How can you miss me if I don't go away?

Hey internet? Miss me?

OK, maybe not. But I feel guilty, so I'm here to confess.

I haven't been blogging much. I'm part of a group blog, and I've been managing to do my Mamarazzi posts. Most of the time, at least. If you've been wondering where the hell I've been, and why I haven't been blogging, here's the deal.

Right about when school started, I signed up with LiveStrong's MyPlate program. I figured out things like if I want to lose 1.5 pounds a week, I need to eat about 1300 calories a day. And if I want to drink a glass of wine, I need to walk for half an hour. So anyway, with the weekly weigh-ins and the long walks and the food journal, I've been busy. I've also lost 15 pounds.

(Don't get excited, I weigh 175 pounds and am wearing a size 14.)

I've also been decluttering my house. I highly recommend it as a complementary activity. First of all, it gives you something to do besides eat. Also, as you shrink, you get to get rid of your fat clothes, which is kind of fun. And third, you get a huge sense of accomplishment. Really. I've been decluttering a space a day. Sometimes it's something small, like the junk drawer in the kitchen; sometimes it's something appallingly out-of-control and death-trap-y, like my closet. And it feels fantastic! I could have filled you in on this, but I don't know how compelling it would be. I've been boring my husband for weeks now.

What the hell, I'll give it a try. Hey internet! You should see my broom closet!!! Pfft. See what I mean?

So anyway, dieting and decluttering have kept me away from my laptop.

But here's a big one. Did you know, going into this parenting gig, that teenagers were such time- and energy-sucks? Color me naive, but I thought that as long as truly excruciating bad behavior involving drugs, alcohol,  unwed motherhood, and fresh back-talk weren't part of the picture--well, how bad could it be?

HA.

I won't go into the awkward stage where teenagers have a ton of extra-curricular activities and no driver's license, because you're all acquainted with the second shift, i.e., the karate / Girl Scouts / choir rehearsal / music lessons runs. That's all very well and good. As long as the curricular activities are going well.

But after too many days where I went to a board meeting and got home at 2:30, only to have some huge hairy homework debacle occur an hour later, it finally dawned on me that I needed to shed as much volunteer or unpaid activity as I could. There have been too many days recently where I had to chose between my family getting a decent dinner, and a child's homework being completed.

And I am NOT a helicopter mom. But if they flunk out, they'll never get into college. And if they don't get into college, they won't graduate and come home and clutter up my empty nest with pizza boxes and video game equipment. And that would never do.

So I had to put aside some of my favorite activities, i.e., the ones where I make an idiot out of myself. For example, this Christmas, I won't be putting on my red sequin Santa hat and singing "Santa Baby" to a roomful of retirees at the local nursing home. Even though those old guys think I'm smoking hot.

Also, the blogging thing had to go for a while. I needed to husband my energy.

I would have told you, except I was in the middle of it, and sometimes when I'm in the middle of things, I lack insight. I even (gasp!) sometimes lack the words.

So anyway. Miss Doxie is back!!!! and so--much less thrillingly--am I.

(And unlike Miss Doxie, I'll try to come back more often than once a year.)

It's been a glorious week, featuring a not-so-glorious looking Poppy

I met a psychiatrist on Monday and mentioned that I'm a style blogger. I'm sure he was all "delusions of grandeur" and "psychotic episode," because people, I looked like crap.

That's because I've spent most of the week--which has been absolutely perfect in terms of early fall weather--setting up the sewing and crafts room for my church's annual rummage sale.

Image borrowed from carla-at-home

This is not a crafts blog, and those of you who have been reading for a while will notice that I don't tend to spend a lot of time talking about sewing, quilting, embroidery, or needlepoint. You might be wondering why a glamorous style blogger like me is spending hours pricing packages of rickrack.

OK, I would totally volunteer for the makeup and skincare room, except they don't have one.

But really, the whole thing is Wendy's fault. See, I went to the rummage sale with her last year, and she bought out the sewing room. She walked out of there with something like her 14th sewing machine and several bushels of Liberty fabric, plus reams of seam binding, interfaces, and other sewing effluvia. This year she's too busy having an addition added to her house to volunteer, so somehow--don't ask me how, it's a mystery--I'm doing it instead.

At moments like this, I wonder why, when Jen Lancaster was researching volunteer opportunities, she didn't just follow me around. The way I look at it, volunteer jobs are kudzu, and my time is the southern landscape. They stick to me like burrs. They're as inevitable as white dog hair on a pair of black pants. Jen would have polished off her research in a couple of days.

