Stressed is Desserts spelled backwards

What good is having a blog if you can't bore all four of your faithful readers to death with a long diatribe about the pressures you are under? Because if I hold it all in; the stress will continue to manifest itself as THESE HORRIBLE THINGS that appear on my face and do not disappear under two tons of maybelline concealer. (And by GOD if I am going to have to suffer from hormonal acne; I want a hickey or two to show for it.)

So here it is: free floating random stress. Welcome to the jungle.

First of all- I am MOVING. And I will not go into the hell of moving because the best way to deal with how horrible it is, is to just keep going through it. Eventually you come to the end of it, and you find yourself in an office where you can't locate anything you need, and then you realize that you have thrown it away because at some point in the move you looked around AND JUST WANTED TO LIGHT A MATCH.

But adding to the stress of moving is the fact that my father is also moving. From a pallatial estate in Kalamazoo to a one bedroom. And rather than get a dumpster-he decided that the best way to deal with his accumulated possessions WAS TO SEND THEM TO HIS CHILDREN.

(And I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Dad. I love that you have put the time and effort into choosing things for me and my children that are precious and symbolic of treasured memories. I do. Really. Please don't cut me out of the will.)

Amongst a lot of GREAT STUFF ( really Dad, thanks) the following items arrived by UPS while I stood knee deep in receipts from 1989, surrounded by half packed cardboard boxes:

A Stamford High yearbook from 1986. I graduated in 1981. My siblings did not attend this school.

All the pictures of my older sister after she had just given birth to her first child (apparently even a father cannot tell us apart at that particular moment in our lives)

A four foot high paper mache sculpure of acrobats on trapeezes.
ME: (on phone) Dad-thanks--erm, you know I live in an APARTMENT, right? It's an awfully big sculpture...
DAD: I always knew you loved it.

BUT I AM NOT COMPLAINING. Merely letting off a little of the old steam...squeezing the end of the balloon to make rude noises. Not too much though, in the end I think the only thing holding me together is the stress itself.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

Dear Kip,

This is your sixth official FATHER'S DAY. Seven years ago we would have spent it sleeping late, enjoying a brunch of Eggs Benedict and several Bloody Marys, and then futzing around- unemcumbered-- throughout the day--doing any damn thing we pleased. Not today. Today we are not together because in addition to being an Amazing Father, you continue to be an Awesome Husband--supportive of me in every way. So while most guys today are enjoying a round of golf or just relaxing, you are taking care of our babies so that I can pack for our move, and do what I need to do for MUD--the third and neediest child of our union.

Happy Father's Day! Like Jesse wrote in his card: YoU Are ThE GrATisT DaD. (Upon hearing Jesse say that, Annie told me you are "the very, very, very gratist.") I agree.

It seems like just yesterday that Jesse had the rotovirus-- when you leaned over to fetch the diaper you had dropped, leaving him naked on his back on the changing table above you, he had explosive diarrhea-- which landed right on top of your head, and you stood up with poop dripping down the side of your cheek and YOU DID NOT KILL ME WHEN I LAUGHED. In fact, you laughed WITH me. Thank you for being that kind of dad--the kind who sees the humor even when you are knee deep in poop.

Remember when you used to throw Jesse up in the air and I would say "DON'T DO THAT!" in my SanctiMommy voice which I used to warn you against dangers that lurked everywhere--and you would laugh and say "Relax-I'm not going to DROP him" and then you were tossing him up in the air on the streetcorner and his head HIT THE STREETLIGHT? Thanks for being the kind of dad who turned to me and said "Ok, I'm not going to do THAT again."

Thanks for being the kind of Dad who is there for the shots. (At some point, they are going to figure out that if it's bad...Really Bad...It's ALL YOU, Special time with Dad and oh yeah-a throat culture and a needle or two.) Thanks for always being strong enough to do what has to be done for their own good. I remember when Annie had her accident; seeing you in the emergency room with her, holding her tiny hand down while they stuck needles in it--the tears gathered at the corners of your eyes--but still, holding her hand steady, doing what needed to be done.

Thanks for being the kind of Dad who helps pick up. When I announce I am the Evil Witch and will throw away any item left on the floor in fifteen minutes, you are always on the side of the "Good Guys". "Let's clean up and show that Evil Witch a thing or two" you say, and as a team leader; you melt me.

Thanks for being the kind of Dad who finds all of the flatulence that occurs in this house hysterically funny. Annie is going to be quite the little lady--except for when someone pulls her finger.

