Blog A Go-Go

In which I play hooky

I'm not here. Well, I am here, but not here. I am writing this entry a wee bit in advance because this weekend I was in Richmond. I had one day between flying in from Houston and heading out to Richmond, so no unpacking for me. Just a quick change of clothes in my bag before hitting the road. My father and I had tickets to the Indy car race at the Richmond speedway, and when we realized it was a night race, the whole family decided it would be more fun if we ALL went to Richmond and stayed overnight. So the plan is that we will have driven up together, Dad and I head for the race while everybody else swans around the hotel, ordering room service and watching "America's Got Talent" or some such.

Sunday morning--diner breakfast and then we're dividing up, my husband and daughter and I are heading to Carytown to shop the vintage stores while my parents head to cemeteries. No, that's not a metaphor. By the time you read this my parents will have spent the better part of Sunday exploring graveyards where my ancestors are buried. There is one beautiful plantation house that was located on the banks of the James River, complete with private cemetery. It belonged to our family, and a few others, until it was finally purchased by duPont. They moved the house down the river--where it still sits and is privately owned by a very gracious woman who permitted her butler to show us the downstairs--but the graveyard still lies on duPont property. They are very amenable to visits from family--there's just a bit of red tape to get through before they actually let you in. (E-mails and phone calls and maps have been exchanged in preparation for this excursion.) So between my parents cavorting in graveyards and my little family roaming vintage stores, I guess we're all exploring the past in our own ways.

In which we read magazines

Summer seems like the season for magazines, doesn't it? They are the perfect companions for beach or pool or flights to exotic locales. But which magazine is a trickier prospect. As worthy as "Smithsonian" or "The New Yorker" are, they feel a little too serious for summer reading. One cannot read them in a bikini. At the same time, gossip magazines quickly pall. One can only read so many stories about Lindsay's failed rehab or the countdown to Angelina's delivery before the brain turns to blancmange. "InStyle" is a perfect compromise. I am also a big fan of "Body and Soul" and "Budget Travel" and "Lucky" for deck chair reading.

But my all-time, absolute favorite is "Red", a British magazine that offers up everything I want in frivolous reading. It has features on clothes and decor, interviews with celebrities, articles on slightly weightier topics such as health or real estate, and it is BRITISH. This means that it has that comfortable exoticism that all English things do. It's familiar, but not familiar enough to be contemptible. The only single flaw to "Red" is that it is outrageously expensive in the US. Lucky Englishwomen can subscribe for something like 12 pounds for a year for this oversize, glossy publication. In the States, the sub rate was over $200 a year last time I calculated it. My local Barnes and Noble carries it so I treat myself occasionally, even if I do grimace a little at spending almost $8 on a single issue. But it is always, always worth it. And for those times when I am seriously jonesing for a trip to the UK, it is an absolute steal compared to a seat on Virgin Atlantic. Check out their cheeky website: http://www.redmagazine.co.uk/ 

In which I am a very bad housewife

A link to a quiz on 1930s housewives was posted on a messageboard I frequent. (There is a quiz for husbands as well, but if you ask me, the bar is MUCH lower for men.) Let's just say I am a very bad 1930s housewife. I mean, VERY bad. As in, I scored a 24 which is FAILURE. Apparently, the fact that enjoy marital congress doesn't make up for the fact that I swear, wear red nail polish, and don't much like children--except my own, of course. (I should point out that my husband scored 120 on the husband's quiz. Of course, he got extra points for being willing to wash a dish or speak to my mother cordially.)

http://www.magatsu.net/maritaltest/ 

In which my husband likes to surprise me

My husband is a really good guy. No, REALLY good. He likes to surprise me with presents. About once a week or so he comes home with flowers--sometimes in the middle of the day just to keep it interesting. Last week he called me from work and announced that he had ordered something for me and to keep watching the mailbox. After twenty years together, the man knows that telling me this was going to get me in a FROTH of anticipation. What arrived two days later was a Kit Kat Clock. Yes, that's right--the vintage black cat clock that wags its tail and shifts its eyes from side to side. I had been craving one of my own for YEARS. It's now hanging on my kitchen wall, and don't tell anyone I said this, but I'm pretty sure it's watching me. It's totally fabulous, and the best part is that sometimes the tail stops wagging, so you can flick it as you walk by and start it up again. (The tail wag has nothing to do with how well it keeps time.) It's also a surprisingly practical gift--it's the only battery-operated clock we own, and hurricane season is upon us.

