Why you don't want to eat the food at my house. [Updated!]

Yesterday when I was straightening up for the cleaning team, I picked up some Treasure Island shopping bags that had been left on the floor in the kitchen after I sort of finished putting away the groceries from the after-school trip to Walgreen's to get the passport pictures taken that segued into a trip to the grocery store but I needed to start helping with the homework --

I'll come in again.

It appears that when I put the groceries away on Monday evening, and was interrupted by a child needing help with her homework, I neglected to empty the last shopping bag, and only discovered it the next morning.

The not-quite-empty grocery bag contained the little plastic bag! You know, the one they use for the packages of meat.

And there they were. Two New York Strip steaks. And a pound of ground sirloin. They had been left out from 5:30 p.m. Monday until 9:00 the next morning.

I put the bag of meat in the icebox. Yes, even the ground sirloin, which later that afternoon, I made into meatballs, figuring that a chopped onion would have an anti-bacterial effect, and if that didn't kill the toxins, an hour simmering in tomato sauce would do the trick.

And then, at dinner time, I fed spaghetti and meatballs to my family. (Gahh!! Just call me Medea.)

We're still alive and well.

So tonight's the steak.

----

We had the steak. And we're not dead yet. More later--if the pathogens don't get me.

I am unique.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Although I have to admit to being somewhat surprised. I had no idea that "Buxom" was such an unusual last name. Can you believe that no one has it?

Not even me?

Do the Math.

Say every day starts with 10 stars. Because that's my basic outlook. I'm an optimistic, fun-loving gal.

OK, take away a star for every errand I have to run. Because my ideal day is one where I don't have to go anywhere at all. Because I like to stay home. But I need to get groceries, mail packages, and have a voice lesson. Three stops; three stars.

I lose a star if I have to take my children to any kind of appointment or activity they're not interested in, due to the ensuing whining and bickering and whatnot. Well, today we have to get passport pictures taken. Two children; two pictures; two more stars.

Minus one for having to spend time waiting around for a plumber or an electrician or anyone like that. OK, we're at four.

Minus one for realizing that the toilet the plumbers are supposed to install is still in the garage, taking up space that rightfully belongs to my car. And it's at the basement level, and the bathroom is on the second floor.

Minus another one for the toilet being the wrong size.

Minus another one for the toilet being the wrong color.

Only one more star ... and I haven't even had lunch yet.

Daddy's Girl

Back in 1967, for mysterious reasons of his own, my father decided it would be a good idea to take my sister and me to Expo '67, which--for you whippersnappers--was a world's fair--a place filled with a lot of exhibits purporting to represent foreign countries, which people used to like to go to because Epcot hadn't been invented yet. Expo 67 took place in Montreal. My sister and I thought going was a great idea, primarily because we were getting out of school for a couple of days. And also because we would be going to a foreign country. (Where they speak French! Thus commencing my lifelong habit of speaking bad French to innocent bystanders.)

A foreign country, I might add, that is all of 300 miles from Boston. A trip that nowadays would take five hours to drive. And back then probably took even less, because everyone was still driving 70 mph all the time, because the energy crisis hadn't been invented yet.

However, with my father at the wheel, this trip took more like 13 hours. This is because for my father, it was imperative that all trips be business trips. You had to call on at least one client so you could write off your expenses or whatever business people do; how the hell would I know? I'm a housewife.

Anyway, Daddy would go in and yack with these customers, and my sister and I would stay in the car and bicker and not get abducted or sexually assaulted because those hadn't been invented yet, either.

So what with the driving and the stops, it had been a long day. And then my father realized he needed to buy gas. He started looking for a gas station. And kept passing stations because they were the wrong ones; he wanted a Sunoco station. So we're driving and driving and passing Shells and Texacos and Essos (Exxon hadn't been invented yet) and he wouldn't stop. And then, finally, we spotted a Sunoco station. And we were almost there ... when we ran out of gas. And then coasted into the station ... and glided right up to the pump.

