176

I went to Weight Watchers today not in fear and trembling, per se, but not feeling all that great about it, either. I haven't been tracking my food, and I certainly haven't been working out.

See, I'm still getting the house back in order after last fall's construction project. Yes, still. Not to mention Christmas. Confession time: our Christmas tree went down on January 20th, mostly because it seemed a little silly to still have a Christmas tree up on Martin Luther King Day.

It's taking so long because I wanted to do this right. Not just put everything back into the kitchen--not to shove Christmas decorations into random boxes, but do things properly. This meant I needed to do a whole shitload of some decluttering.

So I haven't been working out, per se, but I haven't been sitting around eating bonbons, either. I've cleaned out a bunch of closets and made multiple trips with a van packed with stuff to donate to the rummage sale. I've moved furniture around. I've cleaned out the storage area.

(Which badly needed cleaning. I mean, I found a box of rattles. May I remind you that my kids are not 1 and 2 but 11 and 12?)

While I've been dejunking the house, I've been pondering my clutter situation. I decided that if you want to see a house that needs attention, maybe the first person you need to talk to is a woman with a weight problem.

Marcia Cilley, a/k/a Flylady, has a book out called Body Clutter. I haven't read it, and I probably won't, because to be honest, the Flylady stuff gets on my last nerve--all that stuff about Purple Puddles is so ... how can I put this tactfully ... not me.

But. It seems to me that weight problems and clutter problems very frequently strike the same people. And the reason is Freud's Pleasure Principle. You know, where you seek pleasure and avoid pain. Because let's face it: it's much easier to let crap accumulate than pare way down. And it's much easier to have the second helping, super-size the fast-food order, and sit on the couch and watch television rather than get up and move.

In both cases, the deciding vote is cast by entropy.

This means that if you don't do anything about it, what with the gifts, the junk mail, the outgrown children's clothes and toys, the collectibles, the books you're not interested in any more, the DVDs you aren't watching, the CDs you aren't listening to, the clothes you're tired of, the stuff that doesn't fit any more, the piles of antique linens your mother foisted off on gave you--you, like me, are up to your armpits in a lot of crap you don't use or love or have any real reason to own.

And if you sit around on your ass and eat a little too much every day, and drink a little too much every day ... you are probably carrying around a bunch of clutter under your clothes.

So for the past couple of weeks, when I thought I wasn't working out? I really was. At least, I was doing something very similar to working out. I sure didn't want to do it. But once I got going, I got all energetic. And when I was done? I was exhausted, but I felt great. Also, I needed to take a shower.

So you see, decluttering really is like going to the gym.

And I think that's why I lost a pound last week.

First words

Yesterday at my daughter's birthday celebration my husband was exposed to a pungent and unusually muscular variety of dog or cat dander that had him sneezing his head off.

For hours.

When it was time to go to bed, I suggested--not for the first time, mind you--that he take some Benadryl. He'd never taken it before, but we keep a small supply of it around to keep the kids' ears from exploding on long airplane rides.

But this is Mr. Mistrusts-All-Over-the-Counter Drugs we're talking about. He's willing to take the enteric aspirin his doctor recommends. And he's been known to swallow the occasional Tylenol. But that's it. So it was only because he really was miserable, and he'd been sneezing and blowing his nose for about five hours, and he was about to go to sleep, that my powers of persuasion finally became strong enough to convince him. So after, oh, say, 10 or 15 minutes of explaining that an antihistamine was exactly what he needed, he finally agreed to take a single tablet of Benadryl. It's a miracle! And it only took 19 years of marriage!

And then, this morning, his first words to me were:

"Wow, I slept great last night. That Benadryl stuff is amazing."

and the kicker:

" You should have made me take it a long time ago."

Today is Martin Luther King Day. But it's also

the birthday of the Queen of the Known Universe. That's right, people. Poppette turned 11 today.
- - - - -
Dear Poppette,

Today you're one hundred and thirty two months 11 years old. This is you on your tenth birthday:



And now you're eleven. And you've grown up so much.

In many ways, you're still my little girl. You're crazy about sweets--especially chocolate.



You still have those cute baby cheeks.



Your room is still overflowing with stuffed animals--especially Minnie Mouse.

