The Guilted Lily

Guilt is regret for what we've done; Regret is guilt for what we didn't do. And "Guilty" is a duet with Barbara Streisand and Barry Gibb (the cute Gibb brother; after Andy, that is) in which Barry wears WHITE SATIN JEANS. Tight. White. Satin. Jeans. But I digress...

The first thing that I felt guilty about this week was that I flew to Fort Lauderdale for a single evening to celebrate my dear friend Robert's birthday. In addition to my carry on, my baggage included Blame, Remorse and a pocket full of Shame; having waved my Jet Blue ticket in the face of work deadlines, family matters and financial concerns.

The second thing I felt guilty about is that I flew all that way to celebrate his big day and somewhere between New York and Florida, contracted a temporary case of Tourettes. This syndrome is certainly the reason why I spent a large part of Robert's birthday talking at length about how now that he was "of a certain age" he ABSOLUTELY MUST HAVE A COLONOSCOPY OR HE MAY DIE TOMORROW. Colonoscopy, Colonoscopy, Colonoscopy; like I had channeled Katie Couric. That's all I had to say over dinner and dessert. That and this...

ME: I should look better for having a gay friend like you. All my other friends who have gays look WAY BETTER than me. You don't even take me shoe shopping.

ROBERT: Excuse me? (except I think he said it like Excuzem-moi)

ME: You have been my gay friend for a gazillion years. So Why am I NOT FABULOUS? The least you could have done is teach me how to wear false eyelashes.

At which point Robert reminded me that he had offered ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS to take me for a COMPLETE MAKEOVER but I always had something to do-or some better way of doing something. He pointed out that he was eager to accompany me to an appointment with the Premiere Eyebrow Shaper in all of New York--but I had insisted that I had come up with a genius method of dealing with my two bushy brows. This method involved shaving instead of plucking, and for a while I was quite happy substituting my Lady Bic for a pair of tweezers--until the hair on my brows began to grow down and over my very eyelids... at which point I went to a Korean nail salon to get them waxed, and the technician called all the other girls in just to see.

Third thing I feel guilty about: because I fell behind at work, Sexyhusbandomine offered to take The Spawn to the beach for the weekend and allow me to take two days to focus on projects that are overdue. This would have been a wonderful thing, had not CBoy come down with a fever of 102 and started vomiting at around nine o clock that night. Luckily, in between ice chips CBoy was able to phone me, and ask me "WHERE ARE YOU MOMMMMMMMY AND WHY AREN'T YOU HERE WHEN I NEED YOU I NEED YOU MOMMMMY MY STOMACH HURTS MOMMMMMMMMY.....AND I THINK I AM GOING TO THROW UP AGAIN..." Me Too. Because nobody knows how to fold a washcloth and get it just the right temperature for the forehead like Mommy. And I am Not. There.

And lastly, a day later, Sexyhusbanomine sent me a video. Today was the first time CBoy has ridden a bike without training wheels, and not being there is akin to missing his first steps. I am assuming the MOTHER OF THE YEAR trophy is on its way. Which is good-I will fill it with wine and then CRY INTO IT.

It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. Oscar Wilde. (Also a gay man who probably helped his gayelles look fabulous. I'm just sayin.)

AND THE WINNERS ARE........

Forgive the two small blips at the start of this very short piece. If you watch to the end you are sure to agree with us that Cboy has real potential as a future Chippendales dancer. You guys are ALL winners!

For Racie Lover

And anyone else who did not recognize "the song" in the post below. It was more commonly refered to as it is heard in this English version. The fact that the Japanese wanted the German version makes it all the more ironic.

Memoirs of a Failed Geisha

The Smartini Girls (www.smartinibar.blogspot.com) are currently offering brief, truthful book reviews for your pleasure. Which is my segway into today's post-Memoirs of a Geisha being a Book Club standard and all.

I didn't just read that book...I lived it.

In 1985 I worked at a desk job that paid $225 a week. My portion of the rent of the one bedroom apartment I shared with three other people (one of whom slept in the closet) was only $200.00 a month. Back then I basically lived on packs of Marlboro Lights and Diet Coke, so this should have worked out for me financially. But I had EXTRAVAGANT HABITS. I craved spandex jeans with zippers at the ankles... I had to have the blue Tina Turner wig that Cher made us all believe we could wear in public. I drank White Russians & Long Island Ice Teas at clubs like The Pyramid and Tunnel and danced to Roxy Music. I spent a lot of my time going to the bathroom in pairs. In short: my glamorous lifestyle needed some funding--so I began to search for my own version of Money For Nothing.