Thanks for being open to learning about how we can be better parents, and better people. A lot of men would have gone and surfed porn when "The Secret" was popped in the DVD. A lot of fathers would grow weary of a mother who quotes "SuperNanny." You are always open and receptive, and as a result I think we have both grown along with the kids.

You are an amazing Dad. You talk to your children about important things like teamwork, honesty, and love. In the middle of the night, after the worst possible nightmare, they find comfort in your warm embrace and the knowledge that you are always there for them--like a rock-- a safe haven. Pappa Bear.

Forgive me for all the times I have told you how you should do something differently.
You are doing it so well.

You are
so very loved.

XO
L

Why Do We Blog?

"My story is important not because it is mine, God knows,
but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are
you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours.
Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I,
of these stories of who we are and where we have come from
and the people we have met along the way
because it is precisely through these stories, in all their particularity,
as I have long believed and often said,
that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally."

-Frederick Buechner

Awwwwwwww some

We keep a list attached to the refridgerator door with a magnetic pen beside it. Everytime we run out of something--cheerios, toothpaste, pickled onions, etc. it must be WRITTEN ON THE LIST. It is part of an overall complex system of household management. I grocery shop once a week and I rely on The List to keep the cupboards stocked.

WOE unto thee who takes that last of any item and does not write it on The List. The next seven days will sound like this:
"This would be a beautiful day...IF WE HAD ANY APPLESAUCE."
"You wanna know why she's crying? I'll tell you why she's crying. Your daughter wants APPLESAUCE."
"We were discussing APPLESAUCE, not PMS. Don't try to change the subject."
"I would have cooked tonight, but the recipe called for APPLESAUCE."
"I realize it is the 9th inning, but you need to go to the store RIGHT NOW for applesauce and I am not kidding. Yeah well, maybe you should have thought about the two seconds it takes to write the word applesauce on The List"
(Note to Readers: I Know! It's a wonder he stays with me.)

So today I went to reach for The List to go shopping--and found The List WAS MISSING.

Someone had removed the entire thing from the door of the refridgerator--a crime that would surely mean death, divorce, or at the very least no sex for several weeks.
(Note to Readers: I Know! He really is a great guy to put up with it!)

So I tore through the house cursing a blue streak in my mind. When I do this, I resemble Muttley the dog on Wacky Racers--the one that was always muttering "smukumrackumshmakumsuchum."
(Note to Readers: My memory is not what it was. If you remember this show with Penelope Pittstop, please post in comments)

FINALLY, I locate The List in Jesse's room, on his desk.

Underneath "Garbage Bags" he has written
I LuvE MoMmy.

Which means there is enough sugar in this house to last for a long, long time.

Steve Irwin is Dead

Steve Irwin is dead.

I am guessing most of you know this already, and can probably recall exactly where you were and what you were doing when you got the sad news about The Crocodile Hunter.

Jesse was five at the time. And maybe because we didn't want to ruin what looked to be a perfectly good day, or maybe because we just knew it would lead to incessant questions about life, death, and stingrays: WE CONCEALED THE CROCODILE HUNTER'S DEATH FROM HIM.

It has been a Year Long Version of Weekend at Bernie's. ( Except we didn't schlep a corpse around,and there were no umbrella drinks.) And it hasn't been particularly easy; there has been many a moment when I questioned my decision--but a few glasses of pinot usually removed all doubt.

For example, a few months ago, we were at the aquarium in Charleston with the cousins. Joseph--one of the "older" cousins--turned to Jesse, (who was admiring the Crocodile Hunter Action Figure in the gift shop), and said matter-of-factly: "HE'S DEAD ." Which was a bit of a problem, because after all we were having a swell day at the aquarium so why ruin it--especially when a peaceful cocktail hour was almost in reach. And so I sunk to a new all time low; debating wether or not Steve Irwin was dead with a nine year old who knew the truth, in front of my five year old who I did not want to hear it. Sorry, Joseph. Think of me as your Wacko Aunt. BTW: that thing I said about your mom smoking crack was wayyyyy out of line. My bad.

But today, at our house: THE CROCODILE HUNTER HAS DIED. (again)

It happened because several children in Jesse's class told him that Greg Wiggle is dead. Now this is JUST NOT TRUE and my gosh, if someone is going to lie to my child then it better be me.

Greg Wiggle is NOT DEAD. He has retired his yellow jersey--given it over to the understudy SAM as a matter of fact (I know this because I am a Wiggelette) because he suffers from an odd disease that causes him to become nauseous when he wiggles, and that is THE TRUTH.

