Showing posts with label talking about herself again. Show all posts
Showing posts with label talking about herself again. Show all posts
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
177
This morning I went to my Weight Watchers meeting, and that's what I weighed today.
This is up from 175, which is what I weighed on December 19th, the last time I went to a meeting. In fact, I haven't weighed this much since Halloween.
But you know what? It feels great.
Because I honestly felt as though I'd gained not three pounds back, but 15. I feel seedy, all flabby and just generally icky.
It must be because I haven't been working at AT ALL. I haven't been to the gym since we all moved back into the house on December 5th. I don't have that I'm-made-of-Silly-Putty rubbery, bouncy, firm feeling you get when you're using your muscles to do something other than drink wine and eat cheese and crackers.
Still, it felt good to face the music. Especially because things weren't as bad as I imagined they'd be.
And so to help myself get back on track, I bought a WW magazine as I left the meeting, and a Shape at the supermarket (where I stocked up on broccoli, Clementines, shrimp, and Skinny Cows, OK?) I plan to steep myself in motivational literature. And start tracking my points again. And re-lose those three pounds.
As God is my witness, I'm going to get under 174 pounds. Even if I have to bore the internet into a coma.
This is up from 175, which is what I weighed on December 19th, the last time I went to a meeting. In fact, I haven't weighed this much since Halloween.
But you know what? It feels great.
Because I honestly felt as though I'd gained not three pounds back, but 15. I feel seedy, all flabby and just generally icky.
It must be because I haven't been working at AT ALL. I haven't been to the gym since we all moved back into the house on December 5th. I don't have that I'm-made-of-Silly-Putty rubbery, bouncy, firm feeling you get when you're using your muscles to do something other than drink wine and eat cheese and crackers.
Still, it felt good to face the music. Especially because things weren't as bad as I imagined they'd be.
And so to help myself get back on track, I bought a WW magazine as I left the meeting, and a Shape at the supermarket (where I stocked up on broccoli, Clementines, shrimp, and Skinny Cows, OK?) I plan to steep myself in motivational literature. And start tracking my points again. And re-lose those three pounds.
As God is my witness, I'm going to get under 174 pounds. Even if I have to bore the internet into a coma.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
100 Things for a new year
1. I didn't know how to drive until I was 35.
2. My family drives me crazy.
3. But that's OK; my in-laws drive me crazy, too.
4. It's nice to share things like that in a marriage.
5. One thing people never tell you about marriage is that being married is the only way you can get laid once you're no longer young and cute.
6. I'm not as cute as I used to be.
7. But I'm married.
8. I like being married.
9. I like getting laid.
10. I like my kids, too.
11. I hope their presence in the world gives them as much pleasure as it gives me and their father.
12. I had them under duress.
13. I also got married under duress.
14. I was convinced that being married and having children would be no fun.
15. I was wrong.
16. The world would be a better place if fewer people were wrong about that.
17. Especially celebrities who keep having children first, then getting married.
18. I disapprove of having children out of wedlock.
19. I'm extremely judgmental.
20. For example, there are a lot of things I enjoy, but don't talk about much.
21. Like sex.
22. Or food.
23. I am embarrassed and bored when people talk about their sex lives.
24. I am also embarrassed and bored when people talk about food.
25. I take the Seven Deadly Sins seriously.
26. I'm very religious.
27. I'm an Episcopalian.
28. This means I'm something of a fence-sitter.
29. I find most Protestant churches weird.
30. I am creeped out by some Catholic things, though.
31. Judaism makes all kinds of sense to me. But it's like a hereditary society, and I picked the wrong ancestors, so forget it.
32. I'm a snob.
33. I don't watch television.
34. I do watch t.v. shows on DVD.
35. I can't stand commercials.
36. I also don't like being told when and where to watch programs.
37. I'm fat.
38. Sometimes I think if I lost the weight, I wouldn't have anything left to do with my life. I mean, honestly, what challenge is greater than losing 40 pounds and leaving them off?