I found an ad in The Village Voice that sought "Hostesses" from 9-1 am, and paid $80.00 a night. And I thought "WOW-that must be some successful restaurant to pay that kind of buckage to escort a few people to their table!" I called the number listed, and a woman with a thick Japanese accent told me to come by that same night--her only formal instructions being to "dwess pwetty."


And I had JUST THE OUTFIT. I had been dying to wear the neon green strapless dress with the ruffled skirt and chunky beads. Especially because it came with a matching scrunchie!! I hairsprayed my bangs til they sang hallelujah to the ceiling. I put on some makeup and was out the door.

I thought it odd at first that the address was four stories up in a building in midtown, but as I entered through a blue velvet curtain and my eyes adjusted to the lighting created by the spinning silver ball, it appeared to be a nice nightclub. The first thing that struck me as odd, however,--is that it was filled with men. I mean, IT WAS RAINING MEN. Small, thin, Japanese men in shiny grey and blue suits, smoking cigarettes and sipping amber colored liquids. Music could be heard in the background: Marcone played the Mambo.

The female owner of the club met me at the door and looked me up and down. She nodded approvingly at my dress and asked me to "turn around." Now back then, I had a fabulous ass. Had I known what would happen to it later, I would have taken that thing out more. Back then, it was a reasonable size and much like an apple on steroids, and apparently it landed me the job, because after telling me to smile more, the lady owner led me to a group of couches and told me "You Stawt Now. You Be Nice. You Get Paid."

I sat on the couches with about ten other young girls of various sizes and shapes and shades of blonde. The majority of them looked like backup singers on Madonna's Lucky Star video...all black lace and pleather. None of them made eye contact with me. I tried not to stare at the girl directly across from me, who had a Smurf tattoo on her wrist and kept compulsively reapplying a rootbeer flavored Bonniebell lipgloss.



I sat quietly for about forty five minutes. In that time, no one spoke, but occasionally a Japanese man would come up to the group and beckon to one of the ladies. The girl would smile, and leave to follow him. Sometimes two girls would leave the couch area together. My view of what happened next was obscured by the blue velvet curtains that ringed the club, and I began to have an odd nervous feeling in my stomach. I longed for the comfort of my own home, where my pink Carebear was waiting up for me.

Finally I turned to the girl beside me who wore fingerless lace gloves and a studded dog collar around her neck. "What exactly is it we are expected to do here?" I asked. "I mean.. are we waiting for training on serving cocktails, or what?"

She threw her head back and laughed, exposing the wad of gum at the back of her mouth. The nervous feeling grew. Just then, a small, round Japanese man appeared beside the couches. He inclined his head towards her and then included me in the gesture. The girl beside me took my elbow and we followed the man to a curtained area.

"Just do whatever he wants" She hissed in my ear as we sat down at a low table with four other men talking in excited tones to each other. She reached for the silver lighter in the middle of the table and lit the little man's cigarette. She indicated I should pour drinks for the table from the crystal decanter within arms reach. The Japanese man beside me turned to me and said something softly into me ear.

"What?"" I said, nervously adjusting my scrunchie bow.

He leaned close to me and repeated himself. It sounded like he was saying Love Bawoom.

"What?" I asked again, starting to slowly stand up. He grabbed me by my wrist and began to repeat himself more admantly:

"Love Bawoon! Love Bawoon! You Do Love Bawoon For Me Now!"

I tried to slip past him but he stood to meet me. His arms encircled my waist and he pulled me from behind the table, pratically growling now.. "Love Bawoon, Love Bawoon, You Do Love Bawoon."

He led me then, to a spotlight and microphone in the middle of the club. He went quickly through some papers and thrust something at me. Gingerly I took the white sheet of paper, and realized it was the words to "99 Luftballoons." Turning to my right, I realized he had fired up the karaoke machine and all eyes were on me.

Which is the point I walked out. Because really...I will do a lot of things for money, but sing in public is not one of them.

ANOTHER FUN MUD GIVEAWAY!!

As we head to The Weekend and into next week, this Mudchick's calendar is chockablock full of important stuff to do. Stuff like REINTRODUCE SELF TO CHILDREN and SHAVE ARMPITS. Not to mention reading all of YOUR blogs. As a result, my posting will be sporadic. In a desperate effort to maintain readership..ermmmm, I mean in the spirit of benevolence....I bring you ANOTHER FUN MUD GIVEAWAY ( Imagine 12 piece marching band and confetti here.)