(And let me just say-there is a HUGE Wiggle/Crocodial Hunter connection which comes into play--Steve having starred alongside the Fab Four in WIGGLEY SAFARI--in which he sang, danced and interjected "aw Crikey" into a bunch of musical numbers. I think if you play the video backwards, it says Dorothy the Dinosaur choked to death on a ham sandwich, but that could be a rumor.)

So anyway: I told Jesse today that Greg Wiggle was NOT in fact dead, but felt compelled to cop to some passing of someone--so I told him the truth about Steve Irwin--thinking enough time had passed, Discovery Channel has been usurped by Nick Jr., and his feelings for the Australian Icon safely transferred to Ned, of Ned's Declassified--who BTW- BETTER NOT FREEKING DIE ANYTIME SOON.

Jesse has been sad off and on throughout this beautiful day. He wants to know if the stingray "is sorry." He wants to know how Steve's children feel. Mostly: he wants to know if Kip and I will ever leave him.

But in between these moments, he plays and sings, and annoys his sister, and paints pictures, and experiments with feeding the cat legos. So really; maybe it isn't Jesse who has the problem with change and loss and the whole circle of life thing.

One of these days I will need to break the news to him that all those times he was able to call Spiderman on his direct phone line, his dad was in the bathroom on his cell. I will have to tell him that the magic ring I let him wear to school when he is worried about something is really something that was picked up at a tag sale and has no powers. We will have to discuss Santa, the Easter Bunny, and our own personal "Valentine's Pixie."

In the meantime, drive safely Ned of Ned's Declassified. I am counting on you to be with us for awhile.

Rose's Blog Topic

Rose asked: What song is your child singing right now in public?

Well, Rosita--that would most likely be 100 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL. Kip and I felt that teaching him that little ditty would be educational, since after all, counting is involved.

Busted

Last week, Kip and I had to both fly out of town on business. This caused great anxiety for Jesse--not so much that we were boarding a plane together (after all--if a problem occurs mid flight, Superman will appear and rescue you as evidenced by the documentary SUPERMAN RETURNS)--but because it involved me making a statement involving our departure and return times, and Jesse has begun to suspect I am A BIG FAT LIAR.

I don't know when we started telling Jesse that we were going to "MEETINGS" when we would go out to socialize. In my usual lazy mom way, I must have had a EUREKA moment when I realized he did not cry, cling to my legs, or throw himself repetitively at the elevator doors as they were closing; if I simply told him that Mommy and Daddy had to go to work. And thus began the mythology of the nighttime meeting. If Mommy changes out of her black sweater and takes a shower, chances are, she is going to A MEETING. MEETINGS often occur on a weekend night. Mommy and Daddy are always in a great mood after a MEETING. One night Jesse turned to me and asked me why my breath always smelled so funny when I come home from my MEETINGS, but beyond that he rarely has complained--having made the association between WORK and HAVING MONEY TO BUY STUFF.

So for the most part, I am totally advocating this whole LIE TO YOUR CHILD thing. I'm thinking it might even be to my advantage when he grows up and talks about what an amazing work ethic his Mom had--if I can just remember to have a damn breath mint before I walk back in the door.

But back to our legitimate trip last week.

JESSE: I don't want you to go on this trip! ( Read this aloud with a realllllllly whiny voice)
ME: Oh honey, you know Mom and Dad will be back right at bedtime.
JESSE: But you LIE Mom--you LIE all the time.
ME: (lying) I DO NOT LIE. What do you mean?
JESSE: You always SAY you will be back at bedtime, but you never are. The movie is always over and I always have to watch tv and wait for you on the couch. You are ALWAYS late. You never come home when you say you are going to come home (read this and dissolve into dramatic tears.)
ME: (said with six years of accumulated guilt about working and occasionally going out for a glass of wine with friends) I am SO SORRY Honey! I will try to be on time.
(Go back and forth about ten more minutes with more tears and begging)
ME: Honey-I promise, this will ALL BE WORTH IT. Mommy and Daddy really have to work hard so that we can have all the things that make our life so great: so we can spend more time together and go do stuff together, and stuff like that. But I promise I will not be late. (Blappitty Blah Blah--eventually get out the door in time to make the flight.)

And of course, as luck would have it-our return flight is delayed an hour and a half--which meant that every reassurance I gave about what time we would be home was meaningless. Of course we would not be home in time for bedtime, and of course Jesse would still be up waiting for us....

