Lonely Girl Goes to the Movies

It is easier than one might think to identify a lonely girl at the movies. Often she will wait for the dvd, so she can watch it on Netflix in the privacy of her lonely girl cocoon, but if the time is right, you just might see her at the theatre. She is likely to be either alone or with a lonely girl friend, and they will be easily identifiable by their lonely girl clothes (the Lonely Girl Guide to All Things Sartorial is still in the works, but proving to be more complicated than previously thought; please, have patience.)

Several film genres can of course be rejected outright as viewing fare for the lonely girl: action/adventure, romantic comedy, horror, unless any of these films are foreign, in which case there is a small possibility. The following represents a small handful of films which are likely to draw the attention of the lonely girl.

"Anne of Green Gables" (1985)/ "Anne of Avonlea" (1987)

This one should be obvious, but it's a good ruler to hold the rest of the films by. Any lonely girl worth her salt knows this miniseries backwards and forwards, and is only too happy to act out various scenes for the uninitiated, particularly the Barn Scene, the Bridge Scene, or any scene involving Minnie Mae Berry. It has everything: adapted from a treasured lonely girl book, a feisty orphan with red hair who is too smart and imaginative for her own good, and a boy who loves her steadfastly over many years while she is too busy being ridiculous to notice him. One easy test for finding a lonely girl is to lay your hands on a copy of the soundtrack. A true lonely girl will start crying halfway through the first track.

"Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain" (2001)

Strictly speaking, lonely girls generally do not look like they could double for Chanel models, but Audrey Tautou's inherent weirdness somehow makes us not hate her. Yes, the movie is so adorable as to border dangerously on the twee, but Amelie is the lonely girl we would all like to be: she's a bizarre wallflower with a secret yearning to be loved, and not only does she land the perfectly perfect Nino Quincampoix, she is finally able to balance her inner loneliness with outer compassion. And it's just so damned cute.

"In Between Days" (2006)

A funny little South Korean film about recent teenage immigrant Aimie and her best, and only, friend Tran. Aimie loves Tran to the point of getting a refund on her ESL classes to buy him an expensive bracelet. Tran loves Aimie to the point of pretending that he doesn't, because he is a typically lame teenage boy. They dance around the subject awkwardly until Tran tells Aimie he only wants to be friends. Aimie gets upset and sleeps with someone at a party, at which point Tran realizes that he has been acting like a huge loser. Lonely girls everywhere sigh in commiseration along with the Asobi Seksu soundtrack.

"Every Girl Should Be Married" (1948)

Retail clerk Annabel REALLY wants to get married. She decides that confirmed bachelor pediatrician Madison Brown will do quite nicely. The movie details her increasingly outrageous schemes to land him as he tries to fend off her advances. She's weird and awkward and painfully embarrassing. At the end, of course, he proposes. Bonus points for Betsy Drake, who played Annabel: Cary Grant, who played Madison, married her for real the next year. If only all lonely girls were so lucky.

"Heavenly Creatures" (1994)

Based on the icky true story of two young girls in New Zealand who got a little two close, Pauline (Melanie Lynskey) and Juliet (Kate Winslet back in her chubby days, when, honestly, lonely girls liked her better) decide their only chance not to be separated is to murder Pauline's mother. Obviously. The girls spend most of their time obsessing about a dream world of their own invention where they frolic with film stars in a quasi-religious manner. Their parents have begun to worry about their possibly lesbian relationship and plan to keep them apart, so they work out their plan. They report that Juliet's mother has fallen and bumped her head, but she's obviously been beaten to death with a brick, so that doesn't really work. Bonus trivia: Juliet changed her name to Anne and become a successful detective novelist. Weird.

"Linda Linda Linda" (2005)

Four Japanese high school girls are keen to perform in the school cultural festival, but the singer quits the band just days before the competition. The only person they can interest in the job is a Korean exchange student with a shaky grasp of Japanese. The little group of outcasts (not all that realistic, as the Japanese girls are all J-pop stars, but they make convincing dorks) overcome ex-boyfriends, missed rehearsal times, and other lonely girl stuff to win the competition, at which they sing "Linda Linda Linda" by punk band The Blue Hearts, which makes it all worth it.

"Welcome to the Dollhouse" (1995)

I don't think I even need to explain this one. Anyone named Dawn Wiener is automatically entered into the Lonely Girl Hall of Fame. Bonus points for semi-inadvertently getting your sister kidnapped.

"L'Effrontée" (1985)

Lonely girl hero Charlotte Gainsbourg won a César award for playing 13-year-old Charlotte, whose drab motherless existence is livened up one summer by the arrival of a child prodigy, a classical pianist named Clara, whom she sees as her way out of life with a vaguely negligent father and a pesky neighbor girl named Lulu. Connections are missed, lines are crossed, Charlotte is nearly raped by an older boy, and Lulu almost dies, but it's the best of lonely girl worlds when it all turns out alright in the end.

"Hour of the Star" (1985)

Another entrant for the Hall of Fame is Macabea: she's a typist, a virgin, and she likes Coca-Cola. The only thing nicer than this film is the novel of the same name by Clarice Lispector. And I mean 'nicer' as in 'gut-wrenchingly painful and awkward and wrong'. Macabea is a lonely girl who never knows it, a girl who thinks she's being flirted with by a blind man, a girl who rides the subways for a good time, a great moon-faced girl who thinks anything can be cured by the purchase of a new lipstick. It's not a happy film, but neither are lonely girls much of the time. Almost nothing good happens at all, but Macabea's unfailing optimism can't help but make you feel a tiny bit better.

"Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" (1962)

The really awful, really wonderful, Grand Guignol film all about sisters Blanche and Jane, played by the eternally feuding Joan Crawford and Bette Davis. It's catty, it's cruel, it's grotesque, and you spend most of the film yelling at Blanche for not escaping the fifty or so times that she could have. Why do lonely girls like it? It's scary without being nightmare-inducing, the dialogue is fabulously outlandish, and it's a good thing to watch if you're ever having issues with your sister.

The Lonely Girl's Guide to Flirting (or Not, as the Case May Be)

Oh, Lonely Girl. Society is a trial for you, is it not? And yet, and yet. You yearn for companionship. Not for a true friend, each lonely girl is blessed with one of those, instantly recognizable as a kindred spirit, or at least after a week or two. And not for the company of a group, which you disdain, choosing instead the company of a wealth of literary characters to walk beside you on your everyday journeys, even though they are lousy for parties.

No, Lonely Girl. What you crave is a romantic suitor. A Captain Wentworth, a Gilbert Blythe, a Heathcliff (if you're a bit of a masochistic lonely girl.) Sadly, they are not easily come by, especially by the likes of you, who can at turns appear aloof, enraged, or deaf/mute.

This, Lonely Girl, is designed to be the definitive guide to get you your man, that elusive combination of Mr. Darcy's looks, Mr.Bingley's charm, Mr. Rochester's money, and Romeo's undying devotion. Try following these simple suggestions. It may not work, but your other option is living out your days covered in cat hair, so it's at least worth a try.

WALKING THE LINE.

No, Lonely Girl, don't go all Johnny Cash on me, although it might be good to hum the tune as a reminder when you are in the proximity of your prospective lover. Under your breath, of course. The Fine Line I speak of refers to your behavior. As you probably already know, the Lonely Girl in love will generally exhibit one of two forms of behavior:

1. She will ignore the young man, to the point of not responding in the event when he speaks to her.

2. She will completely overpower the young man, expressing her undying devotion before he even asks for her number.

Lonely Girl, neither of these is an acceptable, or indeed effective, ploy to snag yourself a fella. Here are a few simple rules which can be easily applied, and please keep in mind that they are most efficacious when employed all at once.

1. If he says hello to you, smile pleasantly and return the greeting. You may even inquire after his health, although do remember
that it is then HIS turn to speak.

2. If you are speaking with a group of which he is a member, it is perfectly acceptable to make eye contact with him. Do not
pretend that he is some sort of amorphous jellyfish that doesn't like to be singled out now and then.

3. Be aware of EQUALITY. If you have spoken to everyone else in a particular setting, do not make the mistake of not including
him. He will think you are a cold fish, and this is to be avoided.

4. On the other hand, do not go overboard. When putting on one's face, try and imagine that you are getting ready for an event
at which your intended will not be attending. This will, hopefully, prevent you from trying out ill-advised shades of eyeliner, fake
eyelashes, or bizarre hairstyles. The same approach should be used in the selection of apparel.