This is what we're playing for Ladies and My One Gent:



It's a TIME-ISH watch. For those of you who are kinda "it is What It Is" about time. Designed by me and made out of Real Stainless Steel, with a genuine leather band, it's a brand new ONIM item not yet available to the General Public. If over 30 responses are posted we will be able to offer our usual 2nd and 3rd prizes, which are this clock:



This is How To Enter:

1. In COMMENTS please finish this sentence: I BLOG BECAUSE...

2. You may enter as many times as you would like. But you may make people wonder if you have a life if you comment too much, I'm just sayin.

3. You may comment up until Midnight, Tuesday August 26, 2008. After that it's too late to be up and YOU SHOULD BE IN BED PEOPLE.

4. On Wednesday afternoon, we will put all of your comments into a hat and Sexyhusbandomine will pull out a winner which will be posted Wednesday night, August 27, 2008.

5. I will contact you and ship your prize right out.

Good Luck everybody!

Video Response to Dooce

Dooce fans will remember the recent posting of the short film How To Cook and Eat Edamame by Heather B. Armstrong & Jon on www.dooce.com. Here now, is our response to that film. Kip wants you to know a few things before viewing:

1) He did not have a nap before filming, and his hair always looks like that.

2) That is a cat, not a recently castrated dog.

Commona Ovah To Ma House

If, like me, you are a big fan of www.soulmoxie.com you'll know she just recently had a house party tour. TO WHICH SHE DID NOT INVITE ME. Which is Just Not Right, seeing as I would have been the one to spill the red wine on the white carpets and spend an hour snooping in her medicine cabinets. Anyhoo, my favorite Drew Barrymore look-alike (she does, doesn't she?) has a LOVELY house with lots of beautiful distressed wood. My house is just plain distressed. So let's have a party of our own, shall we? An impromptu thing--like you just arrived at the door with a keg, a box of wine and a package of frozen cocktail weiners. And you are not A BIT surprised that the place is a mess.

So here we are in the yard. This is where we keep our bikes, our baby carriages, our blow up Elmo dolls and the small ponies that are so necessary to life in New York City.


Which way should we go?


I think we will have to go for "HOME" seeing as "The Bear Cave" is a euphamism for second bathroom that we would like to encourage Sexyhusbandomine to use for his "Sit-Downs."

So here were are in the ENTRANCE.


And as you can see we have a breathtaking view. I know you guys are used to seeing swanky NYC digs on television and in movies, but the truth is most one bedrooms come with a rooster.

If for no other reason than to keep the horses company.

Now, let's go into the kitchen.


My only words of advice being that you shouldn't drink and mural. Here's more of the kitchen.

Isn't it handy the way the kitchen table doubles as a desk for Sexyhusbandomine? New Yorkers are totally resourceful like that. Most of the time he puts that computer away when we eat at the table. Sometimes he doesn't, and I sit across from him and it's like a scene in the old Get Smart tv show where they lower the cone of silence.

This is how I manage my life as a Mompreneur.


Every smiley face equals one dollar. Bananna is thrifty and has been saving for a motorized Barbie dream car (which we will have to fit in that front hall) but CBoy spends his allowance each week. This past week he blew the whole wad on a set of plastic teeth painted gold. Because HE ABSOLUTELY NEEDED THAT GRILLE. Sadly, they made him gag each time he tried to wear them, so we feel a valuable financial lesson was learned. Next week I am sending that boy into town with our cow.

Here's a shot of our living room.

That danish coffee table with the Sharpie Marker all over it is symbolic of our transition from new parents to the seasoned veterans that we are now. It was a big day in our house when we allowed sharp corners to re-enter our lives.

Here's two of my favorite pieces of artwork


My orange horses head and

A portrait of Sexyhusbandomine's father: DeeDadalicious. First of all, let me say that we are the ONLY ones who have this picture hanging in our home which we think should clearly have some weight when he drafts his will--me being the GOOD Daughter-In-Law and all. Secondly, let me add that the challenge in hanging this portrait was that the greatest available wall space was in our bedroom and while I love DeeDadlicious, no one wants Judge Wapner announcing any verdicts in their boudoir. Speaking of which...

