Thursday, February 26, 2009

DoeS JiMMy BuFFeT eaT aT BuFFeTS?

Meals on our vacation were served in a large dining hall, buffet style.

I love a good breakfast buffet while I am traveling for business (I call them mouth-brothels. No reason to leave your pants zipped). But buffet style eating three times a day when you have small children is a whole different swedish meatball. This is how it works:

First you take the small hand of your offspring and lead them from station to station.
"Look!" you say enthusiastically, "Smoked Salmon! Fresh lamb with Rosemary! Veal Piscata!" Every time you exclaim with delight over some new delicacy, your small child will turn to you and say:
"I want Chicken Nuggets."

Then HALLELUJAH you figure out there are PLAIN NOODLES that you can make with butter and salt! Except the butter is on the other side of the room and it takes you two tries until you figure out how to get it to melt to the satisfaction of your child. After you plop the child down at the table, she will look at the plate and burst into tears because the noodles are curly and she wanted straight spaghetti. You end up agreeing to let her eat a single dinner roll for supper. Then you go in search of your own meal, remembering you had spotted Beef Wellington at one of the stations.

You return to the table with plate and refreshing beverage in hand, only to find that she is finished with her dinner and wants to hit THE DESSERT BAR. You tell her she has to wait until everyone is done with their dinner, which is hardly enjoyable because every two seconds a small voice asks "ARE YA DONE YET? CAN WE GET DESSERT YET?"

So finally you and your spouse put your forks down and go with the children to the dessert bar where they spend fifteen minutes deciding that they really don't want peach cobbler and that they will have the ice cream from the softee machine which THEY MUST OPERATE ALL BY THEMSELVES.

You return to the table only to find that an over zealous service person has cleared your plate.

This was how it went for us breakfast, lunch and dinner for seven days with the exception of the second night of our vacation:
In search of this elusive thing called dinner, Bananna in tow, just as we passed the bread bar, it happened...

She only had time to gasp the words "THE CHEESE...THE CHEESE!!!!" before she vomited in the middle of the dining hall. I looked around, desperate for help, and finding none, left her to guard her own small pool of puke while I sought napkins. Then I tried to mop up the mess while avoiding being trampled to death by a group of Aussies on their way to the shrimp station.

(Banana spent the night curled around an ice bucket-and the whole next day inside the hotel room. Because we pack stomach bugs like other people pack underwear.)

The problem after her recovery was an abnormal FEAR OF CHEESE. For the rest of our vacation, she would tremble at the mere sight of cheddar, fall to pieces as the whiff of a rouquefort, ask to leave the room if she spotted some Jarlsberg. We spent the next week trying to avoid ALL THINGS CHEESE.

We thought she would recover when our trip was over-but it looks like we won't be visiting Wisconsin anytime soon. Every night she makes us check under her bed for Muenster.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009


Fact: three "followers" abruptly stopped "following" after yesterday's vacation story. AND I DIDN'T EVEN START THE SLIDE SHOW YET, PEOPLE. I gotta warn you-I'm gonna be writing about my trip all week. I mean Chickens, one of the very best things about a vacation is even if you don't come home with a suntan, you can come home with Blog Material. (Or-if you are REALLY LUCKY you can come home with Blog Material AND a small child who has impetigo--but I'll save that story for later.)

Manhattan is a small island: it is only 22.96 square miles. (Think Gilligan's Island with some really tall buildings.) As small as it is, we can waltz about town For Years without bumping into old friends. Apparently, to run into into former acquaintances and fellow New Yawkers, it is best to leave the state and head towards a vacation destination.

We ran into someone from our past on our vacation.

Oh, but not just Anyone. Not an old dear friend or despised enemy. We bumped into...


A Fitness Model, newly remarried, on vacation with twins from her first marriage, who carried her swimsuit portfolio on her blackberry, which she showed to Sexyhusbandomine while making small talk in the bar as he was getting us an afternoon cocktail.

When you are trying to enjoy a week at an all-enclusive all you can eat/drink while your children are being watched by stangers--the last person you want to bump into is a person who makes their living showing off their six pack posing in sports bras and skimpy bike shorts. Suddenly, all the outfits you packed-none of which lacks for an X in the sizing, feel particularly frumpy and volumnous. Not to mention the swimsuit with a skirt--and that clever little swish of fabric at the waist that in the dressing room had you feeling positively svelte--which now makes you feel like you are dressed for professional squaredancing when standing beside her in her teeny tiny polka dotted bikini.