5. When speaking to him, avoid the word 'love' altogether. Because once a Lonely Girl starts using it, she often finds it hard to
stop, and more than one unfortunate soul has found herself on the slippery slope from "I love horseradish" to "I love teensy
weensy babies" to "YOU, YOU, I LOVE YOU!!"

6. DO NOT resort to the style of trickery used by readers of 'certain ladies' magazines' (although 'ladies' is a bit of a stretch). You
will gain nothing by dusting your cleavage with sparkle-dust, or wearing his favorite color, or accepting all of the drinks he buys
you and throwing up in his lap. Do not flirt with his friends to make him jealous, touch his elbow every time he speaks, or
repeatedly run your hands through your bangs. This will only leave you with unwanted attention, his suspicion that you might
have a tic, and oily hair.

7. This is a good time to bring up the most important tip. BE YOURSELF. If he likes football and YOU like football, ask him about football. If he likes football and you don't, ask him if he's ever done anything more interesting with his time. If you're more
comfortable in a tent-like faux-maternity smock than a little black dress, you just go ahead and wear that smock. Unless you're
at the opera. Then you have to wear the dress. (Please see the upcoming Lonely Girls' Guide to Sartorial Matters.) If you're
feeling peckish, don't even think of getting that salad. Get the burger you were hoping for.

The most important thing for a Lonely Girl is to like herself, and if she exhibits this quality it will become apparent to the young man who is her target, and he will soon think to himself, "Why, goodness, this young lady seems awfully interesting. She is articulate and passionate, and, although she may have a few tendencies I have never quite seen before, I do like that sort of gumption in a girl. I think I will ask her to a poetry reading." And he will. Although you will say "No, I think poetry readings are a bit passe, let's go do something else, like take a walk and go to odd little out of the way places." And he will say, "Of course, my darling, of course."

(And don't forget: when you do find that perfect gentleman who complements all of your oddities, Poppycock would appreciate a testimonial attributing your success to the Lonely Girls' Guide to Flirting.)

A Definite Knack for this Sort of Blather

Wyatt Berry Stapp Earp (March 19, 1848 – January 13, 1929) was an American farmer, teamster, buffalo hunter, officer of the law in various Western frontier towns, gambler, saloon-keeper, miner and boxing referee...He is also noted for the Earp Vendetta.

Emily Kyle Flannery O'Connor DeBusk (Dec. 22 1984-??) is an American tragic-comedienne, loner, Churchboy hunter, editorial slave of the last remaining Encyclopedias, rambler, squirrel-keeper, whiner, and Poppycock founder...she is also noted for the DeBusk Vendetta, a swift and decisive banishment of her sworn enemy Moany McSidler, a confirmed Creepy Guy.

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Kaspar Hauser (30 April 1812 (?) – 17 December 1833) was a mysterious foundling in 19th century Germany famous for his claim to have grown up in the total isolation of a darkened cell. Hauser's claims, and his death by stabbing, sparked much debate and controversy. A now discredited theory linked him with the princely House of Baden.

Molly Pohlig (6 July 1976 -- (?)) was an ungainly changeling switched for her parents' rightful daughter in Richmond, Virginia. She grew up in a world of her own that has never been fully penetrated by the numerous experts who have studied her life. She claims to have the power to become invisible, although this power is not said to be completely under her control. At some stages it has been postulated that she has some talents in the field of creative writing, although this is generally discredited as a rumor.

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Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, Marquise de Pompadour, also known as Madame de Pompadour (29 December 1721 – 15 April 1764), was a talented and beautiful lady who exerted strong cultural, intellectual and political influence at the French court, and was the official maîtresse-en-titre of Louis XV from 1745 to 1750.

Emilia-Cecilia Croissant, Marquise de Busque, also known as Madame de Busque (22 December - TBA) was a fierce and opinionated lady, given to frequent bouts of shrieking, who exerted strong cultural, intellectual, and political influence at the lunch table, and was the self-appointed, imaginary maîtresse-en-titre of Le Stupide Garcon d'Eglise XLII from September 17, 2009 to September 18, 2009, notwithstanding said Garcon d'Eglise's excessively godly reluctance to acknowledge her, let alone have an imaginary maîtresse-en-titre.

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Simone de Beauvoir (January 9, 1908–April 14, 1986) was a French writer and philosopher. She wrote novels, monographs on philosophy, politics, and social issues, essays, biographies, and an autobiography in several volumes. She is now best known for her metaphysical novels, including She Came to Stay and The Mandarins, and for her 1949 treatise The Second Sex, a detailed analysis of women's oppression and a foundational tract of contemporary feminism.

Mollie le Pauligue (July 6, 1978-- ) was an important yet dreary French theorist, imaginist, and daydreamer. Her prolific and celebrated writing career existed mostly in her head, where she won numerous awards for her epic novels and best-selling experimental works. In her mind, she is most remembered for the brilliantly received novels The Lonely Japanese Girl and The Poppycockian Way, as well as the iconoclastic 2009 work, The Second Date: Why It Will Never Happen Unless There is a First, which demanded that imaginary young women everywhere throw off the chains forged for them in romantic comedies, largely through a strict regime of awkwardness, wistfulness, and random violence.

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Hildegard of Bingen (German: Hildegard von Bingen; Latin: Hildegardis Bingensis; 1098 – 17 September 1179), also known as Blessed Hildegard, Saint Hildegard, and Sybil of the Rhine, was a Christian mystic, German Benedictine abbess, author, counselor, linguist, naturalist, scientist, philosopher, physician, herbalist, poet, channeller, visionary, composer, and polymath....She wrote theological, botanical and medicinal texts, as well as letters, liturgical songs, poems, and the first surviving morality play, while supervising brilliant miniature Illuminations.

Emilegard of Elkgen (German: Emilegard von Elkgen: Latin: Emilegardis Elkgensis; 1984-N/A), also know as Blessedest Emilegard, Most Serene Emilegard, and Spinster of Plum Creek, was a confused Christian mystic-wannabe, American omni-denominational statistic, writer, listener, malingerer, snail-watcher, wordist, saint-in-theory, plant-waterer, limerickian, impressionator, gesturist, whistler, myopic visionary, stick figurist, and polymath...She wrote theological, botanical and medicinal text messages, as well as emails, nonsensical songs, poems and the first surviving spam-inspired choose-your-own-adventure series, while committing brilliant drunken doodles on the bathroom mirror.

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Gudrun Ensslin (15 August 1940 – 18 October 1977) was a founder of the German terrorist group Red Army Faction (Rote Armee Fraktion, or RAF, also known as the Baader-Meinhof Gang). After becoming involved with co-founder Andreas Baader, Ensslin was influential in the politicization of Baader's voluntaristic anarchistic beliefs. Ensslin was perhaps the intellectual head of the RAF.

Die Mölly Pöhlig (6 July 1978--unavailable) was a founder of the militant arm of Der Pöppycöck literarisches Unternehmen (or PLU, also known as der einsamen Mehlklöße Gruppen, or Lonely Dumpling Gang). After spending years nursing an infatuation with financial mastermind Herr Denning, Pöhlig was instrumental in the guerilla literary tactics which saw Pöppycöck's work published in a number of influential daily international newspapers. She was arrested numerous times for graffiti at the houses of bestselling authors whom she deemed unworthy, for the notorious destruction by petrol bomb of an entire warehouse of chick-lit, and for drunkenly attempting to serenade Herr Denning with an accordion from beneath his balcony, clad in nothing but lederhosen. Pöhlig perhaps was the instigator of a worldwide return to serious literature.

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207 BC: Chrysippus, a Greek stoic philosopher, is believed to have died of laughter after watching his drunk donkey attempt to eat figs.

2009 AD: Emilippus, an American silly person, is believed to have died of laughter after listening to her drunk friend Molly recite her "Fat Molly's Bordello" routine.

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162 BC: Eleazar Maccabeus was crushed to death at the Battle of Beth-zechariah by a War elephant that he believed to be carrying Seleucid King Antiochus V; charging in to battle, Eleazar rushed underneath the elephant and thrust a spear into its belly, whereupon it fell dead on top of him.

2009 AD: Mollia Pohligamapolous was smooshed to death by a rush hour number 5 express train at Grand Central Station after her friend Emilias Debuscimus decided to play a practical joke, pretending to throw Pohligamapoulous' Benetint lip balm onto the tracks. Debuscimus was unaware of how strongly Pohligamapoulus felt about the lip balm, and upon seeing the untimely demise at her unwitting hands, ran across the platform and threw herself underneath the approaching number 6 local train.