There was a time we collected fine leatherbound editions with pages edged in gold. Now we have multiple copies of Goodnight Moon. Note that in order to reach the bed, you must TURN SIDEWAYS. Hence the recent decision to join Jenny Craig. This room also has other bedroom essentials not pictured: dressers, closets, fur lined handcuffs, etc.

I cannot show you The Spawn's rooms because there are signs on them that say things like KEEEEEP OT and NO TRISPAZNG and because the sheer magnitude of things like The Egyptian Collection and The Stuffed Animal Collection are blogworthy in themselves, so we will start winding up the tour here--in the powder room.

And here you have the only hardship of city life; sharing this small bathroom with FIVE PEOPLE: Me, CBoy, Bananna, Sexyhusbandomine, and Sexyhusbandomine's colon.

This concludes today's tour of Chez Veasey. We've enjoyed having you, and hope you won't mind taking out the garbage on your way out.

The Weigh It Is: Week One

Jenny Craig Weight Loss Center Tip Number One:
Try to avoid visiting the weight loss center at 8 a.m. It's my experience that fat people can be very grouchy in the morning; particularly if their breakfast consisted of a microscopic egg white burrito with tofu cheese topping. There was a near riot this morning as my fellow fatties, driven nearly insane by the smell of Sausage McMuffins wafting in from next door, waited as the nimble stock boy pulled their week's worth of food. Between the rumblings of our tummies and the grumblings of those of us who had to Get To Work On Time, it looked pretty bad for Cindy/Mindy, who wore a teeny tank top that read "WWJC do?" which we knew referred to Our Lady of the Microwave.

It was a quick weigh in for me and (drumroll please) a four pound weight loss! You'd think I would be celebrating with a cup of sugar free jello....but no.

Because sadly, all four pounds have come from my boobs.

And those of you who carry a few extra pounds like me know that nothing gives us big boned girls more pleasure than our formidable cleavage. Let the skinny bitches wear their tiny black micro minis--we can always be counted on to bring THE GIRLS to the party. The right Victoria Secret bra, looped twice around the neck and hoisted with a metal weight at the clasp, can lift those suckers impressively.

But it seems that I am destined to be shaped like the kind of gourd some crafty person paints to resemble a duck. I see myself at the end of this looking like a bowling pin. And the worst part of it is that The Girls aren't so much shrinking as they are deflating; so instead of ending up with two little pert rosebuds, I know my destiny is to look like one of those women in National Geographic who have been braless for the past fifty years. Adding insult to injury is the fact that this makes me think of PANCAKES. PANCAKES WITH SYRUP. And maybe a sausage.

Nibblets and Snippets

Actual conversations that took place at my home this morning:

ME: I changed what I'm calling you on my blog.
JESSE: Are you calling me Blaster?
ME: No, I'm calling you CBoy.
JESSE: That's ok as long as you are calling Annie "Pain In The Butt".


ANNIE: Mommy, I know why I can't marry my brother.
ME: Why is that?
ANNIE: Because we would have ugly babies.
ME: Where did you learn that?
ANNIE: It was on the Disney channel.

Complicated Boy

Dear Mommy,
It has been brought to my attention that you have started calling me "Complicated Boy" on your blog. I must ask you to immediately Cease and Desist. Don't Make Me Have To Use the Sword.


It's not like I was born complicated or anything. How about a little credit for NURTURE vs. NATURE, huh? In all those books you read like "Figuring Out What The Heck You're Doing" or "Parenting for Dummies" wasn't there a section that explained the possible damage of doing THIS to your child? I mean..didn't you always used to say we should SAVE THE TIN FOIL FOR THE WALLS?


Or how about allowing your child to do THIS to himself. I mean, come on, Mom. You should have known better than to give a pack of Sharpies to a four year old! Especially a week before class photos.


I mean, after all Mommy-it is YOU who first told me that LIFE IS LIKE ONE LONG EPISODE OF PROJECT RUNWAY. I'm just Trying To Make It Work. Some credit, please. Let's not focus on my fears of balloons and subways, my penchance for dramatics, my unwillingness to be alone in a room by myself...

If I have moments of moodiness, perhaps it is because I am channeling one of my past lives.


If you insist on continuing to refer to me as Complicated Boy, I will have to charge you per click through. Nothing personal, Mommy, it's just bidness. I am hoping if I save up enough, I can get a BB Gun.


P.S. Could you at least call me CBoy? It's way cooler.