And no: I did not want to meet for yoga at 9 am or do water aerobics at 11. I did not want to eat melon for breakfast or learn from her how to make a sugar free margharita by squeezing lime juice into some tequila. I wanted to do what comes naturally to someone like me. And by "naturally' I mean I took tips on how to enjoy my vacation directly from NATURE:

What made matters worse is that ComplicatedBoy became BEST FRIENDS with Fitness Model Mom's son. So that in the Middle of the Cocktail Hour--say 1:20 in the afternoon-- CBoy would come running up to us in our lounge chairs and ask us to sign him out of camp because his friend's stepfather was going to take them to archery. Being rather perpetually drunk the entire week and therefore very vulnerable to CBoy's masterful manipulation techniques, we would give in to Cboy's whining, and sign him out of camp. Then Stepdad's tennis lesson would get changed, and before you knew it we were stuck not only watching Our Own Kid, but Someone Else's Kid too.

So next time YOU have to Come With, Interwebs! Someone has to babysit.

But you better bulk up beforehand. Because real women don't have to read their beach books with two hands. Just sayin.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

LiVe To TeLL

I'm back, Chickens! With a tiny bit of color in my cheeks, all four volumes of the Twilight series devoured whilst in a beach chair, and a liver that is completely pickled. OH..and stories to tell all week! Starting with this one,which happened at the beginning of our trip to Port St. Lucie, Florida:

Despite some minor difficulties getting out of the house (including asking ComplicatedBoy to put his shoes on a total of Twenty Three Times- almost breaking his usual Monday Morning record) , we made it to the airport about forty minutes before our plane was scheduled to take off. Plenty of time, we thought, to move through security and get to the gate.

We handed the man at the first security checkpoint Sexyhusabandomine's license and my Only form of ID because I don't know how to drive passport.


In my haste to leave the house, I had grabbed SHOM's passport. The only other ID I had on me was an American Express Card and a MasterCard. I gave up carrying a purse for Lent last year, and I have never gone back.

"YOU ARE F@!?!ing KIDDING ME" I said when Joe Security pointed out the error.

The tension escalated as CBoy, who suddenly appointed himself El Capitain of The Swear Word Police, interrupted the ensuing hysteria-laced conversation with "MOM-You Said The F word!" every two minutes.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you through" said Joe Security after much back and forth, shaking his head and reaching for the ID held out by the impatient person behind me.
"You Shouldn't Swear, Mom." added Cboy.

So I did what anyone in my position with two small children who hasn't had a proper vacation in eight years would have done: I CRIED.


I BEAT MY CHEST IN ANGUISH. It helped that at the sign of my tears, CBoy ande Bananna both became completely undone, and also began to wail, pleading with the man to "Just Let Mommy Come With Us."

(I should note here, for those of you who may ask--that SHOM was struck mute. He later admitted that he was dumbstruck not at my stupidity for taking the wrong passport, but at the fact that I was not blaming him for my mistake.)

And Chickens, just FYI: IT WORKED. We could have crossed the freeking border into Iran for the collective show we Veaseys put on. Joe Security spoke into a walkie talkie, and instantly a nice woman from Homeland Security appeared.,

What's a little strip search when faced with the possibility of missing your flight to Florida?-I always say.

But that's not what happened. Instead, she sent the Spawn and SHOM ahead to the gate and had me wait in a special room while she called some Top Secret Government Agency that exists JUST FOR THIS REASON. Apparently, (and this is comforting to know,) I am not the only Mommy who has ever left her ID sitting in the right hand drawer of her bureau. I'm not even sure that I am allowed to TELL YOU about what happened next. But it involved very personal questions about my life.

Things that ONLY BIG BROTHER could know. Very Personal Things.

I answered their questions correctly. Remember this was pre-vacation--I had double the brain cells.

Then (can I get a Hallelujiah) I was personally escorted through security and to my gate where I was reunited with my family and CBoy finally forgave me for using the F word.

Totally relived to be on the plane, and also slightly flattered...

because who knew someone at the government was reading my blog?!?

Friday, February 13, 2009


Hello Chickens:
I will be TOTALLY UNPLUGGING (and that means no email, no cell phone no blog) through February 23rd. I will be re-aquainting myself with The Spawn and Sexyhusbandomine in a place that serves buffet breakfast and where you must wear sunscreen. I lerves you internets, but you cannot come with.

If you have come here because you are bored, allow me to suggest some other blogs for your reading pleasure until my return:

Shindig Zak enjoys lip balm, ginger lotion, my children, my husband, wine, reality television, BBQ, celebrities, soy chai lattes and pedicures...not necessarily in that order.

