The Opiate of the Masses

Bullet-ridden Saturday, or NaBloPoMo can bite me

2009-11-07T13:26:00.002-06:00

• I'm not dead yet.

• High school is still kicking my ass. Naturally, I don't mean my high school; I mean my son's. A brief recap: in place of Plan A (he does his homework and gets good grades) we've moved from Plan B (he does his homework, gets help from his parents, and gets good grades) to Plan C (he does his homework, gets help from his parents and the free school tutors and gets good grades.) The good news is it seems to be working. The bad news is that Plan C involves getting him to school at about 7:00 a.m., which means the chaffeuse has to be up at before 6:00.

• I'm actually getting used to it. Proof? This morning I got up before 7:00.

• However, I'm relying even more than usual on enormous amounts of caffeine to get through the day.

• My son was also in two concerts last week: Freshman Boys Chorus and Freshman Orchestra. He sang a solo in Freshman Chorus. I was so proud that every button popped off my blouse. Metaphorically speaking.

• Literally speaking, every button only pops off my blouse when I'm at a funeral.

• This actually happened. More on this on one of those long, dull winter evenings. When I have time to blog. Which will apparently happen when my son graduates from high school.

• The most cruelly disappointing moment of the week occurred when we sat down to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer and realized that we'd forgotten to return the DVDs we'd finished the weekend before, which meant that we only had two episodes to watch.

• In related news, last night I went to bed at 10:00 p.m.

Life can be very cruel.

2009-10-29T09:55:00.003-05:00

I'm on the Nordstrom website. Even as we speak, another tab on my laptop has an entire department store open and ready for businesss. (And if you're reading this in my archives? It's still true.)

But oh Nordie's. Take thy beak from out my heart. These

are sold out in my size.

And this

is no longer available in red.

Newsflash!

2009-10-28T14:05:00.004-05:00

Guess

where

the

Buxoms

will

be

spending

the week

before

Thanksgiving?

Today I am

2009-10-27T20:25:00.005-05:00

... reading A Cotswold Killing by Rebecca Tope. It's a murder mystery I picked up in England. In the Cotswolds, actually. Yes, I am actually that much of a dink.

By the way, you know how American TV is always ripping off British shows? I think I'm going to write A Costco Killing. Yes, I just thought of that comic gem. And it's only the first category. Stick around.

Oh, and Mike, by P. G. Wodehouse, which I downloaded for free from Amazon for my iPod's Kindle app. If you have any interest whatsoever in public domain literature, (i.e., old shit that uses big words,) you should check out free e-readers like Kindle and Stanza and that one from Barnes and Noble. Trust me. You'll never be bored again.

... listening to Desolation Island by Patrick O'Brian from Audible.com. I've already read the book a couple of times and listened to Patrick Tull read it, but I have a massive audiobook hard-on for Simon Vane and felt a strong need to hear all 21 of the Aubrey/Maturin novels as read by him. Yes, I am actually that much of a dink, part deux.

... watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer via Netflix DVDs. My husband and I are catching up with awesome, cult-worthy shows that were on TV when we were busy wrangling toddlers into their footie pajamas.

It turns out that we love Buffy. We're totally addicted and begrudge every moment we can't fire up the flat screen, light the candles, pour the drinks, curl up on our giant brown velvet sofa, and head to Sunnydale, CA. We're finishing up Season 3.

And now I hear Spike will be coming back. I can't wait.

... eating leftover party food from last Saturday's Halloween party. Yes, still. I've got a bunch of containers of pulled pork and chili in the freezer. I also have innumerable bags of Goldfish and pretzels and such. Honestly, I could go another three or four days without cooking a thing, but tonight I gave everyone a break and made spaghetti with meat sauce. Tomorrow it's back to leftovers.

... drinking red wine. Shiraz. So yummy and yet, not particularly fattening.

... making a heroic effort not to let my children drive me crazy. So far I'm triumphing over insanity. No thanks to them.

... waiting for this incredible spell of damp, rainy, overcast weather to finally end. In case you haven't heard, Chicago is the new Seattle, except with fewer hipsters drinking less coffee.

... wondering whether my kids are ever going to develop any study habits.