The Skinny

Genius or Madness? The Jenny Craig Weightloss Center I visited this morning is right next door to a 24 Hour McDonalds. Everytime the glass doors opened, the scent of Big Macs & fries wafted into a waiting room filled with large thighed women. I love the smell of irony in the morning.

For a long time I have suffered from my own special kind of eating disorder. They don't have a name for it yet--but it is the opposite of anorexia. Unlike an anorexic whose warped body image makes them believe they are fat, I believe I look JUST FINE. Sturdy-which rhymes with purdy... Zoftig... Robust. Get me half a clam shell and I will rise proudly from the oceans. And the generosity of clothing manufacturers have only contributed to my delusions. If I am having a Chiccos kind of day; I am only a 3. A CHICCOS SIZE 3, people. If that isn't brilliant I don't know what is. Oh wait..yes I do: Talbot's Petite Woman...a lovely, lovely way to avoid saying short & fat.

Now that Bananna is going to turn five next year, the excuse that I'm still carrying the baby weight is wearing thin. So I have decided to eat pre-packaged food and take the Wii fit OUT of the box. Maybe I will get a jazzy pedometer and tell everyone who asks that it's an alcohol monitoring bracelet.

Everyone who works at this Jenny Craig is named Mindy or Cindy. They are skinny bitches in their twenties who are uber enthusiastic and Cannot Say Enough Good Things About The Chocolate Nut Bars!!! I kind of felt like I was joining a cult when they snapped my polaroid "BEFORE" shot, and actually stroked my hand when they revealed my BMI. Mindy assured me I could call her ANYTIME. Because she cares. She Really, Really, Really Cares. That will be a couple of hundred dollars please.

Then I told Mindy that I was willing to sacrifice the cookies and cream snack bits and the tomato florentine soup if she would work into my personalized meal plan a way to have 2 glasses of wine. She was accommodating at first and explained that if I gave up all salad dressing, on a weekend night I could certainly do that. But when I explained I was talking about working some Pinot into the meal plan EVERY SINGLE DAY she drew her mouth into a thin little line and primly snapped her Mind Body Soul Food Journal shut. Apparently wine has FAT CALORIES. Who knew? I am still reeling from the news.

It totally explains why I've actually gained weight on this liquid diet of mine.

BLOGSLURR 2009

For those of you who missed BLOGHER, mark your calendar for BLOGSLURR 2009 to be held in some Irish Pub in the heart of New York City.

Drunken bloggers from across the world will gather to discuss the most efficient way to type while holding a glass in the other hand. Keynote speakers will share their knowledge in specialty classes that will include:

POSTING DURING A BLACKOUT or WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST WRITE
WHAT TO DO IF YOU SPILL PINOT GRIGIO ON YOUR KEYBOARD
UNDERSTANDING FLUCKER AND TWEETER
HOW DOOCE MAKES SO MUCH FREEKING MONEY BUT ONLY POSTS A COUPLA TIMES A WEEK
HOW TO EXPRESS HOW MUCH YOU "JUST SHLOOOOOVE YOUS GUYS" IN COMMENTS
WHAT TO DO IF YOUR HUSBAND DISCOVERS YOU HAVE *gasp* A BLOG

It should be a fun week. We're taking suggestions for additional classes and you can register to attend by posting in comments.

What It Feels Like....To Make a Living at Design

Author's Note: This is part of a new series inspired by Sexyhusbandomine's bathroom copy of ESQUIRE MAGAZINE, which features brief articles such as What it Feels Like To Be Bitten By a Shark or What It Feels Like To Sleep with Pamela Anderson. My series will obviously not be as exciting. (Or well written for that matter- since ESQUIRE is the new NEW YORKER.) I can only write what I know. So watch for future installments such as What it Feels Like to Raise Kids in New York City or What it Feels Like to Really Eat That Jenny Craig Crap. Please add any additional suggestions for future What It Feels Like pieces in comments-but keep it clean people.

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO MAKE A LIVING AT DESIGN

Some days it is like this: OMGosh I have the GREATEST job in the world! I actually get paid to draw, paint, fiddle around with clay, surf the internet guilt free, and buy competitive products with other people's money! The rush and excitement of CREATION! The warm fuzzies from positive feedback! I am walking on sunshine and the day is too short-I want to work through the night, through the weekend, give The Spawn my love and tell them I will see them sometime next week. I am jacked up, I am high, I am running around yelling "Let There Be Light" and there is! I could remove my brain from my head and french kiss it.