39. I have only had one husband.
40. I have two children.
41. I had a couple of miscarriages before I had my first child.
42. For some reason, that never really bothered me that much.
43. I think, at some very deep level, I believe that some things are not meant to be.
44. The only death I have ever truly mourned is my father's.
45. I still miss him.
46. I used to read all the time.
47. I think all the degrees I got in English Literature did something to wreck that for me.
48. It took me way too long to get back into reading for pleasure.
49. I'm still not interested in best-sellers, though.
50. I'm also not interested in current movies.
51. What I really hate, though, is the theater.
52. I hate theater so much that I've never talked about it on my blog.
53. I only like PG-13-rated movies.
54. I read the same books many times.
55. I watch the same movies many times.
56. I'm addicted to audiobooks.
57. I find most people fairly dull.
58. Actually, I hate theater, but I like to watch Shakespeare.
59. I also saw the Comedie Francaise perform a play by Moliere, and I enjoyed that, too.
60. The real problem is modernism.
61. I think most modernists are pretentious and full of themselves.
62. They also lack a sense of humor.
63. A sense of humor is the most important thing a person can have.
64. That and reverence.
65. Just don't be reverent about Eugene O'Neil when I'm around.
66. Or Tennessee Williams. Or August Wilson.
67. I could spend the rest of my life catching up with the past, and it would never be enough.
68. For example, I have a burning desire to learn Latin, a language I spent seventh and eighth grade ignoring.
69. I sometimes think if I could take the time to do the things right that I shirked or avoided--like my seventh and eighth grade Latin homework--I'd have a much better life.
70. Does anyone out there remember that dorky little fake computer thing Clinique used to have at their counters that supposedly tells you your skin type? I'm a burns-doesn't-tan kind of gal.
71. This means my skin is so white people have been known to scream loudly at the sight of it.
72. I hate going to the dentist.
73. I also hate going to the doctor.
74. I feel that I exhausted an entire life's worth of doctor's visits by having two babies and dealing with the number of examinations that involved.
75. So now I don't go.
76. The problems with being in your forties is realizing that a lot of people are seriously screwed up.
77. I mean, it's not just you. Or me. Or my family.
78. The older I get the more tactful I get.
79. This isn't saying much, since I'm pretty outspoken. Sagittarians always are.
80. I don't believe in astrology.
81. I can't understand how anyone can live in the country.
82. I'm Francophilic. When people started pouring French wine into the gutter because the French weren't supporting the United States' invastion of Iraq, I flew the French flag in front of my house. And wore an Hermes scarf every day. And bought two.
83. Ann Coulter makes me sick.
84. So do the other opportunists out there.
85. I have no idea for whom I'll vote in the next Presidential election.
86. I don't find myself getting significantly more conservative as I get older.
87. It's really amazing to me how little people know about etiquette, considering the fact that Emily Post's Blue Book of Social Usage is in the public domain.
88. The word verification thing on Blogger drives me nuts.
89. I've never waxed my bikini line.
90. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to get breast implants. Can the Victoria's Secret Models sleep on their chests? I can't, and mine are real. I'll bet the fake ones are even more uncomfortable when squashed.
91. My interest in breast implants means I find women like Victoria Beckham, Anna Nicole Smith, and Pamela Anderson sort of fascinating.
92. I have nice legs.
93. And a short torso.
94. I'm a nice person.
95. I've never been quite sure what "snarky" is. Even when I'm being snarky.
96. I'm amazingly unselfconscious.
97. I have no fear whatsoever of public speaking.
98. My clothes have this really bad habit of falling off in public.
99. I own a scary amount of Hermes scarves. (See #82)
100. Blogging is a great way to talk endlessly about myself without boring people in real life. If you've read this far, you know what I've spared them.
2. My family drives me crazy.
3. But that's OK; my in-laws drive me crazy, too.
4. It's nice to share things like that in a marriage.
5. One thing people never tell you about marriage is that being married is the only way you can get laid once you're no longer young and cute.
6. I'm not as cute as I used to be.
7. But I'm married.
8. I like being married.
9. I like getting laid.
10. I like my kids, too.
11. I hope their presence in the world gives them as much pleasure as it gives me and their father.
12. I had them under duress.
13. I also got married under duress.
14. I was convinced that being married and having children would be no fun.
15. I was wrong.
16. The world would be a better place if fewer people were wrong about that.
17. Especially celebrities who keep having children first, then getting married.
18. I disapprove of having children out of wedlock.
19. I'm extremely judgmental.
20. For example, there are a lot of things I enjoy, but don't talk about much.
21. Like sex.
22. Or food.
23. I am embarrassed and bored when people talk about their sex lives.
24. I am also embarrassed and bored when people talk about food.
25. I take the Seven Deadly Sins seriously.
26. I'm very religious.
27. I'm an Episcopalian.
28. This means I'm something of a fence-sitter.
29. I find most Protestant churches weird.
30. I am creeped out by some Catholic things, though.
31. Judaism makes all kinds of sense to me. But it's like a hereditary society, and I picked the wrong ancestors, so forget it.