Poppycock in a Funk

"What on earth is wrong with everything right now?" Maude howled, standing wretchedly cold and drenched in the doorway of the Poppycock Enterprises offices, at noon on what had, very recently, looked like a very sunny and temperate day. Mr. Periwinkle, and the Professors De Busque and P'ohlig simultaneously lurched out of their respective chairs and chaise lounges to find poor Maude a towel. But Mr. Periwinkle was heading for the Trollope to open the secret door, putting him at direct cross purposes with Emily, who was heading for the drinks cabinet and a small tea towel but distracted by a smarting tooth, and they both collided with Molly, who was really only getting up because everyone else was and she didn't want to be accused of being lazy. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs, and to top it all off, the cat, Agatha, was so startled from her perch that she upset it, and that's when the sculpture of the Rodin dancer clonked Molly on the head. Somewhere amid the general kerfuffle, the decision was heartily agreed upon to close for the day.

* * *

"Dreadful, my dears, just really really dreadful," Alexx tut-tutted, once again having come to save the day. And she had quite a busy one indeed, calming Maude's hysterics by tucking her back into bed, cajoling Agatha down from a tree, sending Mr. Periwinkle to man the office with just enough brandy to be helpful, but not enough to disappear. She doctored Molly's art-inflicted wounds, leaving her with just a little bit of very attractive bruising on her cheekbone. She found both hot and cold compresses for Emily's aching tooth. "But really, what can have gotten everyone in such a state? I know the weather's been awful, but really, it was like happening upon the Dyatlov Pass!"

"We're just out of sorts, Alexx, and we can't seem to get ourselves round right again." Molly glumly scratched a bit of stray gold leaf off of the leather-bound spine of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking", bequeathed to them by the Julia Child Society. This of course caused the cover to pop off. Molly thunked her head onto the kitchen table, precisely on the spot the Rodin had found earlier, and let out a mighty groan.

"And have you seen the shortlist? I mean, have you seen it?" Emily's voice came out high and muffled and anguished. No one said anything. They had all seen it. The shortlist for the Man Booker had been announced, and not one book they had worked on had made the cut. There was a pseudo-autobiography written by a chimpanzee, if that makes it clear how horrible the list was. "And look!" she shrieked, holding up something small and white, "As if that weren't all bad enough, my teeth are apparently jumping ship as well!"

"And Mr. Denning too!" Molly set in with a wail, for it was just that very morning that their trusted financial advisor, much beloved by Molly in particular, had sent a curt note tendering his resignation. And with their problems finally out, Emily joined Molly in a harmony of tears, and after a few minutes, Alexx, who the night before had had a rather unsatisfying day of work in the garden she attended, decided she would just join in as well. Before long, Maude had shuffled down from her room, not wanting to be alone, and much in need of a good community cry. So naturally no one was surprised when Mr. Periwinkle appeared, tiny tears in his eyes, and silently handed out the good teacups, which were then filled to the brim with strong spirits. No, not Maude's. But everyone else's.

* * *

The rest of the day passed as might be expected. There was much moping and sarcasm and self-effacement. In fact, it wasn't really such a very bad afternoon. Everyone put their pajamas back on (even Mr. Periwinkle, who kept a spare set in the closet in case of inclement weather) and they watched "Wuthering Heights". But although they tried valiantly to lift their moods, it must be said that they did not try very hard. Emily had to tip her head to one side to eat the scones they had for tea. Molly's heart ached so. Alexx had the gloomy feeling that her gloomy boss was affecting her mood. Maude had caught a chill from the sudden rainshower. And Mr. Periwinkle was drunk.

"I just....I just feel that we've lost something somewhere along the way, and I don't know when and I don't know how and I don't even know what!" Molly sighed from the leather armchair, crinkly with age, stroking the stain from the time one of Oscar Wilde's boyfriends spilled a sufficiency of wine on it.

"I know what," Emily countered gloomily from Ernest Hemingway's rocking chair. "We've lost Mr. Denning and my teeth." Molly threw her lap blanket over her head and commenced whimpering. Even Agatha was down-trodden.

"But what are we to do?" Maude said, angrily thrusting a small shoulder against a rickety bookshelf. One solitary book seemed to leap off of the shelf and land with a splat, open to what seemed like a very specific page. For the first time that drear day, the inhabitants of Poppycock Manor eyed each other with a mild sense of curiosity. Maude picked it up and read aloud: ' "Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die." '

There was a silence as realization slowly dawned on everyone in the room. Even Agatha perked up her fluffy tail and rubbed her nose against Emily's foot. The reason everyone was so overwhelmed by their troubles just presently was because they were trying to solve them all alone. It was no good trying to pull yourself up by your bootstraps if your heart just wasn't in it. Someone else would have to pull on those bootstraps for you, and that, in turn, might help you to pull on theirs.

* * *

That evening was, as so often was the way at Poppycock, much more productive than the morning had been. Everyone changed out of their pajamas and into smart office clothes, and reconvened for a candlelit dinner/planning session in the basement where the Round Table was kept. Yes, it was that Round Table, and it was only used for very important occasions, of which tonight was one. Everyone drew a name out of the hat. Emily was going to begin a stealth campaign to 'accidentally' run into Mr. Denning and tell him lots of stories about how exceedingly happy and marvelous Molly was, thereby making him realize how much he was missing by removing himself from their lives. Molly was to give the gentle Alexx lessons in aggression, and make her boss realize that she was a gardener to be reckoned with. Alexx would take Maude and her delicate constitution for daily strengthening walks. Maude would launch a mission to keep an eye on the levels in Mr. Periwinkle's port glasses. Mr. Periwinkle, man of many talents that he was, was going to take a correspondence course in dentistry, thereby saving Emily the cost and unfriendliness of a strange dentist.

As they finished their meal and their meeting, the five around the table, with Agatha in the center, although sorry they had been struggling, were eternally grateful that they had each other, and knew that as long as they remembered that, Poppycock Enterprises would continue to flourish, and yes, next year conquer the entire shortlist.

A Poppycockian Fairy Tale

“It is an absolute pig-sty in here, girls,” Mr. Periwinkle said imperiously. The Poppycock postman was taking a late morning sherry (as opposed to his early afternoon sherry) in the cozy firelit office where he spent much of his time. Professors P’ohlig and DeBusque both opened their mouths as if to protest, but meekly shut them again, for two reasons. The first was that Mr. Periwinkle was probably the tidiest person in Great Britain. He may have been overfond of sherry (and gin, and elderflower wine, and various nasty raspberry liqueurs), but his house was never darkened by even the merest speck of dust. The second reason the girls kept their mouths shut was that he was absolutely right. It was a pig-sty. A well-appointed, highly cultured pig-sty, but a pig-sty nonetheless.

Maude sniffled, as she was largely in charge of any ‘cleaning’ that happened to occur. “I’ve gotten a little…behind, I suppose, Mr. Periwinkle.”

“It’s just we’ve all been rushed off our feet lately!” proclaimed Emily as she and Molly bustled about a now dejected Maude, blowing her nose and fluffing her hair. They both shot stern looks at Mr. Periwinkle as Emily continued. “Why, Maude’s doing edits on her first book, I’ve got Alice Munro calling me every fifteen minutes needing more help, and Molly’s simply swamped with Mr. Denning’s financial memoir.”

Molly blushed furiously, as Emily knew full well that not a bit of business had occurred at yesterday’s very long lunch out with Mr. Denning, and that Molly had returned considerably more rumpled and cheerful than when she had left. She gave Emily’s hand a grateful squeeze, and resolved not to throw any blame on her friend, who had come back similarly rumpled and cheerful last week, from a Bible study meeting, of all things.

“Whatever should we do, Mr. Periwinkle?” Molly harrumphed as she flopped down in her chaise lounge. “We shall never be able to clean to your standards unless we hire a full-time housekeeper. We’d hire you to do it, but then who would bring the mail? And anyways, we’re squeezed to death as it is with the four of us.”

“So what you need is someone….small, and unobtrusive?” Mr. Periwinkle cocked his head thoughtfully.

“And with reasonable prices,” Maude chipped in, and got three head tousles for it. Maude was the only voice of reason apart from Mr. Denning, gently admonishing the Professors whenever they came home from another spree laden with books and wispy party dresses.

Mr. Periwinkle leapt up with only a slight sherry-induced wobble. “I know just the thing! Tonight, when you go to bed, leave out a piping hot bowl of porridge and honey.”