... hoping they will because, hello, the Buffy Season 3 two-part "Graduation" episodes are supposed to be awesome.

... thinking that somebody needs to invent a laundry-folding machine.

Some days are just out to get you.

2009-10-26T14:20:00.005-05:00

I had to go to physical therapy this morning. And write two blog posts--one for Mamarazzi and one for BlogHer. And go grocery shopping. And take my daughter 's lunch to school.

So I thought, hey, why not pick her up some tuna rolls in the sushi department at the grocery store? So I did. Even though it's a bit Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club to have sushi for lunch.

I packed the tuna rolls up in a clear plastic lunch tote with a vanilla cream pastry from the Croatian bakery and a bag of purple seedless grapes. I dropped them off about 45 minutes before the lunch bell rang. I felt--for once--like a good mom.

Well, a friend of mine who works at the school just called me to tell me that my daughter never picked up her lunch. My friend had my daughter paged, and when she came into the office, my daughter told my friend that it was too late. So my friend put the lunch into the refrigerator. And I'm pretty sure my daughter scrounged the equivalent of a Pixi Stik and Cap'n Crunch sandwich from her friends.

Now, if this were an O. Henry short story, there would be some kind of interesting twist ... but this is a P. Buxom blog post, so I leave you with the following:

Guess who's having leftover tuna rolls for dinner?

1. My daughter
2. Me

If you picked 2, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. Because I'm having a cocktail. Maybe three.

How some of us celebrate Halloween

2009-10-24T11:34:00.006-05:00

Some of us celebrate Halloween by cleaning house and putting up decorations. All wholesome and old-fashioned-like.

But Poppette sees Halloween as an opportunity to add to her YouTube channel. After all, people are dressing up in outrageous costumes. Why miss a golden opportunity to make ~~something silly~~ cinematic history?

FYI, her co-star is a Frankenstein/witch/cheerleader/dog. Poppette is a Fallen Angel.

I did her makeup. And I'm bucking for an Oscar.

(If you go to YouTube and leave her a comment or a thumbs-up, I'll be your best friend 4EVA.)

Friday Bullets

2009-10-23T12:23:00.004-05:00

Yeah, OK. I'm stealing the idea of Friday bullets from Badger. So sue me.

• It's been raining. And raining. To the point where I've been tweeting about the weather, for God's sake.

• My in-laws are coming for the weekend. Should I clean the house?

• My frozen shoulder (a/k/a adhesive capsulitis) is acting up. Can I blame my dirty house on it?

• We're all going to see Fabrice Camels dance the part of Othello in the Joffrey Ballet's new production. Would it be in bad taste for me to drool all over myself?

• A bunch of us are having dinner first. Would it be far-fetched of me to blame the drool on the meal? Even hours afterwards?

• I posted to Mamarazzi today. Don't worry. It's not about Balloon Boy.

• Later, taters. I'm off to physical therapy. Wheee!

In which I steal from Wendy

2009-10-22T10:40:00.008-05:00

Badger and Blackbird are doing this thing where they ask their readers for questions, and it's a great idea that I'd love to copy. It would give my creativity a big goose, and foster that dialogue that is so important to the blogging community. (Buzz words in italics).

Unfortunately, the way my hits are heading, if I asked my readers for questions, it would be met with an embarrassing silence. To save myself from total humiliation, I'd have to invent about five or six Blogger sock puppets and use them to ask myself questions. And who has the time for that?

So I'm stealing an idea for a post from my pal Wendy. She has a semi-regular Thrifty Thursday post, where she plays show and tell with her latest thrift shop scores. In doing so, Wendy inspires her readers with bone-deep, bitter envy. Naturally, I thought, "What fun!" Because now I might be able to inspire some envy myself.

Recently I invited Wendy to join me at one of Newtopia's legendary rummage sales, and she went home with so much loot, she posted about it not once, but six different times.

Here's Wendy, just getting started in the sewing/crafts room. The blurriness is partly the fault of my iPhone, and partly the result of her lightning-fast reflexes. What camera shutter could keep up?

My church runs this sale every year. People come to it from miles around. The sale uses the entire parish building, a nearby storage facility, and a nearby women's club. In addition, tents pop up all over the place. Volunteers hand out floor plans of the buildings. And after paying expenses, the net proceeds of the sale are awarded to local charities. This year we raised $235,000.