32. I'm a snob.
33. I don't watch television.
34. I do watch t.v. shows on DVD.
35. I can't stand commercials.
36. I also don't like being told when and where to watch programs.
37. I'm fat.
38. Sometimes I think if I lost the weight, I wouldn't have anything left to do with my life. I mean, honestly, what challenge is greater than losing 40 pounds and leaving them off?
39. I have only had one husband.
40. I have two children.
41. I had a couple of miscarriages before I had my first child.
42. For some reason, that never really bothered me that much.
43. I think, at some very deep level, I believe that some things are not meant to be.
44. The only death I have ever truly mourned is my father's.
45. I still miss him.
46. I used to read all the time.
47. I think all the degrees I got in English Literature did something to wreck that for me.
48. It took me way too long to get back into reading for pleasure.
49. I'm still not interested in best-sellers, though.
50. I'm also not interested in current movies.
51. What I really hate, though, is the theater.
52. I hate theater so much that I've never talked about it on my blog.
53. I only like PG-13-rated movies.
54. I read the same books many times.
55. I watch the same movies many times.
56. I'm addicted to audiobooks.
57. I find most people fairly dull.
58. Actually, I hate theater, but I like to watch Shakespeare.
59. I also saw the Comedie Francaise perform a play by Moliere, and I enjoyed that, too.
60. The real problem is modernism.
61. I think most modernists are pretentious and full of themselves.
62. They also lack a sense of humor.
63. A sense of humor is the most important thing a person can have.
64. That and reverence.
65. Just don't be reverent about Eugene O'Neil when I'm around.
66. Or Tennessee Williams. Or August Wilson.
67. I could spend the rest of my life catching up with the past, and it would never be enough.
68. For example, I have a burning desire to learn Latin, a language I spent seventh and eighth grade ignoring.
69. I sometimes think if I could take the time to do the things right that I shirked or avoided--like my seventh and eighth grade Latin homework--I'd have a much better life.
70. Does anyone out there remember that dorky little fake computer thing Clinique used to have at their counters that supposedly tells you your skin type? I'm a burns-doesn't-tan kind of gal.
71. This means my skin is so white people have been known to scream loudly at the sight of it.
72. I hate going to the dentist.
73. I also hate going to the doctor.
74. I feel that I exhausted an entire life's worth of doctor's visits by having two babies and dealing with the number of examinations that involved.
75. So now I don't go.
76. The problems with being in your forties is realizing that a lot of people are seriously screwed up.
77. I mean, it's not just you. Or me. Or my family.
78. The older I get the more tactful I get.
79. This isn't saying much, since I'm pretty outspoken. Sagittarians always are.
80. I don't believe in astrology.
81. I can't understand how anyone can live in the country.
82. I'm Francophilic. When people started pouring French wine into the gutter because the French weren't supporting the United States' invastion of Iraq, I flew the French flag in front of my house. And wore an Hermes scarf every day. And bought two.
83. Ann Coulter makes me sick.
84. So do the other opportunists out there.
85. I have no idea for whom I'll vote in the next Presidential election.
86. I don't find myself getting significantly more conservative as I get older.
87. It's really amazing to me how little people know about etiquette, considering the fact that Emily Post's Blue Book of Social Usage is in the public domain.
88. The word verification thing on Blogger drives me nuts.
89. I've never waxed my bikini line.
90. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to get breast implants. Can the Victoria's Secret Models sleep on their chests? I can't, and mine are real. I'll bet the fake ones are even more uncomfortable when squashed.
91. My interest in breast implants means I find women like Victoria Beckham, Anna Nicole Smith, and Pamela Anderson sort of fascinating.
92. I have nice legs.
93. And a short torso.
94. I'm a nice person.
95. I've never been quite sure what "snarky" is. Even when I'm being snarky.
96. I'm amazingly unselfconscious.
97. I have no fear whatsoever of public speaking.
98. My clothes have this really bad habit of falling off in public.
99. I own a scary amount of Hermes scarves. (See #82)
100. Blogging is a great way to talk endlessly about myself without boring people in real life. If you've read this far, you know what I've spared them.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Nobody expects Mrs. Buxom!
I'm way too busy. And yet, I needs must check into the internet to waste time I can't afford to waste. Amongst my time-wasters are such elements as: surprise, fear, a fanatical devotion to the Pope, and Googleism.
You know about Googleism, right? You search for your name and see what the internet says about you. And then you post your search results,heavily lightly edited, as a sad excuse for the blog entry you don't have time to write.
Here are my Googleism results. Remember: if you read it on the internet, it must be true.
Mrs. Buxom is the daughter of Mrs Not-As-Buxom
I like to think I evolved into a more buxom state. Think of it as Survival of the Buxomist. Either that or it's the hormones in the milk. The cows' milk, that is. Not Mrs. Not-As Buxom's.