Maude wrinkled her nose. “But…that will only make things…piggier.”

Mr. Periwinkle pinched Maude’s cheek and grinned a mysterious grin. “Just trust me on this one, ladies. And since it’s been such a productive morning, well, I believe I shall take the afternoon off. I’ll be back tomorrow for another inspection!” And he sailed out of the Poppycock offices.

Emily, Molly, and Maude sat in silence, rather unsure if this was just another of the famous Periwinkle pranks, like the time that he tried to pass off some atrocious poetry he’d written as the lost works of D.H. Lawrence, or the time he threw the office into a veritable storm of makeup, perfume, and feminine hysteria after forging a letter from Johnny Depp which indicated he was in urgent need of wordsmithery. Molly, being the laziest, was the first to go for it. “Look, if nothing happens, we’ll just get up early and call a maid service.” It was agreed to be a capital idea, and it was good they thought of it so quickly, for in ten minutes there was to be a viewing of “Cranford” in the Poppycock screening room which was scheduled to take up the rest of the day.


* * *

Morning came early to Poppycock Manor, everyone was up before ten, not quite believing, but still hoping, that somehow a bowl of hot porridge and honey would have been able to clean the place while they slept. At approximately 9:47 three shrieks occurred in chorus, and three doors simultaneously swung open.

“Maude, is your room—“Emily managed to get out, dainty Victorian nightgown swirling about her bare feet, a gift from a fawning group of Dickens scholars.

“My room! It is!” Maude shouted, skidding a little bit in footy pajamas from Quentin Blake. She slid over to the staircase and looked up to where Molly was running down the steps from the garret, wearing a too-big kimono (given to her by Haruki Murakami) which slowed the process considerably.

“Why girls, it’s sparkling! Quick! Downstairs!” Our trio bounded down the stairs, giggling and tripping and pointing out how clean things were (“I can see myself in the mirror!” “I thought I’d lost that hat, whatever is it doing on that hat rack?” “I’ve never even seen that before!”)

Maude led the pack as they reached the French doors to the kitchen, threw them open, and stopped far too abruptly for the galloping hordes behind her to follow suit. The inhabitants of Poppycock Manor tumbled into a bruised and breathless heap on the floor.

“Maudie, whyever did you—“

“Shhh!”

Emily and Molly followed Maudie’s widened eyes. There, sitting at the antique Italian kitchen table, was a most curious creature. It looked like a very small child, but with very long legs, a roundish belly, and little tufts of blonde hair. Since the tumble of girls on the floor didn’t seem inclined to speak, the creature began, in a thin, high voice not unlike a flute.

“I’m Fwendy. I am a brownie, or you could call me a piskie, but really I just prefer Fwendy,” the small creature said. “Thank you for the porridge and honey. I do so like it.”

Emily, Maude, and Molly just sat in stunned silence.

“If you’d like me to do a little clean now and then, just leave a bowl of porridge and honey. Or ice cream. I’m fond of ice cream. Actually, you could add a bit more cream to the porridge next time. Really, anything with cream would be most appreciated.” Fwendy got a faraway look in her eye momentarily, but gave her little head a little shake and jumped off her seat. (She had to jump quite a ways, as her legs didn’t reach the ground.)

“How did you…how will you know when we want you?” Emily said from the ground, which put her on eye level with the brownie.

“Oh, I’ll live here from now on,” said Fwendy in a jolly way. “But don’t worry, I won’t be in your way. You’ll never see me, unless you want to of course. Just remember,” she said, pulling a sparkling blue bonnet from a hidden pocket, “Anything with cream!” And she laughed a little tinkly laugh, popped the bonnet on her head, and, quite simply, disappeared.

It was a good ten minutes before Mr. Periwinkle arrived with the mail, and when he did, he had to tip the Trollope and come into the house, as there was no one in the office. He found three bewildered girls still in their nightclothes, in a jumble on the kitchen floor.

“Ever such a lot of mail today, sleepyheads, best to get to it soon. How about I fix us all a little something first, though, hm?” Mr. Periwinkle set about putting the kettle on as the girls slowly rose and began to make breakfast. The postman smiled to himself and put the sherry on the tray, the taste of porridge and honey with not quite enough cream still in his mouth, and a tiny blue sparkle falling from his postman’s cap.

Two Stories

It was the worst possible thing that could happen at a bridal shower, and if any bride deserved a decent bridal shower, it was poor Lilith Antiman. Lilith had run away from Womyn’s Eden, the militantly matriarchic and exclusively lesbian commune where her mother had settled, at the age of 14. She came down from Shoutout Mountain a skinny and skittish little thing and she lived alone in a tent on the outskirts of town for weeks before the town librarian befriended her and convinced her to take the room above her garage. Her mother, Sister Pandora Antiman, made no attempt to bring her back to the commune, but she did come to visit when she made her monthly trip to town in the old pick-up truck which had a naked woman giving birth to a rainbow painted on its side. Sister Pandora would stand stiffly in front of the truck, clearly unused to wearing clothes, waiting for Lilith to come out and meet her. She was disgusted with her daughter’s choice to live under some man’s roof, ignoring Lilith’s quiet explanation that the librarian, a woman, owned the house herself. Sister Pandora spoke gruffly to her daughter, spitting every time she found it necessary to allude to a man. “So you’re in school now eh? Just can’t get enough Shakespeare eh? Pa-too! Just can’t wait to run back into the arms of the oppressors eh?? Pa-too! All these years I been bringing you up to the light of the True Mother, and you just a man-lover PA-TOO! Makes me sick!” Sister Pandora would eventually run out of saliva and leave.

In school Lilith was a bright and observant, but she was too shy and confused around the boys, who she had been taught from a young age were walking monstrosities, to ever fit in with the other students. She chose instead to work in the little pottery studio the kind-hearted librarian allowed her to set up in her garage. She also took to weaving, all stringed instruments, bird-watching, herb-gathering and woodworking. She graduated from high school with high marks, few friends, and no plans for the future. Then Jack March came to town, an orphan and high school drop-out who had been traveling for the last four years of his young life. He was tired, hungry, and desperately alone when he walked past her studio at a moment when all things were aligned to entrap him forever: she was turning the corner of her studio after an afternoon in the woods with the setting sun at her back, her long golden hair swimming wildly about her face and shoulders in the same breeze that caught a bunch of wild flowers from her arms and blew them into the road at his feet. They were inseparable ever after.

Word soon reached Sister Pandora and the rest of the womyn up on Shoutout Mountain that Lilith intended to marry a man. A great cry of despair went up from the fire circle, where the naked women gathered in the evenings for meals and meetings. They quickly fashioned a wooden effigy of a man and spent the better part of the evening stabbing and abusing it until they burned it completely in the Fire of Womyn’s Wrath. “Sister Pandora,” said Sister Gaia with a mighty shake of her fist, breathless with rage, “we must rescue her. She’s too young to know that she’s sacrificing her soul, that she’s shaming her body and the Great Mother.” And so, the very next day, Sister Pandora, with Sister Gaia, Sister Athena, and Sister Sappho crouched solemnly in the bed of the truck, descended the mountain in a cloud of dust and fury to kidnap her daughter and, if the Great Mother was generous, castrate a certain young man.

Meanwhile, the kind-hearted librarian had gathered a few of the neighbor women and some of Lilith’s schoolmates to a sort of bridal shower on her verandah. A few women offered a few small household items, knowing full well that Lilith and Jack probably wouldn’t be the type to keep house, if they ever had a house. They planned to head for a community farm that took in travelers who would work as soon as they could. Lilith was still overcome with the joy of being lied to about men and couldn’t even bring herself to say his name without blushing uncontrollably. The older women smiled but did her the favor of pretending not to notice. They sipped their tea and resumed the daily gossip.

Suddenly the Womyn’s Eden pick-up truck came rattling up the lane with four angry, naked womyn in it. Sister Pandora was the first to dismount [would you ‘dismount’ a truck?] slamming the truck door with a deadly bang. “Enough is enough, Lilith Antiman.” She barked. She and the others were approaching the verandah in a menacing formation, their aged, weathered breasts swinging with every step . Sister Pandora was carrying something in her hand. “You should be ashamed of yourself. I’ve respected your freedom for this long. But I must forbid this wicked thing. No daughter of mine will ever be defiled by a son of Adam. Pa-too!” The other sisters spat in agreement; Sister Athena went so far as to lift her leg and let rip a contemptuous fart.