Other days it is like this: OMgosh, THE PRESSURE. I need AN IDEA like a dime bag junkie really really needs a fix. I will spend hours on GOOGLE. I will leave no stone unturned in search of any kind of inspiration. I will begin to believe that all the GOOD IDEAS have been had by other people. I will begin to believe I have lost my creative mojo. I will begin to question if I EVER made anything good or if I was just LUCKY. I will have irrational thoughts like "Maybe if I put some glitter on it I can make it work." I will replay comments I have heard in the past such as "How hard can it be to throw some words on something?" I will worry how I am going to feed The Spawn after they discover I am a phoney phoney fake fake and fire me and if it will be easy for me to find another job teaching now that I am older than dirt.

Other days it is like this: OMgosh I am sooooo bored with myself. I want to be like that chick on Etsy. Felt birdies are the bomb. Maybe I am not too old to pierce my eyebrow. Maybe I should be more like that fine artist I know. Maybe I should try to make prettier things. Maybe if I change everything about myself and the way I do things I could end up in a Flicker photo on one of those Design Blogs. Maybe I should dye my hair blue and do pencil sketches of ravens.

It's a roller coaster ride of narcissism and humility, of self indulgence and selflessness. This Job: It is the greatest love affair, the most complicated friendship, the most needy and gratifying of relationships. Sometimes it sits on my back and drops banana peels behind me, other times it lies on the pillow beside my head and won't shut up and allow me to sleep, other times it is the very sun that warms me.

The Short End of the Stick

Yesterday we packed our bags and took a leisurely stroll down Memory Lane.

Complicatedboy, The Original Narcissist, got a hankering to see what he looked like when he was a baby, so we dug out the dusty videotapes that we haven't seen in years. In total there are about five tapes filled with exciting footage like FORTY MINUTES OF BABY EATING CREAMED PEAS and DADDY FOLLOWING BABY IN WALKER FOR HALF AN HOUR.

Sexyhusbandomine does not physically appear on a single tape (because I Did Not Know How To Work The Camera--refer to post below) but he does star as the MASCULINE VOICE TALKING BABY TALK. For some reason I appear in PAJAMAS in Every Single Shot except the few minutes of Thanksgiving 2001 where I am wearing a Tent With Flowers.

Complicatedboy enjoyed the family filmfest, and when it was over, left through the backdoor to avoid the paparazzi. Sweet, patient, mellow Bananna asked us then if she could see HER baby films.

At which point we realize WE CANNOT FIND A SINGLE VIDEO OF THE BANANNA.

In utter denial, we buy time doing what we always do when we can't find something The Spawn really, really, really wants or needs: we blame The Nanny. The Spawn believe that The Nanny moves everything that is important. Telling them "Nanny must have moved it-we'll ask her where she put it first thing in the morning" usually allows us enough time to tear apart the house and present the missing object first thing in the morning--making Nanny A HERO. Or, if it is something that I threw out in one of my fits after reading the copy of Real Simple we keep in the bathroom, The Spawn can be counted on overnight to forget their original need or request.

But with dawning horror it occurs to Sexyhusbandomine and me that these videos may not actually exist. On average, Complicatedboy was up eleven times each night during 2002-2004. I became pregnant with Bananna while on The Pill, having pity sex with Sexyhusbandomine ONE TIME on New Years Eve (which I thought would hold him for the next six months)....and I think we were too damn tired to even realize what a miracle her conception was. So when she came along in 2003 I think it was a kinder, G-rated version of NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD.

We continue to pray for a "Missing Tape" to appear. We will contact all relatives far and near to search their own archives. We may string together the stills we have into a montage and score it with "Isn't She Lovely." Or, we may put a call out on this blog for any of you who have little baby girls with blonde hair...if you could shoot a few minutes of your infant in low light and call her "Annie" we'd pay big bucks for the footage.........

And The Winners Are........

I feel I should be wearing a Dolce & Gabbana Gown while announcing this, but here goes. BIG AIR KISSES to all of you who participated in our most recent giveaway. You are all SERIOUSLY FUNNY. Too bad we aren't giving away prizes for being fabulously talented...just for being lucky. So your comments all went into a hat and you can watch Sexyhusbandomine pick the winners right here:



The good news is that we have enough entries to offer THREE PRIZES. So congrats to SoulMoxie, Rick and JenX67 and please contact me about getting your prizes. Also-those of you who linked to this giveaway and have not heard from me please email me. And feel free to leave a comment about how sexy Sexyhusbandomine is. And how annoying me yelling "YAY" after every name is.