Speaking of black pants and Jen Lancaster, a bunch of us will be going to a book signing tomorrow to meet Lisa Birnbach, editor of The Official Preppy Handbook and her recent follow-up, True Prep.

I'll be eating lunch with Wendy and Jen and Stacey as well as some other friends of mine that you probably don't know because they're not all over the internet.

The good news is that I've lost 10 pounds since August, and can just get into my favorite black pants. I don't know what else I'm wearing, though. I'm thinking a pink cashmere twinset from Brooks Brothers with an Hermes scarf with pink and green in it. I think that would be preppy enough.

If not, I can always add a string of pearls.

What do you mean, women don't like using maps?

Hi internet! Listen, I know I've been neglecting you shamefully lately. But I have excuses. Many, in fact.

Mr. Buxom, also known as "Counselor Whup Ass" has been out of town
ruthlessly horsewhipping Intelletual Property scofflaws
at a trial, and I've been the only parent to help with my wonderful, talented children--children whose talents involve lots of driving around and listening to music and cramming for exams and shopping for camp clothes, not to mention the camps themselves. Plus the usual groceries, laundry, cooking, mopping up spills and teenaged angst and what not.

Then there's all that volunteer bullshit I'm always whining about (see tags) like my own talented musical performances and the desktop publishing I'm doing for a non-profit even as we speak. In fact, I'm only here because I'm waiting on some proofs.

But what has suffered? MY BLOG, thank you very much. And MY READERS.

Well, listen, readers--one of the things that has been vexing me has been my printer's inability to scan anything. I had all these pictures I wanted to show you, and the stupid HP All-in-one had become a Part-in-one. And then, a couple of weeks ago, it even balked at printing and morphed into the world's largest paperweight. So I did the smart thing. I checked out the reviews of the HP PhotoSmart C4280 All-In-One printer on Amazon. And I discovered that's it's not me; it's HP.

So I bought a new printer. And I just scanned my first scan! Voila:

Now, other than playing with the new printer, why the scan?

It's to even the playing ground. Because a lot of the time, makeup instructions are written by makeup fanatics for makeup fanatics. I mean, I love MakeupAlley, but with all the talk about the back wedge,  tightlining, and waterlining, those women aren't speaking English.  If you aren't all makeup, all the time, you won't know what they're talking about.

Even makeup fanatics who write books forget to talk down to their readers. Where's Makeup for Dummies when you need it?

But Gentle Reader(s), this is Makeup for Dummies. And I promise, I'll never forget to talk down to you.

So check out this map. Study it. Learn the terminology. Refer back to it. Copy it onto the top of your left hand with a Sharpie. Tattoo it to the small of your back. Be the ball, Danny.

And get ready for Eye Shadow 101.

I'm not dead yet!

Internet, I have been neglecting you. I'm sorry.

See, my husband is out of town for the next month and I've been crazy busy with the non-profit volunteering crappe AND I got smacked with some kind of virus that landed in my throat, swelled up my tonsils, and generally made me miserable.

So the only blogging I've been doing is Contractually Obligated blogging, like the piece I did on updating your eyebrows for BlogHer, and a couple of posts I did for Mamarazzi, like my Field Guide to Reality Show Skanks.

The rest of the time I've been curled up on the sofa with my collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs. I'm almost through with Season 7, which means that I'll soon be blogging again.

Until then, there's something you ought to know. Gargling with a salt water solution every hour really does make your throat feel better!

But it bloats you up like a pregnant lady in her third trimester. I'm just saying.

Now is the month of Maying / when merry lads are playing / and ladies who lunch hold one damned lunch after another / Fa la la la

For a lot of people, May is a lovely month, but for me, May is the month when every non-profit, club, and board on the face of the earth holds its annual meeting.

Before I went to an annual meeting, I thought it would be a room full of guys in suits wondering what happened to this year's dividend. I pictured uprisings and gavels being banged and the kind of ruckus you see in those all-Springfield meetings they're always having on The Simpsons. That would have a certain charm.

Unfortunately, in my case, annual meetings are ladies' luncheons where everyone gets all dressed up, listens to boring reports, and eats too much fattening food.

And this week I had three ladies lunches on three successive days. THREE.