Miss Thystle Is. The. Bomb. My all-time favorite blog evah, don't ask me why.

Give me a minute I'll Come Up with something Where in Heck is the Bloggy Box of Goodness?

BJ Started out as my own personal stalker, now has a blog of her own, I am *sniff* so proud.

Racie Lover Stay tuned for more adventures with Sunshine Wheatgrass, yoga instructor.

The Lovely Le Throw another shrimp on the barbie-it's a blog from down under. I don't understand half of what she writes sometimes, but i love when she uses the word wee.

JenX Is a fabulous Jenx blogger and her secret ingredient is the X, which is for excellent (like Bill & Ted would say.)

Spatula An artist. In the basement of her mother's house. In Canada.

Scrappin Jen A Great Gal--and i say that with a Boston accent.

Debbie Angel Mom Captures great beauty in her photographs and moments with her four angel daughters.

TJ Makes me laugh always with a minimum of sentences.

Deb from Suburb Sanity has so many followers and commenters that soon it will be like "Dooce who?" She is the perfect blogger. If she weren't so dern nice I would be jaylous.

David Kramer I used to drink with this man. Now I drink, and he has seltzer with lime.

Kraigg This man is divorced? You're kidding me.

Jane! One of THE BEST written blogs in the blogosphere- I lervesme some Jane!

OK: I am totally getting tired and I am still not packed. Please visit ALL my regular visitors to my blog (some more quick links withy no descriptions are below) because I lerves you all. Don't forget to come back here Feb. 23rd-I will have stuff to say--like "O the sun was hot, the suntan lotion smelled like coconuts, and my goodness that buffet breakfast was quite filling..."

Quick other links

The Smartini girls
Lucky Me!
The Kitchen
Evil Twins Wife
Nadine Hightower
Wonderfully Random

I'm sorry that I left a ton of you off (including God. God has a blog. He doesn't get that many comments though.) Forgive me for my omissions and poor typing. See you in a week!

Thursday, February 12, 2009


The key question isn't "What fosters creativity?" But it is why, in God's name, isn't EVERYONE creative?
Where was the human potential lost? How was it crippled?
I think therefore, a good question might be not "WHY do people create" But, " Why Do People NOT create or innovate?" We have got to abandon that sense of amazement in the face of creativity, as if it were a miracle if anybody created anything.
-Abraham Maslow

My beliefs:
- We are ALL artists.
-We were born naturally creative and artistic.
-We were taught to censor our creativity, to judge our processes, to critique our creations. As naturally as the majority of children know how to skip and hop, you were born knowing how to draw, sculpt, build and imagine: it is only the adult voices of judgement that taught you to be self conscious and to believe that there are "rules" to invention.
- You were born limitless; you were taught by adults that trees could not be purple and that the sky should not be black. You were taught that your creations could evoke responses such as "good" or "bad."
-You valued your own processes more than the product when you were a child-it was only in watching your products compared to those created by others, that you felt something was lacking.

But I am preaching to the choir here: because you bloggers all do something creative every time you click the publish button or leave a comment. The blogosphere has become a brain gym where we can all have the opportunity to flex our creative muscles. Like real muscles that grow stronger with each use, the part of our brain responsible for being creative function better when we challenge it to work harder.

That is why I participate in a blog called Thursday Sweet Treat. This is a blog created by my friend Natasha which challenges people to create things around an announced theme. Creations are shown every Thursday, new topics given on Friday.

Many of the people currently participating are Etsy artists, but ANYONE can participate. You could write a poem, do a doodle, make a scrapbook page, or shoot a photograph: it is all about the process of creating.

Come Play.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


Here's this week's CAPTION THIS PHOTO contest. The winner will be selected this week by a random guy who works at our office named Jack. Winner receives a $5.00 Starbucks gift certificate. Enter as many times as you like, but keep it clean people.

THANK YOU to everyone who sent pictures for future Wednesdays! You are all fairly strange, but I lerves you anyway. You can continue to send naked pictures of Johnny Depp (watch how I soar in Google keywords on that one!) and fully clothed pictures of anyone else to me at L V Mud at aol dot com. Now, here's Last week's winner:



Monday, February 09, 2009

WHaTS LoVe GoT To Do WiTH iT?