Daddys Not Home

So Sexyhusbandomine is jetting off to Toronto tomorrow on business. Leaving me home alone with Complicatedboy, Thebananna, and SOME REALLY BIG DOGS. Yes, you heard that right, Blogger Stalkers, Move Along. Unless Johnny Depp is reading this...in which case E-me for my address.

I am beginning to formulate plans. Plans that involve a big bottle of Pinot Grigio. There is one Flaw in the plans coming together: Sometime between now and tomorrow night, I will need to figure out how to work the DVD player so that The Spawn can be comfortably supervised by the Electronic Babysitter.

Last time Sexyhusbandomine flew to China I used to call him Everyday to ask him REALLY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS, like: HOW DO I GET THE MESSAGES OFF OF THE ANSWERING MACHINE. It is not that I am Totally Useless. Ok, the electronic kitchen timer does pose a challenge, but I can still microwave dinner with the best of them. If he would just stop buying THE COMPLICATED VERSIONS of everything electrical in our house I might be able to do things like WORK THE STOVE or TURN ON THE TV IN THE BEDROOM.

I expect no sympathy from You, Kind Readers. The majority of you do things like Tweeter or Flucker and have all bells and whistles on your postings. Meanwhile, I have been on Blogger since 2006 and only discovered that I could ADD PICTURES in the Spring of 2007. And it was only LAST NIGHT as I was leafing through "Blogging For Dummies" that I learned this was suppossed to be A CONVERSATION. Which means I haven't been doing it totally wrong because most of my conversations are "blah blah me me me blah blah" anyway, but apparently I need to ENGAGE you by asking you a question at the end of each post.

Do You Agree with the "Blogging For Dummies" advice?

Freedom's Just Another Word....

We just returned from a few days away in New Hampshire. My family has a cottage in a teeny weeny little town (smaller than your average Walmart) on private land owned by a bunch of Methodists. It is virtually unchanged from how it looked over 200 years ago and generation after generation of families bring their children to tiny cottages with no air conditioning and questionable electricity, to ride bikes on the dirt roads, play amongst the pine trees, and swim in the swimming hole. All I can say is THANK GOODNESS I BROUGHT MY iPHONE.

Not because I Don't Do Rural--don't get me wrong. Sexyhusbandomine remarked after three days how easily I seemed to equate a Dip in the River to a Bath With Soap. I told him to worry when I allowed The Spawn to clean their teeth with tree bark. Or started Playing Banjo. Or Brought Home a Dog Named Yeller.

It is good that I had my handy dandy iPhone because in this place of innocence--this Land of the Lost sans Sleestax, the unthinkable happens: CHILDREN ARE ALLOWED TO ROAM FREE. Starting at about the age of six, their parents push them out the screen door and encourage them to roam the grounds... Without. An. Adult.

Let me just state for the record that I am a HELICOPTER MOMMY. I hover, I smother, I stand outside the bathroom door waiting for my cue to step in and assist with Kandoos. The only place my children have ever gone without supervision is TO SLEEP and that would have been a fluke because usually one of us is Right There on the end of the bed.

But Complicatedboy is seven and a half now and I realize my days of Choppermothering are numbered. So Sexyhusbandomine and I agreed that The Spawn can walk down to the church in the center of the grounds BY THEMSELVES. This is a huge deal for them-- and for me-- because that's about seven cottages away and not a Nanny for miles. But Sexyhusbandomine reminded me that some mothers send their children to places like CAMP. Or SLEEPOVERS. Or IRAQ. And while I was momentarily distracted with a full blown panic attack he set them on the road.

Luckily, before they set off, I had slipped Complicatedboy my iPhone and showed him how to place a call for help.

We followed after them five minutes later and met them by the swings, where Bananna was in full celebration mode, jumping around and singing "I Walked Down a Road By Myself!! We found Complicatedboy off to the side, VERY UPSET.

He had used my handy dandy iPhone-wanting to make contact-to boast of his accomplishment-to check in with his high strung Mother.

Everytime he had dialed the number I gave him, the phone in his own hand had rung.


Thanks to all of you who linked to my August Give-Away posted below! It is an honor to swap snark with you all. Winner will be announced soon-and don't forget to Email me with your choice of mug from our website at www.ournameismud.com & your shipping address if you posted a link on your blog.