It's all an enormous strain. I'm a geek. I'd much rather be talking to the internet about eyeshadow. Instead, I'll be slipping on one of the three versions of this dress I scored at Old Navy and driving downtown to listen to rathah dull reports and eat too much.


(I got it in black, slate blue, and this Yummy Plummy color. Two were $25 and one was $12.95, can you believe it?)

But seriously, people, can you imagine serving lobster souffle and then having coconut cake for dessert? That's a week's worth of calories in a single meal.

Internet, I'd rather hang out with you. Granted, you end up costing me a lot of money (see above) but you're way less fattening, and anyway, I want to finish what I have to say about neutral eye makeup. I mean, let's face it; I'm one of the most interesting people I know. I like making the internet listen to me talk to myself. It's fun.

I also want to tell you about what I'm doing to get ready for my 30th college reunion. Yes, I said it. Thirty years.

I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone and try some new things in a last-ditch attempt to impress my classmates with how fabulous I look for my age. I bought a Murad Resurgance starter kit ($119) and started using it on May 1st.

Murad Resurgence 90 Day Kit

I also bought the new five-minute Crest Whitestrips. And some absolutely enormous vitamins.

But I don't know when I'm going to find the time to post, what with all these luncheons.

(I might actually make a video, instead.)

Triple XXX rated Garden P0rn and other stories

OH

MY

GOD

you guys, I can't believe how dusty this blog has gotten or how busy I've been this week.

In the past five days, I've managed to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never let my husband forget he's a man--wait a minute, he's been out of town all week. But I've kept the house reasonably picked up and the children reasonably well fed. I've attended rehearsals. I've dragged my son off to sing in an Evensong.

But on top of that, all these trucks have been lined up in front of my house all week long because the landscaping company I hired in the beginning of April finally decided to show up and start sticking new plants in my yard. And I don't mean two bushes on either side of the front door. I mean trees and shrubs and perennials and outdoor lighting and really stinky mulch.

Yes, in a doomed attempt to make my teardown look a bit less so, I've sunk large American dollars into the yard. That sucking sound you hear is the landscape company vacuuming the last penny out of my wallet.

And this means that in addition to the usual crap I have to do, I had to keep going outside and patiently explaining that I hated the plants they picked out. Because honestly, with all the forsythia out there (which I don't like that much but was there when we bought the house and was therefore free) the last thing I need is more shrubs that make yellow flowers in the spring.

And anyway, witch hazel is something I buy at CVS, not something I want growing in my yard.

Anyway, what with giving the landscaping company a piece of my mind clearly communicating my wishes, and doing the driveway minuet with three or four trucks whenever I had to drive anywhere, plus the aforementioned musical activities, I've been frazzled.

But stick around, because eventually I'll post some garden p0rn.

Oh, and I posted elsewhere twice this week, so if you want to find out whether Clairol Nice 'n Easy Root Touch Up is worth buying, and whether there is any humor to be found in Miss California USA's family dynamics, feel free to exit click right now.

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?)

Questions, I need questions

OK, first of all, here's a news update, since it's been so long since I actually sat and typed an actual blog post: I'm in New Hampshire for spring break. And before I left Chicago I was up to my earlobes in volunteer work--attending bored meetings, making phone calls, trying to find a sucker to be next year's hospitality chair--the usual crap.

Although I have to admit that my overseeing of eighth grade musical rehearsals has been substantially cut back, possibly as a result of my calling one of the kids a douche bag.

Which leaves me wondering whether that's a one-size-fits-all solution to MY ENTIRE LIFE. I mean, I'm sure the possibility that I might call their white-haired old ladies "douche bags" would sharply decrease the number of jobs The National Society of the Colonial Dames in the State of Illinois might ask me to do.

It's a thought.

Anyway, on Tuesday I've got to put up a BlogHer Beauty Hacks post, and so far, the only idea I've had is that of visiting the Cosmetic Center store in the outlets in Kittery, Maine, and checking out what's available. But the store might have closed, or they might not have anything except a bunch of those sparkly little compacts Estee Lauder produces every year at Christmas time. Full of solid perfume in signature Estee Lauder scents. You know, Youth-Dew, or Beautiful. And reminding me of a cross between a Jay Strongwater bibelot and a Walgreen's perfume counter. Which would only be of interest to crazed collectors.

Not what I want to write about.

