30 Days to 10 years younger--10 minute tips. Tip 3: Triage

OK, the whole thing started because I was working on a video about eyebrows. Yes, like Badger, I was thinking about dipping a toe into the growing field of vlogging.

So I was in the bathroom applying eyebrow powder and talking to myself in the mirror. You know, practicing. Suddenly I realized that I needed to drop off my daughter's lunch at school. And that the lunch bell was going to ring at 12:05. And that it was 11:55. And while my eyebrows were looking particularly fetching, the rest of me was still in my pajamas.

My daughter's school is a five minute walk away. Which gave me one minute to get dressed, two minutes to fix lunch, and two minutes to clean up my act.

The two minutes to fix lunch was easy. I put together a PB&J sandwich, a snack-sized bag of Doritos, a container of chocolate pudding, and an orange.

Then I spent the same amount of time cleaning up my act in case a teacher or another mom snagged me after I dropped off lunch. And I realized that I was just as fast and efficient at getting ready as I was at making lunches. It's because I had the cosmetics equivalent of snack-sized bags of Doritos ready to go.


My first step was to wipe my face with my son's Stridex Daily Care Maximum pads. Despite their tough anti-acne talk, they're actually just little wipes soaked in a gentle salicylic acid solution. There's no Benzoyl Peroxide or alcohol or anything harsh like that. They're a step more thorough than a cotton ball with toner--perfect for a quick clean up.

Then I applied a pea-sized blob of Garnier Nutritioniste Daily Moisture Lotion SPF 28 all over my face

and finished with a fast slick of my beloved Revlon ColorStay Lipglaze in Infinite Rose.
Then I disguised the rest of me with some clothes, my favorite black puffy jacket, black and gray fingerless gloves, a gray wool beanie over my disheveled locks, and a pair of sunglasses.

And shot out the door at the speed of light.

The lesson? We all need to figure out the one or two products that will make us look at least halfway presentable time we're incredibly time-crunched. (I'm aware that the phrase "time-crunched" usually does not denote a housewife talking to herself in the bathroom--but bear with me.) At our age, looking good takes planning. There are products out there that can make us look 100 percent better--and in almost no time at all. For me, the crucial thing is lip color. I'm deeply unhappy when I'm caught without it, so I try to always have something handy, even if it's just Cherry Chap-Stick.

I don't sweat my eye makeup nearly as much, probably because I always have glasses on. Everybody's different. Your first priority might be concealer, mascara, or eyebrow color.

Do you know your first priorities? Have you figured out a three minute system? If not, you should figure it out. Because I'm here to tell you, a combination of fuzzy PJs and impeccably filled brows doesn't cut it.

Joy rushes in where angels fear to tread

I've been catching up on the action over at Suburban Correspondent's The More, The Messier, and I saw that she had accepted an assignment: to come up with 10 things that give her a joy rush.

So, because I'm feeling all copy-catty these days, here are mine. Read on to discover what a self-centered idiot I really am:

1. Monday mornings. For you working stiffs, Mondays are the start of your work week. But I am a housewife and the mother of school-aged children, so for me, Mondays are the day when everyone gets out of my face and leaves me in relative peace and quiet for six or seven hours. Mondays are also the day when I don't need to drive anywhere until I take the kids to their 5:30 karate class. And so, to all of you who shout "Thank God It's Friday!" I counter with a quiet whisper of pleasure that everyone is off doing something constructive, leaving me alone to think my little thoughts in peace.

2. A freshly-made pot of piping-hot tea.

3. A short stack of much-desired new books and the chance to sit down and read them. And not be interrupted for a couple of hours.

4. The moment I realize that spring has finally arrived in Chicago. For the record, this was a week ago today.

5. Watching my children perform in their music groups.

6. Having them come watch me perform in mine.

7. Looking at my children's baby pictures. After I look at the first three or four, I start banging on their bedroom doors shouting "Come out here RIGHT NOW and look at these ADORABLE baby pictures. Can you believe HOW CUTE YOU WERE? No, you CAN'T because it's UNBELIEVABLE."

8. Fun times with my huzbin.

9. Making people laugh helplessly. Bonus points if it's my huzbin. More points if it's my children. Even more if it's all three of them.

10. Finding a brand-new way to make an idiot out of myself on the internet, and, I hope, make a few more people laugh helplessly:

God help me; I have cell phone lust.

Today marks the end of an era. The era when I made a parenting decision and stuck by my guns is over. Unfortunately. Because up 'til now, I haven't been the sort of person to cave just because someone whines, or pouts, or tells me that all the other kids have a (desired object).