“No Mother!” said Lilith, raising her voice ever so slightly above normal volume for possibly the first time in her life. “You leave me and Jack alone. We love each other and there’s nothing wrong with that. Go back to your mountain and become extinct since that is your choice.”

“Where is this Jack? I want a word with him, the first word I’ve spoken to any man since the day I cursed your vile beast of a father in the face after I found him atop my own sister on the day you were born. I want to tell him exactly what I think of him.” With that she displayed a well-worn machete with grim ferocity.

“Now Pandora, you’re being ridiculous. I must ask you and your..er…friends to leave my property,” said the kind-hearted librarian. The guests of the bridal shower murmured similar protests while trying to avoid the sight of 8 droopy breasts. Just as it became clear that the gentle reasoning of Lilith and the kind-hearted librarian was going to be useless, Jack March came up the lane after a morning’s hard work at the neighbor’s farm, shovel over his shoulder and a whistle on his lips. He whistled slower as he passed the oddly painted truck, but choked on his whistle altogether when he saw the giant, muscular buttocks of four women at a stand-off with Lilith and the guests. The Womyn turned upon him with Cheshire cat grins. The befuddled boy reeled backward at the sight of the nude Amazons.

“So this is my supposed son-in-law,” Sister Pandora crowed. “Presumptuous son of a presumptuous son!” The other womyn made similarly obscure and hateful remarks. Lilith darted down the steps of the verandah and planted herself firmly between Jack and her mother.

“Get away you bitter old cow!” She shrieked, transformed in a moment from a gentle sparrow to a hawk. “I’m sorry my father was a bad man but you’re wrong about Jack and you’re wrong about life in general so just go away and become extinct on your lonely old mountain! I love Jack and I’m marrying him and you don’t have a say!” The womyn were so taken aback at the sight of an impassioned Lilith, who they had last seen as a twiggy child silently throwing stones into the river for hours, that they quite forgot their mission. Indeed, when they saw Lilith embrace the wide-eyed Jack in an act of defiance, they felt suddenly bereft of meaning. Sisters Gaia, Athena, and Sappho trickled back into the pick-up, each lost in thought. Athena calculated that she had left a son who would be about Jack’s age now. Gaia remembered what it was like to be in love when she was 17. Sister Pandora jabbed her machete into the ground, frustrated but speechless. After a few tense moments, she made as if to return to the pick-up, but took a sudden turn and flew fist-first toward Jack’s head. Always a quick thinker, Jack shielded himself with the shovel he had been holding, and his naked mother-in-law’s hand was brutally thwarted in its purpose. She howled and fell to the ground, cradling her shattered hand. Jack knelt beside her and apologized profusely as the womyn scrambled from the pick-up to collect their broken sister. Sister Pandora only glared at him, sputtering- mad.

As the sisters from Womyn’s Eden disappeared down the road in the rattling pick-up, Lilith took Jack’s hand and assured him that they need never see her mother again. Out of sheer gratitude, Jack kissed her. “Nevermind, my dears!” said the kind-hearted librarian, approaching them with two glasses of minty iced tea. “What’s a bridal shower without a homicidal mother-in-law in the nude?”



It was the worst possible thing that could have happened at a bridal shower. It started out innocuously enough. The bride, Celia, was radiant in the April afternoon sunshine as she walked into the garden with her mother, Janet. Thirty four of her very closest friends had gathered for one last day before Celia waltzed down the aisle on her father’s arm, where Craig would be waiting, Craig the man of all of her childhood dreams. She’d met him the first day of rush week freshman year, and he eventually pledged Kappa Sigma and she pledged Delta Kappa, so it was like they were meant to be right from the start. It was really going to be a fairy tale wedding. Celia’s Vera Wang dress had been delivered just that morning, right after she returned from a teeth-whitening procedure. It fit like a dream on her perfect waist, adorable hips, and enviable bosom. She’d had a practice run with the hairdresser the day before, and everyone in attendance agreed that they had never seen such an exquisite hairdo, accentuated by the Swarovski crystal tiara that had been an early wedding gift from Craig. The tickets for the honeymoon in Bali were in Craig’s top dresser drawer, along with an impressive array of edible body paint, and the only thing left to do before next weekend’s love extravaganza was a farewell party with her girls. There had been some talk of a bachelorette party, but Delta Kappas were far too elegant for such trash, and anyway, Celia couldn’t handle her liquor. No, a garden party was best.

And of course it all went smoothly as silk, as everything did in Celia’s charmed life. The only thing that could be called a snag was the fact that Celia’s best friend and maid of honor, Jackie, was MIA, but they received a call that she was stuck in traffic, but would they please get started without her? And so they did. There was a sumptuous spread of food- bite-size cheesecakes and airy puff pastries, champagne (just dainty sips for dainty Celia), and a delightful array of divine gifts – cushy towels, sheets of the highest Egyptian thread count available, sleek kitchenware, and some very expensive yet very tasteful lingerie. It was just as Celia was opening her last gift (a gorgeous pewter cake knife from her sophomore year roommate, Bunny Harrison) that Jackie breezed in, all apologies and perfume.

“Darling, I am so sorry I was held up. I had the teensiest bit of trouble with your gift, and I simply couldn’t show up unless it was perfect,” Jackie crooned in her Southern drawl that fairly dripped with honey. She flounced into the seat of honor and handed Celia a massive yet oddly light box. Celia had the good grace not to blush as she secretly hoped the box would contain the one thing she’s truly hoped for, a rather intricate, er, marital toy that one blew up with a hair dryer. She had discussed it one night over margaritas, well, one margarita, with Jackie, but knew that Jackie would never be so gauche as to give it to her in front of her mother, a Delta Kappa alum of their very chapter. Jackie gave Celia a wink. “Go ahead Celia, I bet you’ll never guess….”

Celia delicately undid the curling ribbons and crisp wrapping. She opened the flaps to reveal….an envelope at the bottom of the box. Celia’s heart began to pound. A gift certificate? She adored gift certificates, and Jackie always picked such good ones, with such large amounts. She cheekily slit open the top with her new cake knife and pulled out a blurry black and white photograph. She stared a moment, head cocked at a precious angle. She said nothing.

“Dear, what is it?” Janet leaned in over her daughter’s shoulder, pen and paper at the ready to record the nature of the gift next to Jackie’s name in her excellent penmanship.

Celia’s voice came out rather robotic. “It’s an ultrasound picture. Of a baby.”

A decided hush fell. Was Celia pregnant? Janet cleared her throat. “Whose…whose baby, darling?”

Celia stood and let the picture fall to her side. “Jackie’s. “ Audible gasps were heard around the garden. “And Craig’s.”

That’s when all hell broke loose.

Janet shrieked and fainted. Roughly half of the Delta Kappa sisters froze in their seats, some in mid-chew. The remaining half turned to their neighbors, eyes agape, and immediately began to enumerate the reasons that they just knew that something like this would happen. And that’s why no one noticed when, with her customary grace, Celia, without so much as a shiver, plunged the beautiful pewter cake knife into her heart. As she slumped back into her chair, head at an impossible angle and spurting blood simply ruining her tasteful grey Dior sheath, Jackie reached over her to the puff pastries with a hint of a smile. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Poppycock Goes Gothic

“Emily, I say, are you alright? You’re looking terribly peaked, didn’t you sleep well?” Professor Molly P’ohlig looked at Professor Emilia DeBusque with no small measure of alarm, for Emily was well known for her reliable circadian rhythms.

“I don’t think I slept at all, actually. Oh, thank you,” Emily smiled weakly as Molly slid a piping hot bowl of oatmeal just under where Emily’s wan visage was drooping over the kitchen table. “It’s the strangest thing, I know, and I would think I was dreaming, but I was most decidedly awake. All night it sounded like, and I know this is ridiculous, but it sounded like there was an elderly man in my closet singing “La Marseillaise”.”

Molly very nearly choked on a raspberry.

“I know, it’s ridiculous, but the fact is that that is what it sounded like.” Emily glumly poured an extra helping of maple syrup which Mr. Periwinkle had brought with the morning post, direct from John Irving’s Vermont farm, hand-tapped by Mr. Irving himself. Normally, Emily would have noticed the addition. Normally, Emily would have gotten up before noon. “Where’s Maude?”

“Here, I think,” Maude shuffled in with uncustomary slowness, her fuzzy bunny slippers, a gift for helping with Rupert Everett’s first play, positively dragging their ears. As Molly ladled up some more oatmeal, Maude said, “You’ll never believe why I couldn’t sleep last night.”