If you want a Kit Kat of your own (they come in colors now!), check out http://www.kit-cat.com/ 

In which I am glad the 70s are OVER

On a messageboard I frequent, someone posted the link to the worst album covers of all time. These are not to be missed. http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/broward/sfl-worst-album-ugc,0,5066300.ugcphotogallery (I still don't know why Typepad isn't letting me use the feature to insert links, but I suspect it's something I'm doing wrong...all I know is that the button I used to use doesn't work anymore and I haven't the vaguest notion why. Some days I think it's a miracle I manage to work my ipod.)

Anyway, I urge you to scroll through all 50 and join me in fervent gratitude that the 1970s are a decade long gone.

On a completely unrelated note, the other night I had a dream that Gwyneth Paltrow opened a vintage clothing store in Louisa May Alcott's house. Let's just say customer service is NOT her forte. (Although I would commit forty kinds of felony to get my hands on the tartan tulle dress I was trying on in the dream. I know it sounds hideous, but you'll have to trust me--it was really cute.)

Also, an addition to my summer reading stack: Joanne Harris' The Girl With No Shadow, the sequel to Chocolat. I had no idea this was coming out and was thrilled to find it. I loved the book and the movie, although they were very different, something that usually annoys me to no end.

In which we learn a Spanish love song

Because sometimes you just need mindless entertainment, I give you The First Semester of Spanish Love Song. I would like to point out that my daughter brought this to my attention because her English teacher showed it to her. I am pretty sure she is the coolest English teacher in the free world. This is a woman who plays violin and forced her classes to listen to her read The Princess Bride while she read all the parts. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." I could seriously hang with her.

In which we get medieval

A poster on a messageboard I frequent posted a link to the BBC Outlaw/Villain Game recently, and I was rather surprised to find that I am Marian. Who are you? Robin Hood? Guy? And since we're on the subject of Robin Hood, why hasn't there been a DEFINITIVE Robin Hood? I'm talking about a big-screen epic, with proper period details and a superb cast--Alan Rickman is the ONLY saving grace from "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves"--and a GOOD script. Every version I've ever seen has left me saying, "I see where they were going, BUT..." Sigh.

In which I do NOT look like Andi MacDowell

Last week this link was posted on a messageboard I frequent (by whom I cannot remember--mea culpa!) It is a celebrity morph, and I can only say, prepare to enjoy yourself. You will need a photo of yourself, head on, and a few minutes for the morph to run. It will compare your facial features to its database of celebrities and then perform a match. Once the match is done, you can tell it to run the morph and watch your face transform into the celebrity in question. (In spite of what the site says, you do not have to register.) Some people get several matches; I got only one--Andi MacDowell, 71%--and I don't see it AT ALL.

In which I am bemused

A few days ago, my friend Sherri brought the Bag of Plagues to my attention. It's a play set of the Biblical plagues of Exodus, and it's just as grim as that implies. There is a little toy dead baby for the slain firstborns, a tube of blood, some feeble looking cattle. (Personally, I am a fan of the Darkness.) Sherri linked to a set that was bright and plastic and looked like something you would chuck into the bath to keep the kids happy while you scrub them up. I prefer the set I found that comes in a nice burlap sack. Somehow it seems more authentic. I realize that these are used by Jewish educators--and perhaps some enterprising Sunday school teachers--and I can see how they would be VERY memorable teaching aids. (There is also a line of Biblical plague finger puppets in case the kids don't remember the boils the first time.) But I can't help thinking about Mr. Mainway of Mainway toys and his "Bag O" line: Bag O'Glass, Bag O'Vipers. And I would really like it much better if this particular toy was called Bag O'Plagues. The only thing missing is Johnny Switchblade, Adventure Punk.

In which we play with roadkill

I am a notoriously bad passenger. I do not like roadtrips, and I get bored about twenty minutes in. Something about the confinement ruffles me. Anyway, my clever husband discovered many years ago that I am much nicer in the car if we have a game to play. None of the usual car games will do. We do not count license plates or cows. For years we counted bee traps on the back highways of East Texas, but there are none of the bright blue boxes hanging in the trees in Virginia. There are few billboards and fewer stock tanks visible from the highways, and counting Cracker Barrel signs quickly palls. We had to have a new game to play here, and it wasn't long before we devised Roadkill. The scoring is simple. Five points per kill, with ten points to a deer, fifteen to any kill with vultures actively working it, and twenty to vultures working a deer carcass. (The vultures must be actively feeding, not just standing around like they're about to debate a bill in Parliament.) I should make it perfectly clear that the driver does not earn extra points for CREATING a roadkill. That is distinctly frowned upon. No, this is strictly a game of chance, and those with sharp eyesight are heavily favored. Last weekend on the way back from DC, I scored seventy. That is a record, and I should add, it seems to be a hard spring for the possum.