Thank you, blog peeps, for your support of CBoy in the wake of his broken heart. I can only tell you that this weekend he broke one of the cardinal rules of post-breakup behavior. He went to the barber with his father where he decided to cut his hair. ALL OF IT. OFF. It now looks like I gave birth to a mini-Marine. I believe I did this myself once while in college. I don't know where I got the idea (between renting my garments and keening) that chopping at my locks would show that boy who done me wrong a thing or too; because it didn't. All I ended up with was a broken heart and really bad hair. Ah well: hearts will heal, hair will grow.

Speaking of hearts on the mend: my friend Gina recently separated from her husband and in a moment of weakness that involved a full bottle of Chardonnay, signed up for Match dot com. She said that after a short bio and 35 bucks, her mailbox began to fill with messages from all over the country--many with subject lines such as "Willing to Relocate For Love" or "God Sent Me To You" or "Satisfy You Long Time." (I keep telling her that the last one is Spam but she says she's been trying to wink at its author anyway.)

One of her more recent meetings online went fairly well. He was a journalism professor, very nice & funny. After an enjoyable session of IMing back and forth, he asked her to text him, and when she did, he asked if she wanted to see a 'goodnight photo' of him. She replied: "Sure, if I can also show it to my mother, who is here visiting." He texted back just two words: NEVER MIND, and was never heard from again.

She had an actual date with another "match" named Jeff-who won her over by including a glass of wine in his profile picture. She met him at a bar and spent the first two hours talking to the side of his face: the man would not turn to look at her the entire time, just sat beside her chain smoking and slamming draft beer. Three margaritas later, she asked him if he had eaten, because she was starving. "Nope," he replied, "I eat just one meal a day and then I drink beer for dinner." WHAT A CATCH.

On another note: please send pictures for this week's Caption This Photo contest to me at L V Mud at a o l dot com, but please make sure the people in the pictures are wearing clothes. Unless you have a candid of Johnny Depp. I will announce last week's winner on Wednesday and feature a photo sent in by a reader. So get those pictures out of the camera and send them my way: my children are refusing to do anything funny like sit in a garbage can or wear underwear on their heads: I need help.

Friday, February 06, 2009


ComplicatedBoy has carried a torch for G- since September. And by torch I mean a smoldering obsession and single minded fixation. He has loved her the way most of America's 12 year old girls love Nick Jonas: with an aching desire tempered with the knowledge that the object of their affections is most likely unobtainable-or in CBoy's case- just way out of his league.

G- meanwhile, carried a torch for J-, CBoy's best friend since nursery school. And by torch I mean a stick that she would chase J- around the playground with, in an attempt to get his attention. But J- had eyes only for his soccer ball.

Then one day, everything changed. G- sent CBoy a note. The note read: "I am kinda over J-. But act normal. Don't tell anyone. Not even your Mom or Dad. Lift this flap when you get home." And under the flap it read: "I Love You. P.S. Meet me by the slide."

It was Christmas in January for CBoy. His sneakers did did not touch the ground for almost two blissful weeks, during which time G- proclaimed that he was Her Best Friend, and allowed him to sit with her at lunchtime. She came over for a well-supervised playdate during which CBoy presented her with his Best Rock from his collection--a rose quartz, which she took and shoved in the pocket of her jeans.

The following week, she invited him to her house for an afternoon, and together they ground potpourri into oil and poured it into an empty spice bottle and labeled it COLOGNE. CBoy dutifully dabbed it behind his ears daily, and went to school smelling like rose petals and basil.

Then the wind changed. Despite the fact that another playdate was scheduled for today, CBoy sensed a cooling of G-'s affections at the beginning of this week. He was exiled from the lunch table, and ostracized at recess.

"Ignore her," Sexyhusbandomine advised.
"Confront her" I countered, "Ask her why she isn't being friendly anymore."
"Give her space-make her come to you" Sexyhusbandomine insisted.
"Go right up to her and tell her she is hurting your feelings" I said.

In the end, he did neither. Just continued to follow her around like a beaten puppy dog until she turned to him yesterday and told him she was "Back together with his best friend, J-."

"She hates me." He said tearfully last night before dinner.

"Don't worry" I said, "You still have a playdate with her Friday and we can talk through the whole thing and everyone can still be friends and it will all be fine."

"Women." Said Sexyhusbandomine in a disgusted tone.

I sent CBoy off to school with the promise that everything would work out this afternoon.

This morning, I received an email from G-s mother, who wrote that G- had decided she would rather have some "family time" this afternoon instead of coming over to our house.

I am meeting CBoy at the door to school with a pint of Hagen Daz and a copy of the Sleepless in Seattle video.