Which he was. And like a 16 year old caught sneaking back into the house after curfew, I apologized for being late. Surprisingly, he was nonplused. And I soon discovered why.

"It's okay that you are late" he said, "I know what you were working for. We're getting a FARMHOUSE."

Peedle's topic

So, when asked to suggest a blog topic, Peedles wrote:
"I, too, have been in an unblog-o-liscous state of mind. Sometimes life needs to be LIVED not BLOGGED....yeah yeah....I know you see through it....it really means I have a new man and something more fun to do...."

Which means that while P is currently getting a little "sumpin sumpin", I am left to stare at my two children and say: "CAN YOU PLEASE SAY SOMETHING ADORABLE AND WITTY FOR GAWD'S SAKE--MOMMY HAS A BLOG TO WRITE."

Perhaps the fish will die this weekend. Or maybe I will let you know what happens when you exceed the suggested serving size of sugar free candy. Inspiration can be lurking just around the corner--so watch where you are stepping.

KIP'S TOPIC

Kip suggested I blog about the following:
"Why can children swim for hours in 60 degree ocean water, and when I go in up to my knees I want to throw up?"

Well, honey, let's see. While several possibilities spring to mind, I'm going to go with: BECAUSE YOU ARE AS OLD AS DIRT.

Here is a list of other things your children are currently able to do that YOU CANNOT.

1. Sniff their own toes. (For this-I am grateful. You have other odors you like to discuss--it's enough.)

2. Look styling while wearing the cammy shirt with the cammy shorts. And the Batman flip flops with the Pirates of the Caribean necklace. (You have got to stop playing it so safe--throw out the J CREW catalog and live a little, darling. )

3. Exist for hours on nothing more than three spoonfulls of LIFE cereal. ( You and I still believe that LOTS of people eat a whole chocolate cake in one sitting.)

4. Two words, baby: MONKEY BARS. (followed by slides, soccer, tag, and general bouncing off the walls, that for us results in weeks of soreness, stiffness, and sometimes not being able to get out of bed)

5. Manage to get somene to assist them with their personal hygene by sitting on the pot yelling "I am FINISHED...O DAD...I said...I AM DONE..."

Perhaps together we have managed to create two superbeings whose wonder powers only activate occassionally. They sometimes seem to be impervious to cold, hunger, and slapstick humor. I can attest that they can go HOURS and HOURS and HOURS without sleep.

But the most annoying thing that they CAN do which you seem unable to do is to COMPLY WITH MY ORDERS. They seem a bit clearer about who the boss is, my love. Perhaps you could work on that? XO

Paris Hilton Paints Pottery!

Dear Paris,

Just when I thought there was absolutely NOTHING redeemable about you--you go and do THIS!

I know that if I only had a couple of weeks before I had to serve time in the slammer, that I too would seek a creative outlet of some kind. Since I paint pottery for a living, I most likely would take up collage. Or sewing. Or glass blowing. Or maybe I would spend that precious time in a corner at Chippendales with a bottle of pinot and a sketchpad.

The Paint Your Own Pottery Industry is probably all a-buzz with the release of this photo. As I type, some studio owner in Kansas is running to Kinkos and having brochures made that say "Painting Pottery is HOT!" I'm sure they appreciate the fact that you have made painting pottery "cool" again.

My gosh, I hope they have crafts where Lindsay is.

Best,
Lorrie

Last Post about Fall Preview

Ok-so since we are working backwards here--and what you will read as my FIRST blog will actual be the last thing I wrote for the day (so there will be two blogs after this that will be about the preview)-- I do want to say that while FALL '07 is CHOCKABLOCK FULL of really fabulous product, that I'll stop the blog posts about each item HERE if you will kindly suggest blog posts in the comments section below.

I promise to blog about ANY SUBJECT. Well...erm...ANY SUBJECT FIT FOR GENERAL VIEWING. Or, rather...ANY SUBJECT I CAN THINK OF SOMETHING MILDLY AMUSING TO SAY SOMETHING ABOUT. So go ahead, all NINE of you; put your thinking caps on.

Finishing Up Fall Preview

This little item has caused a bit of controversy. And I'm not just talking about the lack of the dip bowl--although that is AN ISSUE. Apparently, some women do not see the humor in the sentiment above. These are women who actually do go through tough times every year thanks to "THE SEASON" and find nothing to laugh about in a serving piece that contains the F word.

Not me: my husband likes The Eagles, so it is always a pretty short season; given the fact that they never win a championship or anything.