But I just ordered my daughter a cell phone. Which I had vigorously resisted doing.

Her birthday's on Monday. She'll be 11. Viewed objectively in the cold, clear light of the internet, she's really too young to own a cell phone. Right? I mean, she loses things. A lot. Also, she has Asperger's Syndrome, which affects social interaction, which means she doesn't have dozens of little tween-aged friends to talk to and IM and text. Well, actually, she doesn't have any little tween-aged friends. So whom is she planning to call, anyway?

Oh, wait a minute. Me. If she has a charged cell phone on her person, in case of some scheduling snafu or other semi-emergency, she'll be able to call me. Even better, I'll be able to call her.

Although if she does have a charged cell phone on her person during a crisis situation? I'll have all the proof I need that I really did bring the wrong baby home from the hospital.

Anyway, I went to the Cingular website and ordered her a free phone--who cares about the model, the important thing is that it's red--and the cheapest possible monthly plan, and some limited texting ability, and an insurance plan for if when she loses it.

And then I fell sick in love with this:
People, it does everything. And it has a qwerty keyboard. And GPS and satellite radio. And MicroSoft Office. And tethers to a laptop as a mobile high-speed modem. WANT.

Unfortunately, it costs even more than an iPhone. And have I ever tapped into even a quarter of what my Razr can do? No, I have not.

So what. I don't care. Lust is irrational, and this is lust talking here. WANT.

It's ... alive!

Mobile post sent by Poppy Buxom using Utterz. Replies. mp3

All Things Must Passat

Look who's back.

Doesn't it look great? It even smells great. I guess when you pay $13,000 for all that body work and a new engine and everything, they throw in a free detail job. Also--I feel that I need to mention this, so as to be completely fair--a free pen.

I think the pen was to make sure I had something to use to sign the check.

But just think. I got my car back on Ash Wednesday. Just in time for me to give up driving my minivan for Lent. OK, all kidding aside, driving my minivan isn't actually on my list of Lenten Give Ups. That's just a little Penitential Season humor. Which I don't expect you pagans or Wiccans or Unitarians to understand.

So I'll explain Lent. It's the season in the church year where we commemorate the 40 days Jesus spent fasting in the wilderness. Because I am prone to nearly delirious levels of whimsy, it occurred to me that like Jesus, my Passat just spent 90 days in the wilderness (OK, body shop) and ... well, you see where that led me.

But just so you know, I don't actually think there is a connection between my car and Jesus. (Although come to think of it, my car does look kind of like an Easter egg.)

OK, back to Lent. I'm planning on some major cutting back. So far the Give Up list includes booze, sweets, and possibly pork products; I haven't made up my mind about that last one. Will it make me seem too Muslim?

I'm never exactly sure what to give up, so I usually make it up as I go along, starting at breakfast time on Ash Wednesday. Which is why I always seem to give up booze. Because by the time it's late enough in the day to have a drink, I've decided that I'm a no-good, sleazy, backsliding piece of shit. So I think "I know! I'll quit drinking for Lent!" And that makes me feel almost as virtuous as my Catholic pal. (Maybe even more virtuous. Because now that I've gotten my car back, I'm no longer obsessed with worldly goods. Unlike some people with their new bathrooms and kitchens and requests for information about stainless steel appliances, high-end hand-made tiles, and other vanities.*)

* Get it? Bathrooms? Vanities? Yes! More Penitential Season humor! So stick around. Later on, I might start handing out free pens.

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.

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 minivan^{tm badger} only to smash that one up, too.

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.

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.

Because the entire state of Illinois will be watching the Super Bowl

Except me.

Well, me, and a few other church choir weirdos, and a couple of homeless people sitting in the pews.

Because instead of sitting around drinking and watching Prince, (who is only my tiny little sexy badass guitar playing boyfriend, that's all--and has been since before I saw Purple Rain--more than once, I might add--back when it was playing in movie theaters) and all the new, high-budget television ads (including the one with Kevin Federline as a fast food worker, which I very justifiably made fun of in a recent Mamarazzi entry) and oh, yeah, a football game, I and my musical colleagues will be singing an Evensong service.

With our classically-trained voices.

It will be lovely. And no one will care. Not even us.

And so, in honor of classical music singers everywhere, I bring you Bryan Griffin (dressed as Ivan from the Lyric Opera of Chicago's recent production of Die Fledermaus) singing "Bear Down, Chicago Bears."



Go Bears!

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!