So I would be really thrilled if you'd ask me a few questions, particularly about makeup and skin care. It would help prime the pump. I am not nearly as sure-handed with fashion questions--take those to blackbird--but I know my way around a makeup counter like you wouldn't believe.

N. B. I did fulfill my contractual obligation to put up my usual Friday Mamarazzi post, and I would be so grateful if you'd check it out and let me know whether I'm off-base in claiming that Kelly Osbourne is deserving of our heart-felt devotion. I mean, is she really awesome, or is she mostly notable for having survived thus far, given her parentage?

In which Poppy takes quill in hand, and writes

I'm about to start writing a report for the annual meeting of a non-profit on the fundraiser I recently chaired for them. We raised a record-breaking amount of money. In your face, doubters and nay-sayers! Because I'm pretty good at raising money.

What I'm not so good at is making nice. Right now I have to try to remember the name of every single person who did anything to contribute to the event. And I will be sure to miss a few, because I am forgetful, and I don't know--someone who donated $5,000 is just somehow easier to remember than someone who donated some used object to the silent auction that didn't end up selling. But charity work being what it is, you just know that the $5,000 person won't care about being mentioned, and the used items person will care deeply. And will then go around behind my back whining about how her efforts weren't appreciated enough.

Well, Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care. But I do care that stupidly, I came downtown with my laptop but without my power cord. So here I am typing away at a desktop--that doesn't have a printer. I can't print. And so my report will be hand-written.

HAND-WRITTEN, people. Inaccurate, incomplete, pissing people off, and HAND-WRITTEN.

Have I told you lately how much I love you, internet, in all your typed beauty?

OK, gotta go forget some people.

Color me crazy. In 4 x 6 portrait size.

Here's a little-known fact about fundraisers: they have the half life of plutonium. (Whatever that means. Science isn't my thing--but metaphors are.)

In other words, if you chair an event on June 22, it is quite possible that you will be working your ass off on it on July 7th. And you will not be anywhere near done. No, what you once thought of as those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, where you were going to have all kinds of free time, is becoming that month where you spent so much time indoors with a rapidly overheating laptop on your lap that you almost developed your first yeast infection.

What have I been doing with said laptop? Well, for the past couple of days I've been going through pictures. Four hundred and 16 of them, to be precise. I spent four hours on Friday finding out who all these people were. Then I was busy putting together little collections: this set for Chicago Social, this set for Skyline, this set for some regional magazine for a suburb so chi-chi-poo-poo that I don't think I've ever been there.

Oh, and since I'm apparently the only person IN THE WORLD who uses computers, I have to upload, edit, download, distribute, and print photographs to bring to show other, less-technologically gifted people. So they can decide which pictures they want to use. Because, you know, they don't know how to look at digital photographs. Because that would mean they'd have to use a computer.

Oh, and Walgreen's on line printing service doesn't like the photographs, for some reason. So now I have to bring a disk in to an actual store and find out what's wrong with them.

I don't know--they look OK to me, but what am I? Only the fucking event chair, but what does a ruthlessly egalitarian chain store like Walgreen's care about fancy titles? As far as Walgreen's is concerned, titles are worthless--they are yesterday's newspaper, the aluminum tray from a TV dinner, the pull top of a Tab can, the dried-out husks of the 17-year cicadas piled up under the oak trees in that yard I'll never go outside and enjoy because I'm trapped inside working on these photographs.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Walgreen's hates me. And actually, so does Blogger, who's been giving me a hard time over these furshlinginer pictures, too. But Blogger has finally condescended to accept them. So here's a sampling:

Pajama blogging at its finest

I'm not really here. OK, I am. But I'm not presentable. Because I'm going to the gym.

OK, yes, it's after 11:00 in the morning and I'm still not dressed, but you know, I've had such a busy week. I forced myself to do all kinds of things I didn't want to do--like get dressed up, drive downtown, attend meetings, go to fundraising events and concerts--when all I wanted to do was play with the internet.

I mean, why put yourself in situations where you have to get dressed in uncomfortable clothes and be polite, when you could stay in your pajamas and take cheap shots at celebrities?

So just a few quick, sweet, fruity Jell-O cheap shots, and then I'll promise I'll go all low-fat organic strawberry smoothie at the gym.

Today's winner is Anne Heche, my current Mamarazzi target for pretending not to be batshit crazy, when we all know she is.