But I do have empathy for my sisters who married men who yell at their televisons while sitting on their butts in overstuffed recliners, eating nachos and drinking beer. ( And by sisters, I mean my figurative sisters, not my sister-in-laws, and especially not the one in New Jersey married to the t.v. ADDICT who would have the thing on in the bathroom if he could figure out how to run the cable there--nope-- just my sistahs.)

So *hugggggs* to all the football widows out there. And just remember, it could be WORSE. They could totally be into golf.

Finishing Up Fall Preview

I was never a great speller. To this day, every time I type the word definitely, I spell it "definately"--EVERY TIME, despite the fact that my spell checker flashes the word "IDIOT" now instead of giving me the adjusted spelling.

More FP!

1. Fall in love with a man who has only had dogs his whole life.

2. Make it clear right from the start: Love Me-Love My Cats.

3. Force him to interact with the cats. Encourage the cats to walk across his lap while the two of you are snuggling on the couch, and make sure the cat sticks its butt directly into your boyfriend's face on more than one occasion. Let your new boyfriend see the advantages to having cats: allow him to blame his gas on them.

4. Say things like "He must really like you! He never humped MY sweater!" Encourage the boyfriend and cats to bond by leaving them alone together often. You will know boyfriend has reached optimum level of acceptance when cat vomits up a large hairball on the bed while you are in the middle of sex, and he does not skip a beat. (Note: Not that I ever actually had that experience, being a VIRGIN until my marriage to Kip and all. Hi Dad! Thanks for reading my blog!)

5. Marry the boyfriend. Take the cats to the vet as a couple. Spend large amounts of money trying to cure the older cat of whatever ailment is causing her to poop on the bed. Spend large amounts of money getting cat's teeth cleaned, switching to special cat food, and laundry bills for the comforter. Figure out thousands of dollars later that the reason the cat is pooping on the bed is because she is eating the houseplants. Be patient with husband when he says "NEXT TIME THAT DAMN CAT GOES TO THE VET IT WILL BE THE LAST TIME."

6. Get pregnant. Show husband the paragraph in "What To Expect When You Are Expecting" that says pregnant women cannot empty the litter box. Don't let on that once he takes on this chore, IT WILL BE HIS TO DO FOREVER. If he starts to backslide or whine, just get pregnant again.

7. Realize for the first time; O MY GOD-- your cats are not your children... now that you have actual children. Begin to see them as two more mouths to feed and two warm bodies THAT WANT SOMETHING FROM YOU. Try to remind yourself of the advantages of having cats by allowing the baby to grab onto one's tail and put it into her mouth, while the toddler mounts the back of the other one and rides him like a pony. Put them between you and husband in bed when he comes home from a night out of drinking with the boys. Cry into their soft fur at times when you cannot easily see an end to 3 A.M. feedings and complete exhaustion.

8. Realize your children love the cats when they start to include them in their crayon drawings of the family. Realize your husband loves the cats when he comes home from the grocery store with treats for the kids, and a jar of liver flavored POUNCE TREATS.

9. Wake up one day and discover cats are about 120 years old in cat years. Allow husband to take the one who is infirm and unable to eat, to the vet...for the last time. Fall in love with husband all over again when he cries afterwards.

10. Listen to your daughter continue to say to complete strangers "My cat died two weeks ago" after 8 or 9 months have passed, and realize she is going to grow up, fall in love, and convert some dog lover herself someday.

More FALL PREVIEW

If my computer could talk it would say:

"You have absolutely no idea what the hell you are doing, do you?"

At which point I would kick it.

More FALL PREVIEW

I did not make the counterpart to this tile. It would have said something like: "Keep it simple. Ignore everybody except when they are reading or typing on the computer--then stick your ass in their face over and over again. -Advice from the cat."

More FALL PREVIEW

I would tell you the inspiration for this, but I am still trying to pretend I come from a nice, NORMAL family.

FALL PREVIEW

Our Fall '07 line will premiere this weekend at The Stationary Show in NYC, but I will give all 8 of my faithful readers (the numbers just keep going UP!) a sneak peek at NEVER BEFORE SEEN items and reveal the inspiration for them. Starting with this one: our new FRIEND FOR LIFE mug.

I am fortunate enough to know a lot of wonderful people, but two girlfriends in particular came to mind when designing this mug.