Mrs. Buxom is married
Well, DUH.
Mrs. Buxom is no less enterprising than her worthy husband
He's not worthy! He's not worthy!
Mrs. Buxom is in a unique position
Actually, Mrs. Buxom is lounging in bed. Next to her worthy husband. Again.
Mrs. Buxom is a member of the First Presbyterian Church of Berkeley
Berkeley, CA? Where hippies came from? Are you sure? This doesn't sound like the Mrs. Buxom I know.
Mrs. Buxom is survived by her husband of 64 years
Wait a minute. Mrs. Buxom is dead?
Mrs. Buxom is also living
Oh no I'm not. See above. Sheesh.
Mrs. Buxom is being brought back to Cortez to be laid to rest next to her husband at the Cortez cemetery
See? I told you I was dead. And so much for my enterprising and worthy husband. The guy's a stiff. How enterprising can he be?
Mrs. Buxom is a member of the Old Union Christian Church
Wait a minute. I thought I was a Presbyterian Hippy. Or something.
Mrs. Buxom is survived by a son
Excellent! Even though I'm dead, I can rest easy, knowing that my son survived me. This means I never killed my son in a matricidal rage. However, I notice it doesn't mention anything about my daughter.
Mrs. Buxom is taking orders for school jackets and bookbags
and if you give her one, you're even stupider than you look.
Mrs. Buxom is still attacking gerald
Hey, who doesn't? (We're talking about that annoying guy on T.V., right? The investigative reporter? With the mustache?)
Mrs. Buxom is interviewing her Japanese visitors on the recent earthquake
Unfortunately, she doesn't speak Japanese. And they don't speak English.
You know about Googleism, right? You search for your name and see what the internet says about you. And then you post your search results,
Here are my Googleism results. Remember: if you read it on the internet, it must be true.
Mrs. Buxom is the daughter of Mrs Not-As-Buxom
I like to think I evolved into a more buxom state. Think of it as Survival of the Buxomist. Either that or it's the hormones in the milk. The cows' milk, that is. Not Mrs. Not-As Buxom's.
Mrs. Buxom is married
Well, DUH.
Mrs. Buxom is no less enterprising than her worthy husband
He's not worthy! He's not worthy!
Mrs. Buxom is in a unique position
Actually, Mrs. Buxom is lounging in bed. Next to her worthy husband. Again.
Mrs. Buxom is a member of the First Presbyterian Church of Berkeley
Berkeley, CA? Where hippies came from? Are you sure? This doesn't sound like the Mrs. Buxom I know.
Mrs. Buxom is survived by her husband of 64 years
Wait a minute. Mrs. Buxom is dead?
Mrs. Buxom is also living
Oh no I'm not. See above. Sheesh.
Mrs. Buxom is being brought back to Cortez to be laid to rest next to her husband at the Cortez cemetery
See? I told you I was dead. And so much for my enterprising and worthy husband. The guy's a stiff. How enterprising can he be?
Mrs. Buxom is a member of the Old Union Christian Church
Wait a minute. I thought I was a Presbyterian Hippy. Or something.
Mrs. Buxom is survived by a son
Excellent! Even though I'm dead, I can rest easy, knowing that my son survived me. This means I never killed my son in a matricidal rage. However, I notice it doesn't mention anything about my daughter.
Mrs. Buxom is taking orders for school jackets and bookbags
and if you give her one, you're even stupider than you look.
Mrs. Buxom is still attacking gerald
Hey, who doesn't? (We're talking about that annoying guy on T.V., right? The investigative reporter? With the mustache?)
Mrs. Buxom is interviewing her Japanese visitors on the recent earthquake
Unfortunately, she doesn't speak Japanese. And they don't speak English.
Friday, March 9, 2007
What is the sound of one hand holding a telephone?
I think it's internet silence.
Because I don't have much to say. So sue me, internet; I used up this week's supply of drivel on a bunch of marathon telephone calls.
Let me just say that 1) being allergic to telephones and 2) chairing not one but two fundraisers is a bad combination. And before you crack up into loud hoots of derisive laughter--OK, I'm talkative. I freely admit it, so you can stop rolling your eyes. My talking isn't the problem. I don't mean to brag, but when it comes to talking, I have a lot of natural talent. The problem is all the listening I have to do. On the phone. I hate phones. Especially cell phones, but land lines suck, too.