That story drove my mother nuts. Nuts! My parents were divorced seven years later, and I can't be sure that there wasn't a connection.

So tonight I havethe minivan packed with all kinds of weekend stuff: the kids and the suitcases and laptops and skates and Nintendo and backpacks and even a cello, for lord's sake, and I hit all kinds of traffic. And it's taking forever ... and then when I was finally making the left-hand turn off Broadway onto Hollywood--you know where I'm going with this, don't you? Except I'm not going anywhere because for the first time in my life, I ran out of gas.

And OK, I didn't coast up to the pump. But I ran out of gas literally right where you turn into the Shell station that just happens to be located on the corner of Broadway and Hollywood. And two guys came up and helped push the van to the pump.

I'll tell you this, Internet, but let's keep it between you and me. I'm not telling my mother. She'll write me out of her will.

Perfection Attained

Sunday was my daughter's 10th birthday. On Friday I took her and three of her friends to see the show here:



And then they had a sleepover downtown. They loved the elevator. In fact, I think they loved it best of all the things they did. I could have saved $30 a head in tickets by letting them ride up and down on the elevators. They decided that jumping up and down while the elevator was moving was the most fun thing in the world. It made them scream with excitement. Needless to say, this was a bit rough on the ear drums, but it was pretty to see their enthusiasm.

The rest of the time, they ate pizza. And giggled.



My daughter's presents were all perfect. She got a disco ball. And a Bratz CD player. I bought her






Her grandparents sent a notebook and stickers. And the soundtrack to Gilda:



She loved everything.

What does it mean when your daughter's favorite song is "Put the Blame on Mame?"

(Don't answer that.)

In other perfect news, I pitched Tiffany a couple of weeks ago. I'm chairing a benefit and I wanted them to sponsor us. And Tiffany, which is a store I've always enjoyed anyway, is generously donating these:



for the raffle, and these



for the goody bags. Which adds up to over $11,000 in free loot. Not bad for a half day's work.

But wait, don't go! I have more perfection for you!

In case you suffer from insomnia and this post isn't enough to send you to slumberland, I have the solution. Get this:



and read four pages--five at the most. You'll be in slumberland before you can say "Ambien."

Why women wear those ankle-length mink coats that make them look like a bear on its hind legs

It's to cover up their mismatched Lilly Pulitzer pajamas (turquoise top, pink bottoms) while they wheel the recycling bin out to the curb.

Because their husband forgot to do it.

Yes, I'm a fur-wearing recycler.



I know, I know. I contradict myself. But flame me and I'll bite you.

Is it just me, or does it really smell bad around here?

I've done several loads of wash today, and it's getting to the point where if I breathe with my mouth open, the air tastes like soap. Also, I'm feeling a little woozy, and my nose is stuffed up.

I blame this shit.



This is what I get for acting like an aging hippy, falling for a slick marketing campaign, and buying my laundry detergent at Whole Foods. I sneaked a sniff in the store and it seemed OK. Not something I'd want to bathe with myself, but good enough for the laundry.

The problem is that I don't actually like the smell of lavender very much. (I know, go figure. You think I'd love it, considering that I'm hopelessly Anglophilic, majored in English literature in college, revere Jane Austen, and drink tea instead of coffee. What with lavender's English, Victorian, olde-fashioned aura, it would seem to be tailor-made for me. But I don't, except when it's coming from an actual plant--or is fairly low-key.)

The Mrs. Meyers stuff is not low-key AT ALL. The entire first floor is permeated with the smell, even though my laundry is in the basement. I think I might keel over tonight while I wash the dinner dishes. Which I'll be doing for a long time tonight because I'm exactly the kind of do-goody baby-boomer retro housewife who cooks from scratch and dirties up every pan in the house--and recycles, and spends $249 on groceries at Whole Foods, and thinks she's saving the world by buying stinky detergent in a recycled jug with faux-old-fashioned lettering.

I'm sure Al Gore* is very pleased for what I'm doing for the environment, but this lavender shit isn't doing my immediate surroundings any favors.

* See below.