Molly and Emily simultaneously said “An elderly man singing “La Marseillaise” in your closet?”

Maude’s puffy eyes widened considerably.

“Emily heard it too, you see, and I, well, I thought it was just one of my dreams. And I’m always tired when I wake up anyway, so I generally feel just the same as if I didn’t sleep at all.” Molly skittered about the kitchen finding the biggest coffee mugs available. “Something very peculiar is afoot. Listen, I think I can actually sing “La Marseillaise” – A…Allons enfants de la Patrie,…le….Le jour de gloire est arrivé !”

Emily raised her eyebrows as Molly looked about triumphantly. “That’s true, you never could do that before.”

“Do we even know any elderly men?” Maude said off-hand, more intent on rubbing her bloodshot eyes.

“Maudie, we hardly know anyone who ISN’T an elderly man. But how did this chap get into our house? And even if he did, how could he have been in all of our closets at once?” A sticky silence fell over the kitchen, followed by a cartoonishly loud thunderclap. The girls looked at each other ominously.

“Ladies,” Molly said theatrically, “I believe Poppycock is being haunted.”

* * *

Quite an industrious day began for the three young ladies who had only lately risen. They dispatched Mr. Periwinkle to the Poppycock offices with a sign that read CLOSED TO DUE PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES, PLEASE CALL AGAIN. He also had the excellent foresight to bring back take-away from the Indian restaurant on the corner that always gave them free naan bread, the proprietor being helplessly in love with Maude. The girls threw themselves into a tizzy of research as to how to best lure a ghost from one’s rafters, the better to exorcise any unfriendly spirits. Well, at least that was the aim when they entered Poppycock’s well-established library.

Emily struggled through at least ten pages of an early 19th century ‘academic’ work on the spirit world, but soon abandoned it in favor of a small book of Poe. Maude went for roughly the same era, and ended up poring over a collection of ethereal Julia Cameron photographs. Molly didn’t even pretend to be researching, she just cozied up with a copy of “The Shining” and quickly dropped off to sleep. After two hours of reading, Emily did the same. Thoughtful Maude decided to look up more on Julia Cameron on her laptop (the only computer allowed in Poppycock, although Maude was strictly forbidden to have a Facebook page), and, as one thing often leads to another, soon made an enlightening discovery….

“I know who it is!” Maude shouted, causing Molly and Emily to wake with tiny shrieks. “I know who our elderly gentleman is! Look, I’ve just read that Edward Gorey’s mother had a bit part in “Casablanca”, playing the guitar and singing ‘La Marseillaise’!”

All shrieks of being woken in fright turned into shrieks of delight as the girls celebrated Maude’s excellent discovery, climbing over the comfortably overstuffed leather chairs (from the gentlemen’s club frequented by one Mr. Charles Dickens, bought specifically for Poppycock at auction by one Mr. Simon Callow), marching up and down on top of the stately library table (given to them by the Board of the British Museum for, as they said, ‘admiration’), and participating in a general air of merriment until Emily shouted,

“But how do we get him out of our closets?” The large handful of library cards that Molly had just flung skywards from the card catalog drawer tumbled awkwardly over her head and shoulders.

“Well….he always drew very fancy but very small parties,” Maude offered hopefully, and was rewarded with grins from both professors, and before another word could be said, all three were racing towards their rooms to find the most appropriate apparel available for an “Edward Gorey Outing”.

* * *

It was three hours later and approaching late evening before anyone emerged from their rooms. Professor DeBusque was resplendent in a dress of dark green crushed velvet that threatened to fall from her alabaster shoulders at any minute. It had once belonged to Dorothy Parker, and she accessorized it with a headband made from albino peacock feathers. She also had on a great deal of diamonds.

Molly slunk out of her room in a slinky white gown that threatened to trip her up at every step, especially since her stiletto heels were made of actual stiletto daggers, rumored to have once belonged to a Templar knight. Her short hair was tightly slicked back, the better to see the lashings of velvety black kohl liner around her eyes.

Mr. Periwinkle had popped in to do Maude’s hair (he was a man of many hidden talents) and her luxuriant black tresses were elaborately curled and pinned. Since it was a special occasion, she was allowed, just this once, to wear three petticoats under her pale pink party dress.

Everyone looked just like they’d stepped out of an Edward Gorey lithograph. The evening was lit only by a variety of antique wall sconces, they dined entirely on cucumber sandwiches, and drank from the most delicate chinoiserie teacups, which had been purchased from the estate of a Russian nobleman who had murdered his wife in 1927. Maude had tea, the professors drank champagne cocktails. It should be noted, no one spilled a drop.

Even though the party was small, they had a simply marvelous evening after Mr. Periwinkle had locked up for the night and gone home. They sang every gloomy song they could think of, they took turns tying each other’s hands with silk handkerchiefs and trying to undo them, they spoke in rhyme, and they practiced sounding distressed in a manner most befitting a Gorey maiden. Indeed, they were having such a jolly evening that not one of them noticed a tall, older man in a floor length fur coat and white Converse at the doorway of the dining room. If they had, they would have seen a wistful smile play about his faded features before he drifted slowly out of sight.

Since that night, the inhabitants of Poppycock Manor have slept exceedingly well, although it is said that on those famous nights when a dazzling literary party is in full swing, if you quietly in an empty bedroom, you can just hear what sounds like an elderly gentleman, sweetly singing ‘La Marseillaise’.

The Poppycock Temperance League Guide to Bartending

Angry Aardvark - cucumber martini covered with shaved walnuts

Bile Bomb - moonshine derived from fermented nail polish remover

Crack of Dawn - a scrambled egg infused whiskey

Danish Prince - ale with a jigger of faux-poison

Evil Queen - absinthe with a rotten apple in the bottom

Farmer's Aid - corn and dandelion liqueurs with milk straight from the udder

Glasgow Smile - scotch with grenadine syrup drizzled over the top

Highland Mary - (as long as we're in Scotland) scotch with a minced thistle and a pinch of smoked haggis

Icelandic Childhood - a vodka popsicle with a frozen sardine inside

Jiminy Cricket - chartreuse with a tiny top hat and cane floating in it [the drink also comes with a little sound recording (which is activated when the bartender sets it in front of the customer) of Jiminy Cricket singing "and always let your conscience be your guide!!"]

Kremlin Kiss - a shot of Stoli rimmed with Revlon 'Really Red' lipstick

Lent's Reprieve - vodka, ashes, and palm frond

Mink Stole - gin with an appetite suppressant dissolved in it, garnished with a baby tooth

Notional Nightcap - the drink you wish you were drinking in the comfort of your own home while you are instead at some awkward or tedious social affair, dead sober

The Obituary - jägermeister and sambuca with a dash of India ink. traditionally served in a brandy snifter while the bartender plays a short dirge on a three-stringer violin

Peaches on the Beach in the Summertime - Sunny D with peach concentrate, tequila, and a dash of sun tan oil

Quentin's Crisp - pink champagne and apricot nectar with a Belgian waffle balance on the top of the glass, anchored with the obligatory paper umbrella

The Rum Tum Tiger - rum in an orange peel

The Sidler - dry vermouth and cooking sherry sprinkled with dandruff and warmed in a turtleneck-shaped mug cozy. a handful of coins is tossed in the bottom, which makes it harder for the drink to sneak up on you. served in a heart-shaped glass.

The Texas - a boot with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a rattlesnake in it

The Undertaker - goldschlager with just a touch of embalming fluid, lit on fire and taken as a shot

Very Special Ladies' Tonic - pink champagne with chocolate covered diamonds

Wandering Jew -- manishewitz with swizzle stick made from shoelaces belonging to a fifteen-year-old boy

Xoxo -- cranberry juice, strawberry juice, gin, and confetti

Yo' Mama - creme de menthe on a lace doily, served with a smack upside the head and two oatmeal raisin cookies

The Zelda -- a teacup of bootleg mystery liquor and a one-way ticket to the nearest mental asylum

Ask Poppycock - Troubling Dilemmas Solved with Tact and Charm

Dear Profs,
Every morning I wake up, and I know only two things about myself. I am a typist and a virgin. I have $7 to spend. Should I get some glasses at the dollar store so I don't have to squint at work, or should I get a pink lipstick and some cold coffee? I know nothing except that I will miss myself so much when I am dead.
Chastely Unaware,
Macabea



Dearest Chastey,
Oh, to be blissfully unaware! We at Poppycock advise you to go for the makeup and the coffee. The spectacles you suggest will only give you a headache, as you apparently don't possess the wherewithal or collateral to visit a proper optometrist. The lipstick will not actually improve your appearance, and indeed may enhance any innate clown-like properties already residing within, but there is little that cheers up a blue girl like pink lipstick, and without the glasses to see yourself, you will be none the wiser. Cold coffee is better than no coffee, and you can always doctor it with enough sugar to choke it down. Besides, there will probably be a few desperately poor young men hanging around the coffee shop in search of a cheap date. Just don't agree to go dutch, alright?