Basically, I've just spent a week doing dishes, moving laundry in and out of machines, making beds, cleaning out the refrigerator, cooking, and tidying the house with one hand while someone keeps me on the phone for the length of (pick one)
a) a root canal
b) a complete detail job on a school bus
c) Ahab's quest for the White Whale
I'm so tired not only can I not think of anything to say on my blog, I don't have the energy to read yours.
Not to mention the tact that I don't have and SORELY NEED.
I find myself saying things like "That's a really good idea; I'll look into it," when my id is screaming "SHUT UP YOU MORONIC WINDBAG!" When I say "Thanks for calling," my id is shouting "IF ONLY THE FUCKING CALLER ID HAD KICKED IN!"
If only a utility existed that would translate people's conversation into a text file, and then email it to me. That I could look at the transcript at my leisure, say, at 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon, which is a depressing time anyway, with nothing good going on, so you might as well catch up with your emails.
Because these marathon telephone sessions are killing me. My mind has all the freshness and savor of the ancient chewing gum that has been stuck under a booth at the town diner. I've been going around holding up one shoulder for hours at a time, and I'm going to end up like Quasimodo.
Not to mention that people, please. Sometimes I need to pee.
Because I don't have much to say. So sue me, internet; I used up this week's supply of drivel on a bunch of marathon telephone calls.
Let me just say that 1) being allergic to telephones and 2) chairing not one but two fundraisers is a bad combination. And before you crack up into loud hoots of derisive laughter--OK, I'm talkative. I freely admit it, so you can stop rolling your eyes. My talking isn't the problem. I don't mean to brag, but when it comes to talking, I have a lot of natural talent. The problem is all the listening I have to do. On the phone. I hate phones. Especially cell phones, but land lines suck, too.
Basically, I've just spent a week doing dishes, moving laundry in and out of machines, making beds, cleaning out the refrigerator, cooking, and tidying the house with one hand while someone keeps me on the phone for the length of (pick one)
a) a root canal
b) a complete detail job on a school bus
c) Ahab's quest for the White Whale
I'm so tired not only can I not think of anything to say on my blog, I don't have the energy to read yours.
Not to mention the tact that I don't have and SORELY NEED.
I find myself saying things like "That's a really good idea; I'll look into it," when my id is screaming "SHUT UP YOU MORONIC WINDBAG!" When I say "Thanks for calling," my id is shouting "IF ONLY THE FUCKING CALLER ID HAD KICKED IN!"
If only a utility existed that would translate people's conversation into a text file, and then email it to me. That I could look at the transcript at my leisure, say, at 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon, which is a depressing time anyway, with nothing good going on, so you might as well catch up with your emails.
Because these marathon telephone sessions are killing me. My mind has all the freshness and savor of the ancient chewing gum that has been stuck under a booth at the town diner. I've been going around holding up one shoulder for hours at a time, and I'm going to end up like Quasimodo.
Not to mention that people, please. Sometimes I need to pee.
Friday, February 23, 2007
"Shucks, folks ... I'm speechless."
You know what's weird?
Getting praised on the internet by total strangers. Right now, over on Essential Day Spa (I think) this completely lackluster piece of shit blog* has just been called "hilarious."
Which makes me feel ... I don't know ... kind of dumb. Because I'm a discerning reader, and I know funny when I read it. Badger is funny, for example.
So now I'm thinking I should register on the site so I can demur. And tell them to go over to see Badger instead. And I don't want to do that, because what the hell-- readers are readers, even if I'm getting them under false pretenses.
Also, to tell the truth, I'm really not a spa person, unless the masseuse or facialist promises to duct-tape her mouth shut. Oh, and to turn off that idiotic New Age music they're always playing. So how much do I want to go join a spa forum? To tell them not to read my blog? Not much.
So, I'm grateful for the plug. But I just don't feel hilarious. I'm ... wait for it ... funny that way.
* Albeit with--OK, I'll say it--great punctuation. OK, I know that sounds really egotistical, but it's true. There's no point in going all false modesty about it; I am the Princess of Punctuation. I mean, did you see that semi-colon back there? Well, stick with me and you'll be strewing semi-colons around like Jackson Pollack on crack.
Getting praised on the internet by total strangers. Right now, over on Essential Day Spa (I think) this completely lackluster piece of shit blog* has just been called "hilarious."
Which makes me feel ... I don't know ... kind of dumb. Because I'm a discerning reader, and I know funny when I read it. Badger is funny, for example.
So now I'm thinking I should register on the site so I can demur. And tell them to go over to see Badger instead. And I don't want to do that, because what the hell-- readers are readers, even if I'm getting them under false pretenses.