Runner-up Number 1 was Miss Personality herself, Lindsay Lohan



who apparently Comes In Color. Her so-called dress looks like an ace bandage on acid. "She's like a rainbow. Coming colors in the air. Oh everywhere." Including her hair. Which frankly, looks better red, because when Lindsay goes blonde she looks like every other peroxide blonde coke-snorting starlet who just escaped from rehab. Such as this one:


who has not yet discovered that low-rise jeans are out of style. Or that wearing a hat doesn't make a wig look less like a wig. Or that it's called underwear for a reason.

OK, folks--gym time.

The Strife is O'er, Part I

The first of my two fundraisers is over, over, over, and I am glad, glad, glad. I had a nice crowd of people eating, drinking, and making merry to celebrate the opening of an exhibit at the Chicago Cultural Center. The food was delish, the drinks plenteous, I met the Mayor's wife, and was petted and praised by all. Yay, me.

And now, I get to do what I want to do. Which is sit around in my pajamas and play Snood Solitaire on my laptop. When I'm not blabbing on the phone with RW of Chasing Vincenzo, who, believe it or not, is even funnier in real life than he is on his blog.

The cleaners will be here soon, so I'll help them out a bit by doing my bulldozer bit, wherein I put away my crap and put everyone else's in big grocery sacks and then carry them down to what a realtor would call our "rec room," (otherwise known as "that tomb of gloom down in the basement that, many owners ago, was enlivened with a green linoleum floor and knotty pine paneling.") So that takes care of my workout, because that will be a few bags and a few trips up and down the stairs.

So really, life couldn't be better, except for the Liprosy.

Maybe you haven't heard of that.

"Liprosy" is what you get when you let your lipstick wear off and then spend five hours in the sun at an amusement park surrounded by sixth grade boys and roller coasters. Because without lipstick on, you get a sunburn on your lips. I know! How weird is that? And then you have two days to wonder whether you've become allergic to your usual lip balm, and why isn't it working, and why are your lips two different colors, and what's with all the peeling?

So anyway, I'm all better now, but yesterday I'm afraid I looked ... a little unsavory.

So the moral of the story is: wear lipstick. Even if you're a guy.

"This is such an elegant evening--such fun--more with you there. Hope you can make it!"

In case you've been wondering--that's what I've been writing. Not blogs. Enclosure cards for fundraiser invitations.

Over and over and over again.

Sometimes on the massive card stock provided by the Music of the Baroque. Sometimes on the tiny card stock provided by the Chicago Branch of the English-Speaking Union. Sometimes on the envelope itself, because the idiotic printer sealed the envelopes.

And over and over and over, always customized for the recipient. Is he or she a music lover--a party lover--an English major?

*...---+++###+++---......---+++###+++---......---+++###+++---...*

And in other news, on Sunday I booked a trip for the four of us. To Paris!

Why it never occurred to me that my children, who at 10 and 12 are long out of diapers, could actually handle an overseas flight--not to mention a vacation that did not revolve around waiting in line to get Minnie Mouse's autograph--escapes me. I mean, hello? They're out of diapers! The stroller is history! You can actually have a conversation with them now! Sort of.

So anyway, when a friend mentioned that's what she's planning for the summer, ze light bulb, she went off in my tiny brain, and I thought--hey, why not?

Well, there's the expense. That's one reason. And it's a pretty good one. As it turns out if you wait this long, airlines charge lots of money for round trip tickets.

But then there is the little matter of airline miles. Of which that Stud Muffin I Married had accumulated not a few. Methodically. For years. Like since 1991. And I think--honestly--we might have cashed in, say, three domestic coach round trips in all that time. So, free flights.

So, Paris in June! Sound good? Zut, yeah. Maybe more "with you there," as there are many readers whom I think it would be great fun to travel--but fun, anyway.

I see the White Hen Pantry in the waitress role

At times volunteering is eerily like having an actual real-live paying job. Without the paycheck or the benefits. Don't believe me? This was yesterday:

9:00 Dropped children's lost homework at school
9:15 Picked up four big trays of invitations from printer
Drove to Chicago
10:00 First of three meetings
11:00 Focus group
12:00 Lunch
1:30 Drove to Chicago Cultural Center for meeting; used Wi-Fi to work on agenda for 5:30 meeting
2:00 Meeting
3:00 finished and printed spreadsheet and agenda
4:30 Headed back to set up my 5:30 meeting
5:30 Ran meeting
7:15 Finally got to drive home

At times like this I wonder why I call myself a "housewife." I didn't see my house all day. I bet it went out with a couple of other houses, had a few beers, watched the game, and flirted with the waitress.

