes it so deliciously addictive? All I have to do is think about the luscious combination of guacamole, picante sauce, sour cream, shredded cheese and corn chips and I literally salivate like Pavlov's dog. I figure the secret must lie in the mysterious taco seasoning mix they add. Please, somebody out there assure me it isn't carcinogenic.

--P.

Two days late and a dollar short.

As promised (or threatened) elsewhere (and I can't remember where) I'm finally uploading a show-and-tell Friday picture. Because for once I had the subject and the camera AND the laptop--all in one place and all in working order.

Blackbird has requested it, so voila--la toile-a-rama:



Believe it or not, an actual red-blooded heterosexual American man sleeps there with me at night. In fact, he's sleeping there right now.

And that's what I should be doing, so ... bye!

--P.

Hippo Halloween

I don't think there is any feeling greater, more triumphant, than waking up in the morning the day after having a party.

Maybe successfully pushing out a baby--but then, you have to factor in hormones and maybe drugs. So OK, I felt like Tondelaya of the jungle after I pushed out my daughter ... but that was long, long ago, in a galaxy far away, before she could get dressed up as a glamorous witch




so I think it's pretty safe to say that I don't quite remember how triumphant I felt. And I do know that this morning I feel pretty triumphant.

And this is not even factoring in for an extra hour's sleep. Let's face it--to feel this good, I'd have had to have had a baby the day daylight savings ended. Is there anything better than waking up in the morning, secure in the knowledge that it's actually an hour earlier than you think it is?



Now let me just brag a bit about my cheapo Costco flowers, people. Two bunches for $14.99 a bunch. A little fiddling around with the shears and the recycled florist vases and voila:












And here's another bouquet, in the smaller vase, next to the candy.







For thirty bucks I think they look pretty good. BTW, that recycled goldfish bowl was full at the start of the evening. So in the goody bags I included some gruesome looking fake teeth. Got to remind the little guys to BRUSH.










Of course my efforts are totally put to shame by the florist extravaganzae on the mantelpiece:




The only bad news is that I have ALL KINDS of party food left over. Last year I sent people home with leftovers, but this year I got too busy, and people were gone before I could load them up with leftover pulled pork, chili, slices of cake, and cookies.

So, confession being good for the soul, allow me to confess that for breakfast this morning I had two cups of tea, two M&M cookies, and a snack sized KitKat bar. And I'm sure things will go downhill from there.


Oh--and speaking of babies--check out the youngest guest:


--P.

Freaky Frantic Friday

I'm in the frantic stage of party preparations for our annual Halloween open house. This morning I made a few phone calls to order stuff for tomorrow: flowers and helium balloons from the florist, pulled pork, potato salad, and cole slaw from Hecky's. Then I went into the kitchen and started cooking. And I feel LIKE I'VE BEEN HERE ALL DAY. All I cooked was a huge pot of chili and a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, for Pete's sake. But it's been HOURS. I feel like I've been stuck in my kitchen forever.

You know, a cake is actually a better investment of my time. All this dropping by teaspoons onto a baking sheet and baking only one sheet at a time--I'm lucky if I get a cookie for each minute spent cooking. And it's hands-on cooking. A cake can be in the oven for a while, and you get to do something else. You even get to leave the kitchen. But with cookies it's in and out, in and out, IN AND OUT. I hope is that my oven is enjoying this more than I am.

So I have about one hour to make my house appear semi-presentable, then take a shower, blow dry my hair, get dressed, and head downtown for dinner and the ballet with some friends and That Stud Muffin I Married.

Last night I got dressed up and drove downtown for a party at the Field Museum.

TOO MUCH GETTING DRESSED UP.

At least for tomorrow's party no one will expect me to look good. In fact, I could get up tomorrow morning and put on exactly what I'm wearing right now (Mom jeans, an ancient "Northern Exposure" t-shirt, no makeup, bare feet, and limp hair) and tell everyone I'm going out as a zombie. And I'd probably win the prize for Most Realistic Costume because I just caught a glimpse of myself, and I look like I snack on human brains.

--P.

Sox in Any City

Last night--after seven innings without a hit and nine innings of nail-biting nervousness on my part--the White Sox won the World Series. They swept the Houston Astros in four games. I was thrilled.

Since I'm from Boston, and am a fairly vociferous Red Sox fan with an impressive collection of t-shirts and baseball caps, this might not make a lot of sense. But hear me out.

Last year during the World Series between the Red Sox and the Cardinals, my father was in a hospital bed. He was dying-- and he was wearing a Red Sox button on his pyjamas.

Daddy was born in Boston in 1918, the last year the Red Sox had won the World Series. He died on Monday, October 26, a couple of days before they won the World Series for the first time in 86 years.

At his memorial, my brothers and sisters decorated lots of tables with pictures and memorabilia from Daddy's life--his school years, his music, his service in WWII, his business, his travels. And there was a table with Red Sox memorabilia--especially the magazine covers that said 1918-2004.

During the lead-up to the final White Sox win, the Chicago Tribune was full of stories about long-time die-hard Sox fans. On the South Side of Chicago, the florists are selling White-Sox-themed wreaths, and people are hanging them on the tombstones of their fathers or grandfathers who were devoted White Sox fans.

I wouldn't necessarily want to do that--but I can sure understand the impulse. Because so many of us are thinking "If only Daddy were here to see this."

So I'm celebrating a White Sox World Championship for the City of Chicago. For the American League. For the amazing players I've been watching. For the fans who never lost hope. And most especially, for the fans who never had the chance to see it happen.

--P.

An Update on the Update.

Lordy, here I was thinking that without electricity or reliable phone service, Joke would find it a bit difficult to post.

Emily Litella: I'm sorry. Never mind.

Chevy Chase: Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Garrett Morris (screaming) GOOD NIGHT, AND HAVE A PLEASANT TOMORROW!

--P.

News Update for Joke's Fan Base

Joke called me up tonight to give me the update, and since I'm such a generous and thoughtful person, I thought I'd share. Because good lord, ladies, I can hear the keening and the wailing and the worriting all the way from Chicago. (Or is that me keening? Sometimes I get confused.)

So anyway, Joke and the rest of the Joke clan are doing fine. Like much of the rest of Florida (3.2 million households and counting) they are without their usual source of electricity. However, Joke very wisely bought a generator one or two hurricanes ago--i.e., two weeks ago, not that I'm knocking Florida or anything--so as long as he has gas, they have juice.

Of course, there is the little problem of what to do when they run out of gas, as what are the chances that the gas stations have electricity when no one else does?

Still, they're fine and in good spirits. However, there is no cell phone service, no DSL, and limited land line use. So we are going to have to endure an awkward silence of indefinite length emanating from points south. Unless you live in Key West, in which case you're too busy bailing to care.

Not to mention--and I'm not whining, really--but Joke and Mrs. Joke were supposed to be flying to Chicago to hang out with the Poppies and gad about, eat, drink (too much) and talk (even more than that.) But the Miami-Dade airport is closed, man, because of blown down palm trees and wreckage and such-like. So they might not come.

Which sucks more than a hopped-up Hoover.

But--and I'll say this for one last time--they're really fine.

Sobbing uncontrollably,

--P.