My friends, that is a lot of buttons.

I've explained to my children the greatness of the Christ Church rummage sale, so let me outline it here:

1. Rummage accepts donations all year long. So it's a great place to get rid of old junk.
2. Rummage prices their items very competitively. So it's a great place to acquire new junk.
3. Several area churches bus their parishioners in for the sale, which gives people who couldn't drive to the area the chance to buy some of our fabulous cheap junk.
4. The money raised doesn't go to the church; it goes to charities that really need the revenue.
5. It's green.

The local public schools are doing their best to turn my kids into tree-hugging socialists, so they're big rummage fans. And this is great, not only because it's teaching them to think about other people, but because it's much easier to take their junk away from them. I'm now welcome to declutter their rooms to my heart's content, as long as poor people and/or baby polar bears are the beneficiaries.

Anyway, back to the sale. Wendy spotted this beauty and said "That would be perfect for the master bedroom at the condo." And she was right:

It's a little armchair upholstered in a Brunschwig et Fils Chinoiserie print. With leopard! Sort of.

It's in showroom condition. Came with arm covers, a little pillow, and some extra fabric.

It cost $75, which is high for this sale. But isn't it fabulous?

Wendy and I have already marked our calendars for next year's sale.

If only I had discovered these before our Halloween party ...

2009-10-21T18:19:00.005-05:00

Anyone who admires the Martha Stewart liquor labels being offered this year by Grandinroad (originally $1 each, now on sale, 12 for $6)

should be delighted with these fabulous lookalikes available for free on Flickr, courtesy of Love Manor.

I mean, I may not be particularly crafty ... but even I can print out labels and glue them to the liquor bottles.

Next year for sure!

Now appearing on Mamarazzi: Breaking news stories we have loved

2009-10-19T09:00:00.003-05:00

And guess what?

They don't include that whole Balloon Boy mess.

Check out what I had to say. (Don't worry. I didn't embed any vomit-y videos.)

Things that I hate for no apparent reason.

2009-10-18T17:12:00.002-05:00

I've probably blogged more than I should about stuff I hate. Things like men's cologne, acrylic nails, and reality TV shows.

But here are things I boycott, even though a lot of very smart people swear by them:

1. best-selling novels
2. scented candles
3. L. L. Bean Boat 'n' Tote bags
4. wallpaper
5. mid-century modern furniture
6. dark chocolate
7. scotch
8. peep-toe shoes
9. Quentin Tarentino
10. Ikea

Halloween. Again.

2009-10-12T17:12:00.006-05:00

My crappy looking mantel with my awesome Halloween bouquets

So--sort of at the last minute--I decided to have our semi-annual Halloween party. I call it "semi-annual," which is a phrase somewhat open to interpretation. In this instance it means "when I feel like it," or "when my house isn't under construction." Last year our driveway was under construction. The year before, the kitchen was ripped apart.

(You know, with all these renovations, you'd think my house would be a fabulous showpiece, right? But you would be wrong. See above.)

But people can get very enthusiastic about the littlest things. Like my "when my house isn't under construction" Halloween Party. I started to feel a certain amount of pressure to have it again. (Although it beats me why I should care about what a bunch of 7-to-12 year olds say.)

The thing is, I haven't thrown this party in three years. And my kids have grown up in the past three years.

I'm still into an old-skool Louisa May Alcott-era celebration. OK, I draw the line at bobbing for apples, but I like to keep things wholesome. I prefer witches, pumpkins, and black cats as decorations. No rotting zombies, Frankensteins, vampires, or giant spiders. No fog machines and no decorations that make scary noises. And no creepy party food. No Jello-O brains. No Vienna Franks disguised as severed fingers. Not even that thing where you make parmesan chicken wings and call them bat wings.

Just some costumes, a buffet loaded with chili and pulled pork. Lots of desserts. Flowers, balloons, and goodie bags for the wee tots.

Oh, and lots of drinking. Of course.

But while I wasn't looking, my kids have grown up. My daughter wants me to turn the front yard into a grave yard. She wants hideous spiders all over the house. Plus they've both gone all Goth anime on me. They want to look like this

and this.