Sweetness and Light

Today's to-do list is two pages long and counting.

And so, I have nothing amusing to say.*

Instead, I will tell you to click this. Because I live to spread sweetness and light.

And now, my work here is done.

* "Help!" doesn't qualify. Even when I use my best Graham-Chapman-as-a-Cockney-Housewife voice. I know this for a fact, because I've been practicing all morning.

And now, back to normal

Big sigh of relief here. Holy week is over, so that even though Easter continues to be celebrated in the Buxom household, with the chocolate and the baskets and the green stuff that's supposed to look like grass all over the place, my church attendance is back to its normal once-a-week pace, my music folder no longer resembles the Manhattan telephone directory, and while my laundry pile remains seemingly insurmountable, it's in the usual way--not a send-out-the-St. Bernards-because-I'm-dying-over-here way.

My free-floating anxiety levels remain, however, along with the Nativity scene that is still up.

The other day I mentioned the Nativity scene's being up as a little amuse-gueule of self deprecation. I hope you enjoyed it, even though I'm suffused with embarrassment that the entire internet knows what a lame-o I am--but does that get the Nativity scene carefully wrapped and stowed in the two big cardboard boxes it takes to store it properly? No, it does not.

So if you want that Nativity scene put away before Pentecost (that's 50 days after Easter, for the Christianity-impaired) call me up, and we'll arrange a time for you to come over and do it. Because I have laundry to do, people. And groceries to buy. And my son's birthday party to arrange.

I also have an unbelievable amount of volunteer crap to do. But we're not talking about that! Because talking about it doesn't get it done! Neither does venting! And both talking and venting increase stress, and increased stress increases cortisol levels in the blood, increased cortisol levels tell my body to add fat cells to my abdomen! Yes, you read it here first; it is increased stress levels and not Easter basket candy that is making me get fatter by the second.

So we're not going there. Because there is not enough spandex in the world, people.

So if you're reading this and you're on one of my committees, DON'T WORRY because everything is under control. Sort of.

If you're feeling like shit / And you need a quick lift / Caffeine

I'm completely freaking out over EVERYTHING, but especially over other people's caffeine levels. Or the lack thereof.

Blackbird says she hasn't had caffeine in 22 years. That's a long time. I haven't known how to drive a car that long, but I've been driving around like the bat in the adage for a fairly long stretch, and always in a highly caffeinated state, or at the very least, wishing I were. I cannot imagine doing without for 22 years.

Then there's Joke, who claims to always drink espresso. With which, frankly, I can't be bothered. The cups are so small. The coffee, while robust in aroma, is frankly, pallid as to caffeine level. And the whole experience is over so soon. You might as well try to stay awake by sniffing the aroma from someone else's cup.

How on earth do they get anything done?

Me, I've got fifty-million things to do, and I'm pumping seriously heavy mugs of coffee to try to keep up with at least some portion of my to-do list. Which at the moment, includes the following:

1. Do laundry, empty refrigerator, tidy house, pack for Spring break.
2. Don't forget the sunscreen.
3. Do any of my spring clothes fit?
4. Crash diet time.
5. Where are our bathing suits?
6. Passports!!!!!!
7. Oh my GOD is it too late to call Disney and book shore leave or whatever they call it?
8. The Jokes are going to join us in Disney World. But are we going to eat any meals together? Probably not, since no one has called Disney Dining to book tables for eight incredibly noisy people--HEY--at least seven of which are not I, so don't look at me, OK?
9. Fundraiser 1: review invitation copy; deal with invitation list; deal with caterer.
10. Fundraiser 2: compose invitation copy, find sample invitation that has been lost for weeks, find similarly lost check from corporate donor, freak out, nag committee members to do their jobs.
11. Inform all teachers who scheduled tests for Friday that (neener neener!) my son and daughter won't be here to take them.
12. Tidy house again so the turtle sitter won't think I'm a slob.
13. Book eyebrow and leg wax, manicure, pedicure, shampoo and blow out for Wednesday morning.
14. Freak out some more.
15. And then some more, for good measure.

You can see why I marvel over other people's lack of caffeine consumption. And that's exactly what I'm doing right now, while drinking yet another mug of coffee, and blogging like a squirrel on crack.