Also, to tell the truth, I'm really not a spa person, unless the masseuse or facialist promises to duct-tape her mouth shut. Oh, and to turn off that idiotic New Age music they're always playing. So how much do I want to go join a spa forum? To tell them not to read my blog? Not much.
So, I'm grateful for the plug. But I just don't feel hilarious. I'm ... wait for it ... funny that way.
* Albeit with--OK, I'll say it--great punctuation. OK, I know that sounds really egotistical, but it's true. There's no point in going all false modesty about it; I am the Princess of Punctuation. I mean, did you see that semi-colon back there? Well, stick with me and you'll be strewing semi-colons around like Jackson Pollack on crack.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Poppy delivers red hot news items. Or not.
A wonderfully lackluster Valentine's Day was had by all--thanks for asking.
But hey--did I mention that my husband baked a huge--and I'm talking monstrously gigantic--Valentine's Day cake? It was a Red Devil's Cake with butter cream icing and a different, but equally fattening butter cream filling. Everything was tinted bright red. And it was huge. If you take two square layers, fill and stack and turn them to make a diamond, and then add two round cake layers, filled and stacked, then cut in half and cemented to the top two sides of the diamond, then frost the whole behemoth with red icing, guess what? You will have produced the biggest heart shaped cake in the world. I mean, this thing was so big that scientists were ready to announce the discovery of a tenth planet.
And no, I'm not exaggerating. That cake has its own gravitational pull. It really isis almost a planet. A fattening one.
(Like I needed the calories, dear. But it was thoughtful.)
OK, so that's St. Valentine's Day. On Thursday we went to a book signing. Our friends J. and B. are friends with the author of Well Bred and Dead
so they had a book signing at their extremely lovely Gold Coast apartment. This was particularly appropriate because the book is about Chicagoans of the Gold Coast variety. The funny thing was that the book was to a certain extent a roman a clef, and some of the clefs were there, drinking champagne and eating little sandwiches. And they didn't know they were clefs, but I did. So that was highly amusing. Either that, or I was just drunk. Again.
On Friday the children had the day off from school. Naturally I was less than thrilled with being trapped inside with the children who don't want to get dressed or go anywhere or do anything other than go play GameCube or some imaginary game off in their own worlds. Worlds to which I, apparently, lack a visa. Pardon me, but didn't we just do that? Isn't that what Christmas vacation was about? I mean, I had a massive case of deja vu all day. On the other hand, being stuck at home--and basically ignored, except for the occasional demand for food--is a great way to get the basement cleaned up and in general, tidy the house until it was pretty much unrecognizable.
On Saturday night my dear friend L. threw herself a dinner party for her birthday. I thought I'd get her a gift certificate, so I went into a salon we both like and picked out a manicure/pedicure package and threw in a 60 minute massage as a lagniappe. Then I figured I'd get a manicure/pedicure and shampoo/blow out myself.
This meant I presented an unusually well-groomed appearance at L.'s birthday party that night. Then I got drunk, of course. But I wasn't a sloppy drunk. I was an extremely well-groomed drunk. The lesson we learn from this? You might not want to party with me. You might not want to sit at my end of the dining room table. But you want me to buy you presents.
Then today. Church. I was there for hours, and so were my dazzling red fingernails (because yes! I've decided that sheer pinky-beige colors are JUST TOO BORING and it's time for color! Whee! and a happy belated St. Valentine's Day to me.) Where I clasped my hands in prayer, and prayed for (among other things) deliverance from my hangover, freedom from chipped nail polish, general forgiveness of my general sins, and then more specific forgiveness of my more particular sins--gluttony came to mind right away--followed by vanity--and then, because I'm generous that way, I prayed for forgiveness of your sins, too, Internet.
Which brings us to the present moment. So here's your update: I still have red nails. And you, Internet, still have a coal-black heart. You and your Viagra ads and pervy web sites and attempts to bilk African governments out of millions of $US. Not to mention how many of you don't link to my blog.
But hey--did I mention that my husband baked a huge--and I'm talking monstrously gigantic--Valentine's Day cake? It was a Red Devil's Cake with butter cream icing and a different, but equally fattening butter cream filling. Everything was tinted bright red. And it was huge. If you take two square layers, fill and stack and turn them to make a diamond, and then add two round cake layers, filled and stacked, then cut in half and cemented to the top two sides of the diamond, then frost the whole behemoth with red icing, guess what? You will have produced the biggest heart shaped cake in the world. I mean, this thing was so big that scientists were ready to announce the discovery of a tenth planet.
And no, I'm not exaggerating. That cake has its own gravitational pull. It really isis almost a planet. A fattening one.
(Like I needed the calories, dear. But it was thoughtful.)