Let me tell you, the fussing over costumes is going to kill me. And it's going to use up all the money I was planning to spend on candy corn.

And booze, my friends. And booze.

Sometimes I think I'll never have time to blog again.

2009-10-05T13:07:00.003-05:00

So for now, some topics, to flesh out when (if?) I have time. WITH DOOCE CAPS FOR HUMOROUS EFFECT.

1. Back to school continues to kick my ass. Big time. Maybe I'd feel better if I developed a peptic ulcer or a hysterical pregnancy or some other psychosomatic ailment so it wouldn't just be my brain freaking out all by itself. Wouldn't hives be a pleasant distraction from reality?

2. My mother has joined FaceBook. And friended me. Not just me, as in Real Name me, but also as Poppy Buxom. What if she finds my blog and reads it and discovers that I KNOW HOW TO SWEAR?

3. I'm blogging about celebrities on Mondays and Fridays at Mamarazzi. Also, today I blogged about the tragedy of Maybelline's discontinuation of my beloved Drippin' Honey lipstick over at BlogHer. Please to read and comment.

4. I've realized that the daily crap (cooking, cleaning up the kitchen, laundry, grocery shopping, decluttering, bill paying, topping off the underwear drawers) is more than enough to fill my days and I really shop STOP with the volunteer work. I should tell Girl Scouts, my church choir, the Joffrey Ballet, the Colonial Dames, and the English-Speaking Union to suck it.

5. I just agreed to continue being the recording secretary for one of these groups.

6. We went to a black-tie dinner dance on Friday night. My mother got a vicarious thrill out of it, but I'd rather have been watching a DVD.

7. I went to England. In August. And have hundreds of pictures to post/talk about. Still.

8. My phone won't stop ringing. I just don't answer it any more or I'd never get anything done. Honestly, how do you other housewives talk on the phone all day? You do, don't you? I mean, that's not just a stereotype, right?

9. I went rummage sale-ing with Wendy last Thursday. It was awesome! Wait 'til you see the gorgeous chair I bought for the deluxe apartment in the sky. IT IS FABULOUS.

10. I hear somebody leaving a really long message on my answering machine. I'd better go and check it out. Maybe it will be an INTERESTING BLOG TOPIC.

It's official. I'm Math Barbie.

2009-09-29T10:48:00.004-05:00

So you know how life has become one long teacher telephone call?

It's because my son, a freshman in high school, is crashing and burning. And he's doing it so completely that soon I'm going knock on his bedroom door to tell him that it's time to leave for his cello lesson, and I'm going to find nothing but a bunch of skid marks and a charred, smoking smudge on his bedroom rug.

Last night I worked with him on his Latin translation for about an hour. I don't know which of the two of us found it more challenging, the person who is currently bungie jumping his Latin grade, or the person who didn't "get" Latin when she took it 40 years ago--and no, I am not exaggerating; I really am that old.

All I know that the Bible nailed it: caeci caecos ducentes, or, the blind are leading the blind. The full quotation is apt: If one blind person leads another blind person, both will fall into a ditch. So I'm hoping that I remembered a few rudiments about gender, number, and case. And didn't push him closer to the edge of the Biblical ditch.

So anyway, guess which math teacher called to tell me about trouble in math class?

My daughter's.

Whee!

Now I have to go all Japanese housewife and help both of them with their homework, make sure their backpacks are organized, blah blah blah ... but what about dinner? What about relaxing in the evening? Spending time with my Japanese husband?

Forget that. He's too busy helping our son with his math. Because I can't handle it.

So here's the deal; I've always had the first shift: taking care of household matters while the kids are in school. You know the drill; grocery shopping, laundry, dropping off the dry cleaning, decluttering, buying the underwear. This is also when I fit in some volunteer work. And blogging.

Then there's the second shift: feeding the spawn and dealing with various kid-related matters once they get home.

But I always had some free time to myself in the evening. And now ... well, I was doing Latin last night until 10:00.

Any second now I'll be standing outside holding up a sign: WILL BLOG 4 TUTORING.

Meanwhile, it's time to dust off the slow cooker. Anyone have any good recipes?

Better late than never, Part 1: The first day of school

2009-09-26T12:47:00.001-05:00

It's official.