The first is my friend Cary-whom I have known since I was 8 years old--who has the distinction of being the friend whose parents SENT HER TO BOARDING SCHOOL TO REMOVE HER FROM MY SPHERE OF INFLUENCE. All because I taught her to smoke cigarettes at age 15 in the woods, and we happened to do it in a patch of poison ivy. I should mention that I am not at all allergic to poison ivy and can, in fact, handle it like a bouquet of flowers--it is one of my many superpowers. Cary, on the other hand, developed poison ivy over 95 percent of her body. Including inside her ears--which is supposed to be all kinds of painful, and her entire ass, since we were bright enough to actually SIT in the stuff in shorts. Her dad went to where she said she thought she may have had contact with the plant in order to destroy its rampant growth, and discovered the 30 or so half smoked Marlborough Reds we had scattered carelessly on the ground. Next thing you know they shipped her off to a swanky campus upstate, and we could only be together vacations and summers, which left me little time to teach her to DRINK WHILE UNDERAGE and SNEAK BOYS INTO THE HOUSE WHILE HER PARENTS WERE SLEEPING. But somehow I managed.

The second is my friend Karen, who now lives such a different life than I: having signed some sort of pact with the devil and remaining a size two, beautiful and graceful, and always carrying the latest pocketbook. She jet sets all over the world, has homes in New York and Vancouver, and recently christened a ship. K and I are like old buddies bound together eternally because we survived great hardships together--in our case, it was DATING IN OUR THIRTIES. Oh the stories we could tell about married Russian men and ex-models. But that's another blog.

Both of these gals are a FRIEND FOR LIFE which means that we will still be best buds when we are blue haired and stooped (even though Karen will most likely still be brunette and a size two, damn her.)

By the way, some friends are not Friends for Life; Some are just "Friends For While You are Renting the Summer House" or "Friends For The Duration of This Birthday Party Until Next Year's Birthday Party." But a FRIEND FOR LIFE is a No-Matter-What Friend. Send one you know an email today. Then take her out and encourage her to get a tattoo.

A portion of the proceeds of the sale of this item will go to a great organization called The Creative Center, which brings art to people with cancer. You can find more info at www.thecreativecenter.org. Because when you are blessed, pass it on.

A Rose by Any Other Name....

My son decided two and a half hours ago that he will no longer respond to his birth name "Jesse." Instead, he has asked that we refer to him by his chosen name--the name he feels his father and I were remiss in not using on his birth certificate....

Blaster.

The problem is compounded by the fact that Annie is actually complying. She is having a grand old time playing with her brother, "Blaster."

And when I asked him why he was so insistent about changing it--"Jesse" having been a perfectly good name for the past six years--he grabbed my shirt at the sleeve and pulled my ear to his mouth and whispered; "The girls think it's cute, Mom."

Spun Sugah

If you do not believe that awesome incredible works of art (including a shark attack and a roasted chicken) can be made from yarn...click on this link (or-ok, paste it into your bowser) to rock your world:
http://www.patriciawaller.com/en/images.html

My personal fave is the crocheted pair of dentures in water. I want that for Christmas. How about you?

Jesseism

JESSE: Mom-what is that thing called when you sell stuff?
ME: A salesperson?
JESSE: No--what Daddy is.
ME: A businessman?
JESSE: No, an on-tray....on-tray...
ME: Entrepreneur?
JESSE: Kind of--he's an entreprenerd.

How I Spent Mother's Day 5/13/07

Let me just start by saying that Kip returned from a business trip at midnight Friday, and Jesse stayed up waiting for him until 11:45. Because it was CAMP MOMMY--where there are no rules! So heck, let's blow up some aerobeds in the living room and watch a SpongeBob marathon. You guys get the bag of Doritos, I will get the bottle of Pinot, let's hunker down and hope Daddy's flight is on time. And all would have been well if the the next day I could have stuck to my original plan of foisting the tired buggers onto my tired husand, and running away to Mexico.

But as luck would have it, there was a birthday party. A small intimate affair with a few of THE COOLEST PARENTS AT THE SCHOOL. A picnic in Central Park.

And it would have been a wonderful, awesome, amazing time IF I COULD HAVE LEFT MY CHILDREN AT HOME.

To be fair-Annie (who made it to 11 pm by the way) was passed out for the entire thing-so while she wasn't great company, she definately did not detract from the party atmosphere. All the good parties I've ever been to have had someone sleeping it off in a corner.

But Jesse. *Sigh* Jesse. I lost count of how many times he dramatically stormed away from an activity to sulk behind a tree. He refused to be in the group photo. Refused to play soccer. Wanted ice cream when there was only cake. If another child was hit in the face with a ball, Jesse would start crying about his injured arm. While five other faces were filled with sunshine, Jesse was a big, dark storm cloud just raining all over everybody's parade. To the point that even I was thinking: Who the hell invited this kid?