OK, so that's St. Valentine's Day. On Thursday we went to a book signing. Our friends J. and B. are friends with the author of Well Bred and Dead
so they had a book signing at their extremely lovely Gold Coast apartment. This was particularly appropriate because the book is about Chicagoans of the Gold Coast variety. The funny thing was that the book was to a certain extent a roman a clef, and some of the clefs were there, drinking champagne and eating little sandwiches. And they didn't know they were clefs, but I did. So that was highly amusing. Either that, or I was just drunk. Again.
On Friday the children had the day off from school. Naturally I was less than thrilled with being trapped inside with the children who don't want to get dressed or go anywhere or do anything other than go play GameCube or some imaginary game off in their own worlds. Worlds to which I, apparently, lack a visa. Pardon me, but didn't we just do that? Isn't that what Christmas vacation was about? I mean, I had a massive case of deja vu all day. On the other hand, being stuck at home--and basically ignored, except for the occasional demand for food--is a great way to get the basement cleaned up and in general, tidy the house until it was pretty much unrecognizable.
On Saturday night my dear friend L. threw herself a dinner party for her birthday. I thought I'd get her a gift certificate, so I went into a salon we both like and picked out a manicure/pedicure package and threw in a 60 minute massage as a lagniappe. Then I figured I'd get a manicure/pedicure and shampoo/blow out myself.
This meant I presented an unusually well-groomed appearance at L.'s birthday party that night. Then I got drunk, of course. But I wasn't a sloppy drunk. I was an extremely well-groomed drunk. The lesson we learn from this? You might not want to party with me. You might not want to sit at my end of the dining room table. But you want me to buy you presents.
Then today. Church. I was there for hours, and so were my dazzling red fingernails (because yes! I've decided that sheer pinky-beige colors are JUST TOO BORING and it's time for color! Whee! and a happy belated St. Valentine's Day to me.) Where I clasped my hands in prayer, and prayed for (among other things) deliverance from my hangover, freedom from chipped nail polish, general forgiveness of my general sins, and then more specific forgiveness of my more particular sins--gluttony came to mind right away--followed by vanity--and then, because I'm generous that way, I prayed for forgiveness of your sins, too, Internet.
Which brings us to the present moment. So here's your update: I still have red nails. And you, Internet, still have a coal-black heart. You and your Viagra ads and pervy web sites and attempts to bilk African governments out of millions of $US. Not to mention how many of you don't link to my blog.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Grinch Who Stole Valentine's Day
Today I was supposed to get all dressed up in something red and festive, head up the road to get my hair and nails done, then, while looking like a crazed blood clot absolutely smashing drive downtown to rehearse with one of my singing groups,
go to a St. Valentine's Day tea party here,
and then have dinner with my husband.
I just blew it all off. In short order, I canceled the hair and nails, the rehearsal, the babysitter, the tea party, and the dinner.
In case you haven't heard, it's snowing in Chicago. And about every five minutes, I get another email from the National Weather Service advising me to stay home. And who am I to argue with the National Weather Service? Especially since my car has been in the shop since November 19th, due to some trifling misunderstanding it had with the rear end of a Mercedes Benz.
Not actually my car. Or me. You can tell because this woman is
smiling,and I have not had the chance to smile while in
close proximity to my VW in months. And months.
And frankly, I'm damned if I'm going to plow downtown in my smoking hot minivantm badger only to smash that one up, too.
go to a St. Valentine's Day tea party here,
and then have dinner with my husband.
I just blew it all off. In short order, I canceled the hair and nails, the rehearsal, the babysitter, the tea party, and the dinner.
In case you haven't heard, it's snowing in Chicago. And about every five minutes, I get another email from the National Weather Service advising me to stay home. And who am I to argue with the National Weather Service? Especially since my car has been in the shop since November 19th, due to some trifling misunderstanding it had with the rear end of a Mercedes Benz.
Not actually my car. Or me. You can tell because this woman is
smiling,and I have not had the chance to smile while in
close proximity to my VW in months. And months.
And frankly, I'm damned if I'm going to plow downtown in my smoking hot minivan
Monday, February 12, 2007
Don't it Make her Brown Eyes Pink, and other fine whines
On Friday my daughter got conjunctivitis. And was quarantined by the school nurse. Yes, quarantined. Holy shit, I felt like the people in a plague ship in an Audrey Maturin novel. These neighbors of ours came by yesterday to talk to us about some voting matter or other, and I couldn't let them into the house because girlie was still in her pajamas because she's sick, and as far as she's concerned, that means she doesn't have to get dressed. And frankly, I didn't feel like letting the whole world know that I let my daughter romp around in her pajamas for three straight days.