Wednesday, February 04, 2009


Submit as many captions as you'd like. Sexyhusbandomine will select what he thinks is the best caption Friday, February 6th. Winner gets a $5.00 Starbucks gift certificate. Have Fun!

Tuesday, February 03, 2009


Dear Complicated Boy,

Last night you asked me for some romantic advice, and after we chatted for a bit about the complex nature of the relationship with your seven year old girlfriend friend who happens to be a girl, I ended by saying what I always say when I am speaking authoritatively about something of which I know nothing, which is: GO ASK YOUR FATHER.

Your sage father gave the standard advice he pulls out in the face of questions about troublesome bullies, imagined slights in the classroom, and odd skin rashes: Just Ignore It and Things Will Work Out.

I wish you had thought to ask Dad how many dates the old "ignore them and make them come to you" strategy landed him in High School and College. I think he has forgotten that he spent most Friday nights in the company of a pizza.

So this morning I decided to take your problems right to The Experts. ( And by Experts I don't mean that I planned to get on my cell phone and call Dad and have him pretend to be someone named Dr, Ruth, the way we used to do when you wouldn't eat and I would call The Wiggles to get you to try the broccoli.) These are Actual Romantic Authorities. These Love Gurus saw me through many a heartbreak in my youth, and I think their wisdom still rings true today.

I am, of course, talking about Pop Songs.

In my day. all manner of ills could be cured by turning on a little AM Radio; but none more so than the broken heart. If you needed to learn the ABCs and 123s of Love--all you had to do was give a little listen. So here is what I know, grasshopper:

yeah yeah.


You can't hurry love, because girls just wanna have fun. Some guys have all the luck, and you might wish that you had your best friend's girl. Love is a battlefield that way, but it is also oxygen and The Answer. It's a crazy little thing, this love. It can be a groovy kind of love, or you can be addicted to love, but either way, you'll see the power of love. You'll realize soon that money can't buy you love, and you need to be careful not to give love a bad name. When you love someone, set them free. Love bites, love hurts, but all you need is love. Endless love.

I hope that helps: if not, take Dad's advice and give her the cold shoulder for a couple of days.

PS: Have I told you lately that I love you?

Sunday, February 01, 2009


Here at OuR NaMe iS BLoG, we don't give virtual awards. We give REAL TROPHIES--like these two babies.

To date, the only other winner of the Best Freakin Blog Post Evah award has been Thystle for The Hamster Story. Now we have TWO NEW winners! Jane! from Emptying the Nest and BJ from Don't Overthink It.

Jane! wrote a fabulous post about the inauguration, but alas, I did not repost it here in a timely manner--but she is ALWAYS funny, so go visit her site and then check her archives for her take on President Obama bein in da house.

Here is the post which BJ wins for, reprinted without any permission whatsoever.


God, do you people have some strange problems. You made me start smokin the Banana flavored Swisher Sweets again, and I had just grown the hair back on my right arm where I had used a Nicotine patch to quit! But I promised, and you're needy, so I'll try to help you out.

Megan wrote how long can I claim I just moved in when people come over and there are boxes everywhere??

Meg, when you think you've exhausted that one, throw the door open and start screaming 'WE'VE BEEN ROBBED' and that usually works. I've used it for 15 years and so far, so good.....

Miss Thystle,aka Thystlicious, wanted to know how do I cure my husband from tossing his underwear NEXT to the hamper, not in it.......

Well, strap one of these contraptions on him in his sleep, hide the key, and HANG the worst pair you can find from the stick thingey in the front. Once he walks around with those demonic wares dangling in his face, he may just start putting them where you ask him to put them. Or not. But at least take his picture for all of us to see!!

Racie Lover wants to know how do I cure my boss....from pretty much breathing.....

Well RL, since you can't off him or you'd end up in prison with Thystle and LV, go ahead and copy this little picture and put it on all correspondence you have with him. At least you'll feel better. Oh, and get your resume together. And what the hell, take some pictures...

Daddio and Sheila had issues with a certain football matchup and sadly, not the outcome they wanted.

I do have an idea when confronted with the situation of too much
PRE-GAME SMACK talk and then suffering a loss. Wear this to work the next day, mumble alot, and make sure they know you are goin commando underneath and they will most likely leave you alone. Oh, and send pictures.

Last but not least, KWR offered some very good advice for the 'willing to try pretty much anything for beauty' group. You know, most of you. Its a website called, which helps you ladies match the 'drapes to the carpet' if you know what I mean. My familly does not have that problem as we are naturally the same color all over, so you are on your own on that one. Good luck. And don't send pictures.