I must have said at least ten times "He's tired-he was up all night--THIS IS ALL KIP'S FAULT" to the other parents who were there. And while they nibbled on the turkey sandwiches with basil, and nodded sympathetically, I still felt deep, deep Mommy Shame.

I will never be a Sophie Mom--who has very smart children who do not watch television--she is able to do impossible things: like get her son to wear a sweater. I will never be a Tara Mom--she with the laid back mop tops, who signs the boys up for classes that they miraculously attend after she has paid for them. I will never be an Allessandra Mom--who has managed to raise two kind and gentle sons who shrug their shoulders and sit out if hit at dodge ball, instead of halting the game for ten minutes as Jesse does, while he argues and insists that: "THE BALL JUST BRUSHED MY PANTS-IT DOESN'T COUNT-IT DIDN'T HIT ME-IT HIT MY PANTS-I AM NOT OUT--DO OVER--DO OVER!"

And so I foisted the kids onto Kip for Mother's Day and got my butt down to Barnes and Noble to stand for an hour in front of the parenting section. To read titles like: "How to Turn Your Impossibly Difficult Child into A Well Behaved Kid in Five Easy Lessons" and " How To Get Your Child To Do What You Want Him To Do Without Bursting A Blood Vessel." I made my purchases and headed home.

To find my children playing quietly together in the living room. Play acting with tiny figures around a plastic castle. And when Annie cries out in falsetto "Help me , Help me--the dragon is going to eat me," Jesse answers back in a deep voice "Don't worry--I will save you!" At which point, she says "Oh Thank You My Bestest Brother" And they both look up and see me and say "HI MOM! Wanna play castle with us?" And for a moment, I believe the depth of my love for them might be enough.

Random things on my Desktop

This is my Uncle Joe. Some say a sense of style is genetic...DO YA THINK? Joe has a penchant for plaid. My mom made him that sweater a gazillion years ago..I am pretty sure it is itchy.

Make like a tree and Leif

So, the other night we held our first gathering of the PS 11 Book Swap Club. In a bar, of course. Because everyone knows that books are just something to keep around the house for those nights when you don't pass out.

The highlight of the evening was spotting a faded green bandanna at a nearby table and realizing O MY GOD THAT'S SEAN CASSIDY! NO WAIT!! THAT'S LEIF GARRETT! The boy who was; "Made for dancing a-a-a-alllll night lo-o-o-ng."

So, because I had had drinks prior to meeting the girls for drinks and therefore had the liquid courage coursing through my veins, I called the man over to our table as he passed on his way back from the restroom. Which amused Susan and Tara because they were also avid readers of TIGER BEAT--but did not do much for Sophie, because she is English, and had absolutely no history of hormonal surges brought about by this boy when he was in his prime: *sigh* his head full of golden curly hair, and clad in those ridiculously tight spandex pants.

Leif was kind enough to take pictures with us (Tara used her cell and hasn't figured out how to get them out of her phone and into the computer so I can post them here) and to stay awhile and chat with Susan--who in addition to still being a blonde hottie, is a Criminal Defense Lawyer. It may be that he was talking to her because she's a blonde hottie, or perhaps because if you've seen VH1's BEHIND THE MUSIC, you'll know Leif can use any free legal advice he can get.

Leif had Tara take pictures of us with his camera too-which he promised to post on his website. Because nothing screams COMEBACK more than canoodeling with a group of 40 year old women exchanging books.

The Cat in the Sweater

This is Lenny. And this is the black sweater Lenny has been having sex with, pretty much daily, for the past several weeks. I have no idea if the sex is consensual. I only know it is embarrassing when you call someone into your office and a cat is humping an acrylic polyester blend nearby.

Lenny seems to enjoy it. I can't tell about the sweater.

Here is Lenny, basking in the afterglow. At some point I am going to have to send that girlfriend of his off to the dry cleaners.

The Bully

While I know this may SHOCK you, my faithful readers (all seven of you- now that someone googled the word 'herpes' and landed on my glitter post. See Comments... She included her picture-Hi Angela!) my highstrung, overly sensitive, delicate, show tune loving son is occassionally picked on. Sometimes it's a matter of: "MOM-SHE'S LOOKING AT ME, MAKE HER STOP LOOKING AT ME." Othertimes it involves a certain child whom we will refer to as "Elliott" so that if he googles himself years from now this post will not exist in cyberspace as an eternal moment of shame for someone to blow up life size and post on a wall at his engagement party.