2009-09-22T23:14:00.002-05:00

High school is kicking my ass.

OK, not my high school. My high school is fine. After all, it's rapidly disappearing into the rear view mirror of my memory. At this point, it turns up once a year, mostly to ask me for money or to try to guilt-trip me into going to a reunion.

But my son's high school WANTS TO DESTROY ME.

More Fun With Verbs

2009-09-17T09:35:00.006-05:00

I'm not dooce. I'm not even blackbird. But someone left a comment telling me they missed me, so I'm posting.

It's hard to believe that there was ever a time that I was obsessed with my blog stats. For 2005, I was probably lucky to get 50 hits a day. But then a few people linked to me, and I did a few giveaways, and the next thing you know, I would decide on a figure and become grimly determined to achieve it. Like "must-reach-100-hits-a-day-for-a-week," or "must-hit-200-hits-a-day-even-on-Sunday." And with perseverance, it would happen.

But this leads to a lot of blogging for the sake of blogging. Less living, more blogging. And not only does that lead to memes and Wordless Wednesdays and such, it leads to an unhealthy level of introspection.

Not that there's anything wrong with introspection. It's just that it's the province of the young. When you're in your teens and twenties, it's right and proper for you to spend a lot of time figuring yourself out. It's good preventative medicine. You need to figure yourself out so you don't marry someone completely inappropriate, or get married, have kids, and then have some kind of ridiculous midlife crisis.

Those are the years to put your energy into what you want to be.

But when you're in your 40s and 50s, that kind of navel gazing seems pretty stupid. You're in your peak earning years. Or, in the case of us housewives, your peak "put the oxygen mask on your own face, then put it on your children" years.

It doesn't matter what kind of person I want to be. I have kids.

So that's what I've been doing for the last two weeks. Running around putting oxygen masks on everyone else's face.

Shopping for back-to-school supplies, talking to teachers and advisors and resource centers and social workers, signing forms, attending meetings, writing checks, helping with homework, washing clothes, folding laundry, driving, listening, cooking, and comforting.

And reciting the time-worn limerick, "There once was a man from Nantucket," to prove to my son that the kid in his advisory who claimed he made it up? Is a lying sack of shit.

I've also been going to physical therapy three times a week, because I have frozen shoulder. To continue with my airplane analogy, my left wing isn't working right.

And just so you know, when you can't raise your left arm any higher than parallel to the floor? You end up cutting the shit out of yourself when you try to shave your armpit.

(P.S. My title comes from my son's latest Latin worksheet.)

The best thing I can say about Labor Day is that I'm not actually in labor.

2009-09-07T14:29:00.004-05:00

1. Yes, I have today off, but

2. The girl still hasn't started school, which means

3. It really doesn't feel like a holiday, because holiday from what? Sitting around in our pajamas?

4. And it turns out I actually do have frozen shoulder, which means the next month is

5. Packed full of physical therapy appointments.

6. On the bright side, I thought I was going to have to post to Mamarazzi, but both the lovely Kristin and the sociopathological Susie Sunshine have already posted.

7. Which means all I had to do was come up with a post for BlogHer Beauty Hacks. So I did. Something about stretching a thong over my face and calling it makeup, but you know what? I'm not really clear on the concept because

8. I still have frozen shoulder and IT HURTS.

What have I been doing, anyway? I mean, other than laundry?

2009-09-04T07:50:00.005-05:00

It's life among the lotus eaters around here. In case you're a bit rusty with your Homer, the lotus eaters were a bunch of time-wasting lay-abouts Odysseus encountered on his way home from Troy. You know, that trip that took 20 years? And nobody recognized him when he got home?

That's me. It has been twenty years since my son started high school. Maybe more. Soon his children will be riding the bus to ninth grade with him. Yes, it feels that long.

Meanwhile, my daughter doesn't go back to school for another week.

I really don't mean to complain, but I've got one kid who needs to be chivvied into getting up, getting dressed, doing his homework, showering, practicing, you name it. I'm like a sheepdog pushing a large, gelatinous blog from one activity to the next.

In the meantime, my daughter sits around playing video games and watching YouTube videos in the Summer Vacation That Wouldn't End. And sleeping, my lord, can that child sleep. Last night she fell asleep before dinner, and she's still asleep now.