Dear Poppycock,
I work in a small, rather quiet office where something rather awkward is occurring. There is a young gentleman who sidles around the halls all day long making the ladies very uncomfortable, both with the slow deliberation of his demeanor and with the unfortunate display of his woman-butt in trousers which embrace it with alarming ferocity. How should we go about suggesting that he limit his rambles to one or two per day, and also introduce the idea that there might be a more flattering approach to menswear?
Signed,
Nervous in New York



My Dear Nervous,
While there's technically no protocol for confronting one's co-worker with the grievous fact that he has a woman-butt, there are some simple measures you can take to minimize his sidling, which is a common symptom of advanced Creepy Guy Syndrome. In general, hints and insinuations are wasted on men. Therefore nothing but the frankest of booby traps will be effective. I suggest tiger pits artfully disguised by palm fronds, hidden wires that can be pulled taut as he dawdles by, strategically placed barbed wire barricades, and I think some variation on the tar and feathers gag is not uncalled for. Be creative. Banana peels. Roller skates. A footstep-activated fog horn to the face. Anything that makes the thought "Perhaps I'd better sit quietly at my desk today" dawn ever so slowly in his mind.
Addressing his woman-butt situation will take some gentle diplomacy as it is a serious affliction for the modern office-working man. Before he can get the help he needs with that, he must embrace the fact that he needs help. For more information on how to stage an intervention for the man who has woman-butt in your life, please see my new pamphlet "Woman-butt and You”.



Dear Profs.
My husband wants me to be a surrogate mother to his boss' child in order to advance his career at Circuit City and pick up some money to pay off our debts. But I'm all like "What?!" I don't want none of that stretch mark shit. The thing is, I'm already sleeping with his boss to make ends meet and it ain't like anybody wants a pregnant mistress, you know what I mean? My husband is kind of dumb but I love him, you know? So do I trade in my perfectly profitable affair for a one-time lump sum and a baby bump? Or do I knock my husband upside the head like usual and tell him to shut his trap?
Womb for rent in Wyoming,
(Wynetta)



Dear WWW,
Poppycock refuses to answer queries from such a low caliber of person. Perhaps Dear Abby would be a more suitable venue for your concerns, although I do wonder how you'll manage to raise the money for the stamp.



Dear Poppycock,
I am forty nine years old and haven't been on a date since the third grade when I shared a soda with Timmy Moran. I spend a lot of time knitting, reading Jane Austen, and crying into my single cups of chamomile tea. I am afraid that I will become a spinster. My question is, is it absolutely for me to own cats if this is the case? I'm awfully allergic, and, well, I just don't like them.
Signed,
Anti-feline and Alone in Abilene.



Dear Anti-feline,
First of all, I regret to inform you that your fear is no longer in the future tense--change that "will become a spinster" to a "have become a spinster" and you'll be on the right track. Welcome to the sisterhood. Secondly, the cat thing is certainly a very cliched symbol of spinsterhood. As a writer, I must and shall condemn cliche in any of its insidious expressions. On the other hand, knitting with Jane Austen isn't exactly a bold new idea for spinsters either. May I suggest a happy medium between the ordinary and the outrageous? Embellish your spinsterhood with both tea and tattoos, knitting and narcotics, Jane Austen and Japanese horror movies. Forget the cat and get a peacock of course! If it was good enough for Flannery, that patron saint of spinsters, it will do for you too. You may never be loved by a man (or woman if that's your fancy) but damn it if you aren't the weird neighborhood lady with wild eyes and wilder hair who instills fear and awe in the hearts of schoolchildren and dogs.




Respected Professors,
I am in the middle of a messy divorce and I find that my ex has absconded with most of my books. At what point is it appropriate to raid and pillage his home, theoretically speaking?
Inwardly Irate in Ilkwood

Dear Triple I,
In a word, NOW. You are also quite within the limits of the law if you a.) pee on his plants, b.) tell his new significant other that he pees on his plants, or c.) tie him to a chair and make him watch while you destroy every single one of his precious video games. No one, I repeat, NO ONE has the right to deprive you of a single one of your treasured books. If you need backup, please don't hesitate to give us a call.



Professors De Busque and P'ohlig,
What is the appropriate length of time one should wait after a date to call a boy? Things seem to have gone well, but it's been twenty minutes since he dropped me off and I haven't heard a thing, even though he promised he would call. My mother says it's like Dorothy Parker would have quipped: "When a woman says she'll call she means when she gets the chance. When a man says he'll call he means before he dies." So now I'm torn -- do I call him or the police?
Sincerely,
Itchy Trigger Finger in Indianapolis


Dear Itchy Trigger,
We here at Poppycock are firm believers in girls not waiting by the phone. History, common sense, and self-respect forbid it. Find something constructive or alcoholic to do, by all means. If you really like the boy, call him yourself no sooner than a day and a half later. I myself would sooner die, but I am a spinster adept at passivity. However, if you are already (improbably) in love with the young squire, you exist in some fourth dimension of reality and none of my advice applies to you. People in love will always take only their own advice anyway, and it is bound to be the least sensible. So you are probably calling him at this very minute, nervously leaving two or three messages which the boy will promptly delete. In conclusion, don't call him and be prepared for him not to call you. C'est la vie.


Dear Professors,
Sometimes I take a book to work to read during lunch. A co-worker of mine often reads over my shoulder or persists in making conversation when i am clearly more interested in my book. More than once he has proceeded to give me his own bombastic and often trite review of the book, revealing its ending and diminishing its appeal. He obviously feels that he deserves my attention over a book. I'm tired of being bullied because I sometimes prefer books to people. How can i stand up to her?
Bookish and bullied in Baltimore


Dear BeeBee,
Firstly, we must confess that we are a little confused by the gender assignment in this question. Secondly, on re-examining our confusion, we have realized that is it YOUR confusion that is the issue. You refer to the offender as "co-worker", then twice as "he", and lastly as "she". The problem, dear Bookish, is that you are being Bullied by your emotions. We at Poppycock have had a conference and concluded that not only is said "co-worker" in fact a woman, but that you are in love with her. And due to the fact that writing "she" seems to be a temporary slip at the ended of a troubled letter, we divine that you tried to mask the real problem (that you are, indeed, a lesbian) by attempting to convince us that the "co-worker" is, in fact, male, which is so clearly not the case. We recommend that you seek therapy immediately and so come to terms with your repressed sexuality and your shocking habit of compulsive lying.
On the other hand, it might just be easier not to bring books to the lunchroom.
Faithfully,
Poppycock.

Happy Valentine's Day, Poppycock!

It was February 14th, and all of London was buried under a thick blanket of powdery snow. The offices of Poppycock Enterprises, Ltd., had closed early the day before in anticipation of the holiday. It was 11 o’clock Saturday morning, and the inhabitants of the house adjacent to the cozy office were in various states of preparation for the day.

“Another egg, Maudie, if you please.” Professor Emilia De Busque took a swipe at her sideswept bangs, leaving behind a fetching smattering of flour. “One without glue this time, perhaps?”
Maude, already running headlong to the refrigerator, checked herself and veered towards the sink to give her hands a vigorous scrubbing before delivering the aforementioned egg. “Don’t worry, they’re almost done, and I promise I’ll get up all the glue I can.” Maude had been working feverishly for days on a delicate paper menagerie for Poppycock’s postman, Mr. Periwinkle. He did so love animals, but a fierce set of allergies, exacerbated by an even fiercer love of sherry, precluded his owning any actual living creatures. Settling back into her chair by the fire, Maude piped up, “When are those cookies ready and where are Molly and Alexx?”

“The cookies are for the party. Alexx is in the greenhouse and Molly….” Both Emily and Maude turned at the sound of a whimper from the doorway. Maude was up in a flash to help a still pajama’d Professor P’ohlig into a comfy chair, and Emily set down a cup of coffee in front of her with a mildly disapproving eye. Molly accepted the coffee gratefully, if with a slight wince, and looked up at Emily.