But you've had a lot of new experiences this year, and we've enjoyed watching you rise to the challenge. You were the flower girl at my sister's wedding.


You were absolutely perfectly composed for the ceremony. Then you danced like a maniac at the reception, ending up with a couple of Daddy/Daughter dances.


You went to a new camp, where you finally learned to swim. And you turned into a real water baby, much to the surprise and pleasure of the swimming coach--not to mention your parents.


And zut alors, you've been to Paris! Where again, you behaved beautifully. I will never forget showing you the Botticellis at the Louvre. As well as what's her name--the lady Da Vinci painted. You know the one.


Oh, that's right. Mona Poppette.

We are so proud of you.

Happy Birthday, Poppette!

Love,
Mother

Cold. (Updated with Celsius correction)

I'm not one to whine much about the weather in Chicago. First of all, it's been done before--and better--by people who have lived here longer than I have.

Ok, I might be able to put a fresh twist on a bare recital of the facts--add a little zest to things, say, with a description of the way my hand got frozen to the car door this morning--but chances are, anything I'd say would have been said before.

But I want to tell you about today's parking situation, anyway.

On Sunday mornings, I park around the corner from the cathedral where I sing. The garage I park in is part of a development: there are a few shops, a Whole Foods, a Blockbuster, and an apartment complex. It's a typical one-block city development. Usually it's pretty quiet on Sunday mornings. And today, it was extra quiet because it was freezing--literally. When I left the house this morning, it was five below zero (27 C) or, to the metrically-inclined, minus 20.5 degrees Celsius.

After church, when I went to pay, the machine kept telling me I was using an invalid ticket. I tried four times, and the same thing happened every time. So I had to call the garage office on my cell phone, and they told me to go to the office.

When I arrived, things were pretty chaotic. There were two angry customers in the office, and two more customers yelling at the girls via cellphone. The girls were pissed off, too. Pretty much everyone was pissed off--even me. I mean, at first, I was sort of glad to have to go to the office, because this meant the problem probably wasn't my fault. (Because--let's face it, after all these years I know myself pretty well, and most of the time, IT IS.) But after a while, I started to get pissy, too.

I mean, I really shouldn't have had to make three separate phone calls just to figure out where the office was. But I did. And then when I finally got there, things were so ugly, it was like someone had let a bunch of aldermen loose.

At least with all the yelling going on, I found out what the problem was. Apparently the computer that runs the parking machines got so cold that it wasn't working properly. That's right--it was so cold the computer died.

So that's Chicago for you: a unique combination of freezing cold weather, dead computers, surly incompetence, rude assholes, and bloggers who don't know when to shut up.

More consumer lust.

OK, I'm still madly in love with that AT&T Tilt cell phone ... and if I still love in a couple of weeks, my loving spouse has volunteered to buy it for me for Valentine's Day.

But today, I went furniture shopping.

OH MY GOD I am sick in love with some of the stuff at Carson Pirie Scott's furniture gallery. The Sherrill stuff is really nice. And the Hickory Chair? Is a wet dream.

Also, I am in love with the furniture salesman who took me around and showed me stuff. This guy was opinionated and knowledgeable, naturally he was. He's a salesman. But what was of primary importance, he was a first-class ass kisser. I mean hey, what's with these salesmen who don't kiss the customer's ass? Why do they think I go shopping in a real brick and mortar store in the first place, when you can go crazy shopping on line?

It's the ass-kissing, stupid.

And oh, the possibilities! I wanted a three-cushion, traditional sofa.

But which fabric do I like? The beige damask?

The red jacquard?

Or do I want to go completely mental and get green leather?

So then I came home with all these fabric samples and proceeded to have a lovely time draping them over every square inch of our uncomfortable reupholstered rummage sale love seat. And it turns out my husband and I liked the same fabric. And hated the same stuff, too!

It's kismet. We were meant to be. And I was fated--FATED, I tell you--to spend every dime of his money on new sofas. And side tables. And lamps. And also, I don't know about you, but I'm sick of my window treatments. And the rugs. Do I need new rugs? blackbird, what do you think? (I know you've never seen my house, but I'll do whatever you say.)

And if you like to live vicariously/get big furniture thrills--check out the Hickory Chair website. You can build your own sofa. And yes, there goes the rest of this evening.

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