When we do anything, I brightly try to make it a Real Project, like today, let's Go To The Orthodontist! or Let's Go Shopping for New School Supplies! Which really doesn't fool anyone, let alone me.

I guess I should go. First of all, at some point my daughter will wake up ... after all, it's been 13 hours. And then I'll need to come up with some enjoyable activities, like Picking Up the Vacuum Cleaner. Or Mailing Out the Packages. Or Going to the Bone and Jone Center to Have My Shoulder, Which is Acting Hinky, Looked At.*

Or posting to Mamarazzi.

* See how I mention that without whining? You're welcome.

Cycling on a bicycle built for two: anxiety and lethargy

2009-08-28T08:48:00.006-05:00

Well ... school has started for 50 percent of the school-aged Buxoms. My son started high school on Monday. He seems to be enjoying it so far. In fact, my anxiety levels are much higher than his.

I don't know whether that's bad or good.

He went from a cute little school here in Newtopia with a graduating class of 60 to the Big Box High School down the road, with a graduating class of over 1,000. He's still incredibly pleased to see a few familiar faces in the crowd.

But academically, I don't think he knows what hit him.

I distinctly remember going from high school to college. At some point I realized something. Unlike at my tiny little prep school, the college faculty didn't particularly care how well I did.

At my prep school, one total loser slacker in a class of 50 (that would be me) means your college acceptance rate dips from 100 to 98 percent, and this won't do. Parents want to be assured that their daughter will get into college. The school's reputation and future tuition income depends on their getting results. And so the faculty polished and perfected me to the best of their abilities. I left a lot to be desired as a student, and only cooperated when I was actually interested. But no matter how much I hated doing homework, they needed to get me into college.

And so, from the first day of ninth grade, the pressure was almost palpable.

But in college? If I flunked out--so what? As far as my college was concerned, it was statistically meaningless.

In fact, having a student fail is a point of pride for a lot of institutions. You know the old story about the assembly of incoming freshmen at MIT. The dean tells them. "Look at the student to your left. Look at the student to your right. One of the three of you won't graduate."

Colleges love feeling badass.

Big high school? I don't know about them. So I'm freaking out a bit, yeah.

In other news, my daughter still hasn't gone back to school. They've undertaken a huge construction project at her school, so they're not starting until September 11th.

So she and I are hanging around the house, looking out the window at the gloomy, neo-November weather, and playing with our computers.

I can't wait for her school to start. This is like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then, internet--it'll be just you and me, baby.

Oh honey, I'm sorry. I forgot our anniversary.

2009-08-21T13:48:00.003-05:00

Can you forgive me? Even though everyone knows the anniversaries that end in a zero or a five are the important ones?

Because it was on August 10th, 2004, that I started blogging by posting this.

Five years later, I've made some incredible friends, gone to some amazing blogging conferences, and even started working as a free-lance writer. Yes! Gainful employment! Of a sort.

On the other hands, some things haven't changed. I still spend August freaking out about the school year and dog-paddling around in a wading pool of cheap white wine.

A mug's life, or, reports from the laundry pile.

2009-08-19T17:54:00.009-05:00

In case you were wondering, we arrived home safely at about 6:00 p.m. Our trip to England was wonderful. Just wonderful. Best family vacation ever. I saw Stonehenge! And Oxford! And sang in a 13th-century cathedral!

When we got home, the mail was stacked up and waiting; Toby the Turtle was fed and happy, and no one had stolen the jewelry I had never locked up at the bank because I couldn't find the safe deposit box key.

Now the suitcases are unpacked. The loot is organized. The laundry is about halfway done. Groceries have been bought. And even cooked.

I'll get around to posting more trip reports and pictures of England. I really will. I've been expensively educated and now possess a high degree of writing skill. Coming up with evocative descriptions of the sheep in the meadow/the cows in the corn is a piece of cake.

But the internet prefers pictures. And for me to shut up.

As I think about the mechanics of uploading hundreds of photographs to my laptop and then to Flickr or this blog, I realize my vacation really is over. And real life has me by the scruff of the neck.