Friday natterings

I'm sorry, Internet. I put all of today's ration of creativity into this week's Mamarazzi post. Check it out if you want to see why Donald Trump probably won't bother to get a paternity test for his latest wife's baby.

I got my hair colored and styled today. It looks good. The rest of me kind of sucks, but tonight we're going to see Cosi Fan Tutti. We sit in a box, and before the opera we have dinner in this special dining room for the Truly Big Donors. I enjoy swanning around there and feeling like Really Hot Shit, so don't worry, Internet; I'll slap on some makeup and get into the Little Black Dress du jour (whom am I kidding?* I only have one Little Black Dress. And it's "du soir," anyway.)

Now for the bad news. I need to get off my ass and pack up the minivan for a weekend in the city. I also need to talk my children into putting their clothes on, because they didn't have school today, and naturally, stayed in their pajamas.

Tomorrow I have four hours of rehearsals for a piece I don't like very much. On Sunday I'll have to perform it. If asked, "Poppy, do you like the Durufle' Requiem?" My answer would be "Feh." But do people ask? No, they do not. And therein lies the problem.

Oh yeah. It got cold again. On Monday it was 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Today it's 36 degrees.

There's an asshole parked on my street. The rear of his or her car is lapping over my driveway by about a foot and a half. Do I have your permission to smack him?

*Note correct grammar. See how easy it is? Why does this elude so many people, most of who should know better?

I, Curmudgeon

Middle age rocks. Or is that an oxymoron? Maybe it is, but let me tell you, being an old broad is liberating. I get to be as crabby as I want. I get to be uninterested in stuff that bores me. Which I always was, but now I let it show. And I love it. Because maybe I don't get enough sleep, but some things just don't seem worth the bother:

1. That whole coffee-house, espresso, latte, cappucino thing. I'll stick to a cup of coffee. American style.

2. Trying to do a decent job styling my hair. From now on, when I really need to look good, I'll let the professionals handle it. The rest of the time, I'll look like dog vomit. This is bad news for all of you out there--as well as local property values--but I don't care. I'll just avert my eyes whenever I pass a mirror.

3. Eating food I don't like. For example, I hate food that used to be alive when it's served cooked, but very, very rare. This especially applies to duck. From now on, I won't eat it. I won't even pretend to try to eat it. If the waiter wants to know why I'm ignoring the pulpy lump of protein on my plate, I'll tell him, "My gorge just rose."

4. Mass culture. "Bah, humbug" to movies, best-selling books, and popular music. If anyone asks me whether I've seen any good movies lately, I'll answer, "No, thank God." OK, my doctoral dissertation was about film, but it was silent film. I could talk your heads off about D. W. Griffith, but I couldn't care less about anything playing in the movie theaters now. Or what's on television. Or popular music. No, I didn't watch the Academy Awards. Or the Grammies. (I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Blackbird, and your posts about Survivor, but I don't know what you're talking about.) Admittedly, it makes it difficult to navigate the average conversation. For example, when I'm at the salon getting my hair done (see number 2) I find it hard to converse with the woman wielding the hair-dryer. I solved this by finding a hair-dryer-wielder who doesn't try to make conversation. Because--to be frank--I find myself far more interesting than the average hair-dryer-wielder.

5. Local politics. There is some kind of school budget referendum on the horizon. I've decided to ask my pal Fiddledeedee what it's about, and then vote accordingly.

6. My blog numbers are down. Way down. I DON'T CARE. Come here and read about my petty little problems or don't. I'm too grumpy to be funny for you people. Why am I grumpy? Today I have even more volunteer bullshit to do. I have to go downtown and get my picture taken, and I don't have time to get my hair done, so it will look like shit. Then I have a lunch meeting where I'll probably be served some sort of undercooked protein on that annoying baby lettuce (sorry, forgot to add that to my list) and the meeting promises to be boring beyond belief. Although people will probably not be talking about television programs. So there's that.

My sense of humor is the only one being dated around here

I'm working my ass off with my usual housewife bullshit, not to mention the two events I'm chairing.

My anxiety levels are going through the roof.

I just found out that Diesel is starting a scoring system on humor-blogs.com.

I have a low score.

Allow me to inform you that the above is extremely witty, sparkling, and ironic in a hilariously post-modern Dennis Miller kind of way. You're just too unsophisticated to realize it.

That's the news and

I

am

out

of

here.