Even though I just told the whole internet.
Speaking of Aubrey Maturin novels, which I wasn't, but bear with me, I have a ton of horrible volunteer shit to do today. A fucking ton. (Notice how I'm swearing a whole fuckload? Yeah, that's just one of the symptoms that I have way TOO MUCH VOLUNTEER SHIT to do.)
But instead of preparing the little "How to Handle the American Flag" packets I need to make for the Girl Scouts meeting I'm running this afternoon, I'm noodling around on the internet, adding lots of books to my new account on LibraryThing, a "social networking" i.e., "I have more books than you" web site. (See, I did eventually get around to the novels I like to read, which includes Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey Maturin series, all 21 of which I own. In hardcover.)
I really have no business belonging to a site like LibraryThing, because why on earth would any sensible human being want the whole world to know that--fancy degrees in English Literature notwithstanding--she is apparently mindlessly accumulating every single book ever published that is 1. funny, and/or 2. G-rated.
I.e., I am a total fucking pottymouth, but my books? Are as blameless and pure as the driven snow.
Which, by the way, is piling up out there.
Oh well. Time to go deal with the fucking volunteer shit, she said, kicking aside yet another pile of P. G. Wodehouse books.
Even though I just told the whole internet.
Speaking of Aubrey Maturin novels, which I wasn't, but bear with me, I have a ton of horrible volunteer shit to do today. A fucking ton. (Notice how I'm swearing a whole fuckload? Yeah, that's just one of the symptoms that I have way TOO MUCH VOLUNTEER SHIT to do.)
But instead of preparing the little "How to Handle the American Flag" packets I need to make for the Girl Scouts meeting I'm running this afternoon, I'm noodling around on the internet, adding lots of books to my new account on LibraryThing, a "social networking" i.e., "I have more books than you" web site. (See, I did eventually get around to the novels I like to read, which includes Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey Maturin series, all 21 of which I own. In hardcover.)
I really have no business belonging to a site like LibraryThing, because why on earth would any sensible human being want the whole world to know that--fancy degrees in English Literature notwithstanding--she is apparently mindlessly accumulating every single book ever published that is 1. funny, and/or 2. G-rated.
I.e., I am a total fucking pottymouth, but my books? Are as blameless and pure as the driven snow.
Which, by the way, is piling up out there.
Oh well. Time to go deal with the fucking volunteer shit, she said, kicking aside yet another pile of P. G. Wodehouse books.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
I am woman, hear me roar.
I know. It's Thursday. Where the hell have I been?
Mostly hunkered down at home. And when I've gone out, I've been an exercise in political incorrectness. I'm head to toe fur. Check it out:
silk/cashmere knit hat with mink trim
silk/cashmere knit scarf with mink
pompoms
mink coat
kid gloves with cashmere lining
black shearling boots with all
kinds of fluffy ski bunny shearling-ocity
You know those people who are always picketing in front of Neiman Marcus holding up placards with big gruesome pictures of skinned animals and signs saying FUR KILLS? They would be all over me about this outerwear of mine.
Except they're not there. I'm guessing it's too cold for them. Come to think of it, you only see them out there during the summer. Tsk tsk. What a disappointment to realize that the protester who spends his summers yelling "Nobody needs to wear fur" is actually a pussy who can't deal with zero-degree weather.
Maybe I should volunteer to carry the placards for them. (Suitably dressed for the weather, of course.)
Heh.
I love being obnoxious.
Because you know what? I agree with them. It's true. Nobody needs fur.
But when it's zero degrees out, it's nice to put on the pelts. It's the difference between being miserable and having a kind of Hans Castorp-on-The Magic Mountain "I know! Let's go for a sleigh ride!" outlook.
But I guess you Vegans are going to have to trust me on this.
Friday, February 2, 2007
This should be a meme. And now is.
I just figured out my perfect hiphop artist name: P. Biddy.
Isn't it just PERFECT???? I mean, with the connotations of being an elderly incontinent female (just so you know, I'm not there yet, OK?) so what could be better? Don't you love it?
So ... what's yours?
p.s. Today I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of Posh Spice, yes, again. And if you head over there, you will realize why I'm currently obsessed with hiphop names. Peace out!
Isn't it just PERFECT???? I mean, with the connotations of being an elderly incontinent female (just so you know, I'm not there yet, OK?) so what could be better? Don't you love it?
So ... what's yours?
p.s. Today I'm over at Mamarazzi making fun of Posh Spice, yes, again. And if you head over there, you will realize why I'm currently obsessed with hiphop names. Peace out!
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