My son is starting high school in less than a week. He's going from a class of 60 to a class of 1,000. Ordinarily I'm not much of a worrier, but I got off that plane and immediately became frantic. How's he going to handle it? And how do they get lunch? And how many gym uniforms should I buy? What's with this fancy new calculator they say we need? Why aren't the old fancy calculators good enough?

And he needs new sneakers.

Also, my daughter is sick and is coughing in a very bronchial fashion. That's a bit worrisome, too.

They're both getting full-on braces on Friday. (Should we eat caramel corn non-stop until then? Because after Friday, it's no more caramel corn for them for quite a while.)

I'm still waking up at 5:00 a.m. every day.

It's raining. Maybe that's why it's kind of dark outside ...

We interrupt this series of trip reports for a brief announcement

2009-08-17T02:40:00.002-05:00

I'm still in Salisbury, but in about an hour I'll be boarding a bus to take me to Heathrow and home.

I'm sorry to leave England.

But I'm not sorry to not be drinking English coffee.

Trip report: Oxford

2009-08-13T16:12:00.005-05:00

I might as well admit this from the start; there are so many Oxfords. Too many.

I mean, you could do tours of the fictional characters who supposedly went there, let alone the actual human beings who really did. If you wanted, you could do a tour of the Harriet Vane/Lord Peter Wimsey Gaudy Night Oxford. Or the Brideshead Revisited Oxford.

Are you religious? There's always C. S. Lewis's Oxford. Or how about some Oxford Movement Oxford? A little Cardinal Newman? Great idea.

What about Shelley? OK, but you know he got kicked out, right? Philip Pullman? If you must. Some Tolkien? Sure. Oscar Wilde? Fabulous.

Are you a Monty Python fan? You could do a Michael Palin/Terry Jones tour.

So now you know why I was awfully disappointed in the tour we endured from a very nice French woman whose accent was so neither here nor there that Mr. Buxom and I thought she was German. Maybe it was because of all the dates she spouted.

So this is what we did.

We looked for the White Rabbit.

Trip report: Cirencester

2009-08-07T12:10:00.005-05:00

After we landed at Heathrow and got organized (which took a while because part of our group came by another flight and showed up late, and another person's suitcase went missing) we boarded buses and drove straight to Cirencester, which is just charming.

This could be a painting by Constable, but is actually a cell phone photograph taken from a bus window, can you believe it?

The money around here has traditionally come from the sheep business. "Cotswolds" means "sheep pen in a crappy location where the weather sucks and the soil is so poor that all you can do is raise sheep."

Naturally, they revere sheep. They even put up statues of them.

Don't you love that the sculptor's last name is Tweed?

"It's almost like a Tom Swifty," she mused slowly, while taking pictures of her shadow.

After some pub grub (I had steak and kidney pie! Without the kidneys. And a Pimm's Cup!

Which came with a Pimm's swizzle stick! That I forgot to keep, God damn it) we went window-shopping to admire many things that wouldn't fit in our suitcases

Including the cutest broom and dustpan I've ever seen

Where you revere sheep, you have wool shops. So you can knit a poppy purse. And tea cozies!

Sorry, tea cozies are not for sale.

And everywhere I went, I saw Miss Marple.

I even saw where Miss Marple would buy new clothes. If Miss Marple did buy new clothes. Except, of course, she doesn't.

No, not vintage. It's new.

Reason number 53,295 I love my son: he'll pose next to anything. He'll let me prove that in Cirencester, the guitar store that drew him like a fly to honey is next to one of those fancy toy stores where all the toys are wooden and from Italy--or based on an English children's book.

The metal fan and the giant wooden clown

And of course, we had to go to a bookstore. Because why would I buy The Cleaning Bible or Stockwin's Maritime Miscellany or the second Twilight series novel for my daughter from Amazon when I could buy them in England???

Maybe I should have bought something a little harder to find in America, like Beautiful Pigs or Ripping Things to Do

Or these:

Then, a visit to the wonderfully-named Cake House for tea, Bakewell Tart, and Millionaire's Shortbread.

And a peek at our iPhone

By the end of the afternoon, we were feeling as worn as the local parish church

Seriously, I feel like a gargoyle, only crumblier.

Right now, I'm drinking a draft Long Bow. Which is hard cider.