“I know I should never go out on the town with Mr. Periwinkle, he drinks me under the table every time. But it was the night before Valentine’s Day, and I did so need to drown my sorrows a bit.” Molly sounded so glum that both Emily and Maude scurried to give her soothing pats and hair ruffles. Everyone had noticed that their avuncular financial adviser, Mr. Denning, had not been about in some months. Generally Molly kept up a sunny disposition, but now and then she was to be seen at her desk, staring wistfully into space. Mr. Denning’s photograph had disappeared.

“Cheer up, chum, for it’s the night of the 3rd Annual Poppycock Single Writer’s Party! I’m not sure we can top last year, but we’ll certainly try.” At this, Molly smiled. Last year’s party had indeed been smashing fun, especially after a certain novelist (mentioned in ‘An Intruder at Poppycock’) had crashed the party and attempted to leave with Alan Cumming, even though aforementioned novelist is married and Alan Cumming is, well, otherwise inclined.
Molly took a strengthening gulp of coffee and said, “Right. Time for me to be a brave little soldier. What’s there to be done that I can do?”

“I’m nearly done with all the sweets, Annie’s delivering the catering later in the day, Alexx is working on the flower arrangements, Maudie on Mr. Periwinkle’s menagerie, so that leaves…..”

“Ooh, the place cards and the seating arrangements!” Molly shouted. She did so like making place cards and matchmaking. Entirely cheered, Molly dashed off down the hall to the office for her art supplies, nearly colliding with Alexx on the way, who had her arms full of flowers. Soon the house was bustling. Alexx was clipping and arranging, Emily was icing and baking, Molly was drawing and scheming, and Maude was folding and gluing. Soon two more Poppycock regulars had arrived – Mr. Periwinkle popped in with the post, and Annie whirled in with the party food. (Annie was an errant chef the girls had met pottering around London one gloomy fall afternoon.) Everyone was in a bit of a frothy mood, thanks to a bottle of pink champagne from Mr. Periwinkle (he was so pleased with his menagerie that he managed to slip Maude one or two tiny sips), and before they knew it, it was time to pretty themselves up for the party.

* * *

The evening started off so wrongly that the girls didn’t regain their footing until it was nearly over. Five minutes before the first guests were due to arrive, Mr. Periwinkle came across a bundle of mail that he had neglected to deliver to Poppycock last week. With shaking hands, they tore open envelope after envelope, realizing to their horror that nearly every female guest they had invited was otherwise engaged for the evening. Out of the twelve invitations that had been sent, all six of the males guests were expected, and only ONE FEMALE. But there was no time at all to panic, for there was the doorbell. One after another Mr. Periwinkle ushered them in – he loved serving as butler on dinner party evenings – and there they were all lined up in the foyer under a delicate bower of lilies of the valley – Julian Barnes, Salman Rushdie, Iain Banks, Stephen Fry, Jasper Fforde, and Tom Stoppard. Everyone stood about awkwardly with cocktails for a bit, chafing in their dressy clothes and wondering when the usual renowned ladies would begin to flood the room. Well, all except for Stephen Fry, who knew he was really there as entertainment. He’d just begun to loosen everyone up a bit when the doorbell rang again. Mr. Periwinkle went to get the door, and had the decency to hide his blush when he came back in to announce – “Diana Athill”. Lovely woman, really, but she’s ninety if she’s a day. Faces fell, and the ladies of Poppycock had an emergency meeting in the kitchen, where a plan was hastily formulated. Maude was put in charge of entertaining Sir Salman with as-yet-unrevealed details of her soon-to-be-published memoir. Molly made chummy sarcastic comments about the perils of dating with Iain and Tom, both recently divorced. Alexx and Jasper commiserated over the difficulties which double consonants could sometimes present, and Emily was relied upon for the toughest job of the evening, making soothing small talk with the recently bereaved Mr. Barnes. That left Stephen to preside noisily over the whole table, as Ms. Athill fell asleep over the soup course and was moved to a cozier place by the fire, where Mr. Periwinkle spent the evening making ridiculous sketches of her.

All things considered, it really did turn out to be a lovely party. The guests were reluctant to leave, apart from Ms. Athill, who was bundled into a cab at exactly 9:30. Everyone agreed that Valentine’s parties were much nicer when one didn’t have to be on the lookout for a Valentine (although, the girls were beginning to nibble their fingernails a bit over Sir Salman’s extravagant attentions to Maude).
The clock had just struck 1 and the girls were collapsed around the hearth, sharing the evening’s funniest bits and picking over the last remnants of dessert. That’s when the doorbell rang. Everyone looked mildly alarmed until the door opened itself and the postman strolled in.

“But Periwinkle, I thought we sent you home ages ago!” Alexx said.
“Oh, er, you did,” Mr. Periwinkle said awkwardly, “But I had four deliveries that I thought should have been made before you put Valentine’s Day to bed for another year. Here’s a letter for ….Professor P’ohlig, one for…..Professor De Busque, …Maude, here’s one for you, and….er….Alexx. Goodnight, all, and many happy returns of the day!”
And with that, Periwinkle was out the door in a flash. The girls turned over their letters. Alexx grabbed the nearest letter openers and sliced hers open first. She began to read, and then clapped both hands over her mouth with a squeak. Emily grabbed the letter as it fell.

“Why Alexx, Mr. Periwinkle’s in love with you!” Three sets of eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Well, we could use a little excitement around here,” Emily proclaimed and opened her own letter. A pinkish glow began at the tip of her upturned nose and spread attractively to her cheeks. “It’s from….it’s from Mr. Barnes. He said he had a lovely evening and would like to invite me to dinner next week at his country house.”

Three sets of eyes now turned to the size of smallish dessert plates. “Oh, Emily, that’s marvelous,” Molly said in a somewhat shaky voice, opening her letter with somewhat shaky hands, for she had recognized on the envelope a distinctively avuncular brown ink. Three sets of eyes widened to dinner plates until a tiny smile appeared on Molly’s face. “He says…he says that he’s sorry he hasn’t seen us lately, and that he hopes that we had a nice Valentine’s Day, and that…that he was going to send me flowers, but he didn’t know which ones I liked best.”

“Oh, this is all just smashing! Maude, who’s yours from!” Alexx leapt up from her seat and soon all four girls were in a comfortable huddle before the fire. Maude made a very careful and deliberate display of opening her envelope, and then said in a very sensible voice,
“Sir Salman says that a baby elephant will be brought to the house for me tomorrow, if that’s quite alright.”

There was an instant of quiet before the room burst into wild chaos. One last bottle of champagne was located, silly music was played, and, yes, there was even some jumping on the sofas. By the time the Poppycock house finally quieted down, dawn was creeping slowly and pinkly over the horizon, and as four tousled heads touched their downy pillows at last, there were no happier girls in London.

Highly Inappropriate Games for Children - A to Z

Apples to Candy Bars: Who Can Eat the Most?

Boondoggle

Candy Factory: Playing for Minimum Wage is Fun!

Dung Beetles and Drag Queens: The Final Fantasy

Elves and Fairies and Gnomes and Trolls and Ogres and Witches and Sylphs and Pixies and Wizards and Things

Fractionary: A Game of Complicated Math – In Your Head!

Gross!! The Game of Pulling Icky Things Out of Your Body

Hop on Pop…Especially While He’s Sleeping

I Never Loved You – A Game of Truth

Junior Taxidermist: Dead Animals Not Included

Kama Sutra for Kids –Are You the Bendiest?

Land’s Sakes! The Game of Antique Exclamations

Made Ya Bleed!

Nanomonopoly

Onomatopoeia – Who Knows the Most Poetry Terms?

Pin-knuckle – Losing is Painful

Quiet! Let’s Pretend We’re Fugitives

Rolly Polly – A new game for girls’ slumber parties! Includes scale, tape measure, and list of insults especially designed for the fattest girl in the room

Sell It to Me, Sister – For Little Girls Who Want to Get Ahead on the Corner

The Time Game: Can You Feel the Seconds? What is the Now?

Underwear! The Game of Who Will Show Theirs First

Very Hairy Mary: Don’t say it three times while looking into a dark mirror!

Why Are You Hitting Yourself? A Game of Bullying and Irritation

XXX Cross-stitching: It’s Hard-core!

You Don’t Look Like Mommy or Daddy – Someone in Our Family’s Adopted, But Who?

Zipper Racing: The Game You’ll Get ‘Stuck’ On!