We have known Elliott a loooooooooong time. We were there when he ate his first bag of gumballs (yes, they make BAGS of gumballs--apparently the things are like potato chips if you are into swallowing the gum) at the age of two. (The same year I was teaching Jesse to say "No thanks; choke hazard" to a variety of hard candies.) Elliott grew a long rat tail of hair from the back of his mullet at age three, was the first to begin jumping off the top of the playground equipment at four, and had a perpetual stream of neon colored mucus oozing from his nose for the entire fifth year of his life. He is feisty and often dirty and is quick to punch or kick or hit, always moving- rarely listening... if you spot a cloud of dust and bodies he will be at the center of it; and usually will have started the altercation by wiping boogers on another child's shirt. He has taught my son words like "weiner" and "suckah."

Elliott and Jesse have had a love-hate relationship for years. Kip and I often pictured Elliott as a little devil perched on Jesse's shoulder, intoning: "GO AHEAD-LET'S KICK THAT SAND IN YOUR SISTER'S FACE AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!" or "WOULDN"T IT BE SUPER FUN TO SNEAK OUT OF THE PARK AND RUN FAR AWAY AND WATCH THE BABYSITTERS FREAK OUT???" There were many incidents that involved hitting or punching or shoving. We stopped having playdates when I received a phone call at work from Jesse that went like this:

JESSE: SOB WAIL SOB WAIL
ME: Jesse? What's wrong honey?
JESSE: SOB WAIL HYSTERIA SOB
ME: So, how was your playdate with Elliott, honey?
JESSE: HE PUNCHED ME IN THE PENIS. MY PENIS IS BROKKKKKKKKKKENNNNNNNNNNN.

At which point I told Kip that if this kid was going to infllict bodily injury on my kid in a way that couldn't be easily addressed with a little Bactine and a bandaid I was OUT. And Jesse was relieved because the pressure had been keeping him up at night, causing bad dreams in which Eliott appeared and BROKE HIS PENIS.

And while we stopped having playdates and encouraged Jesse to develop other friendships ("Can't you play more with that nice Martin? He has a collection of bow ties!") there was still THE PARK which meant they still had contact admist the sand and black top and playground equipment. And many a day there would be tears, and a story, and some injury that would become a scab to be picked again and again and again.

As bruise after bruise appeared, my anger grew. And so I wrote Elliott's Mommy. A sweet little Email about how we could all work together to help the boys learn to deal with conflict, and grow and flourish etc, etc. etc. Elliott's Mommy wrote me back and told me the problems were due to "lack of supervision" which was code for "my nanny sucks". Which is bull, because MY NANNY COULD KICK HER NANNY'S ASS.

Fast forward to today-when I am back at work. A phone call from Jesse:

JESSE: SOB WAIL HYSTERICAL CRYING
ME: Hi Honey-how is your day going?
JESSE: SOB CRY WAIL SOB
ME: What's the matter honey?
JESSE: HE SAID HE WOULD KICK ME IN THE JEWELS!! HE SAID HE WOULD KICK ME IN THE JEWELS! IT SCARED ME! HELP ME MOMMY!
(ok-so he didn't really say "help me mommy" but I knew THAT WAS WHAT HE MEANT.)

And like a character in a LIfetime movie-I just snapped. I just lost all reason and became all Mommy Lion.

So I called Kip and I said
"DROP EVERYTHING-YOUR SON NEEDS YOU NOW"
(ok-that's not really what I said, but is kind of the general gist of it)

And together WE WENT TO THE PLAYGROUND.And I had had enough, and I was gonna fix things right then and there and I was gonna cook Elliott's goose with the steam that was coming out of my ears. And I marched in there, and I had red circles on both of my cheeks, and I marched right up to that little snot nosed Elliott and I said "ELLIOTT!!" in my ubermommy voice which is wayyyyyyy scary--and he left his posse and came over, brown eyes aimed at the ground and I said "ELLIOTT! I HEARD THAT YOU SAID YOU WOULD KICK JESSE IN HIS JEWELS AND I AM HERE TO TELL YOU MISTER..."

At which point Jesse says; "uhhh, Mom? It wasn't him" and points at anther kid who is grinning over on the swingset and I say "ALLRIGHT THEN. I AM GLAD WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER." And I take Kip's arm, and we tell Jesse he can have an Italian Ice, and he smiles from ear to ear, and we leave the park.

Because after all, children have to learn to fight their own battles.

Annieism

We are driving in a car.

ME: THis has been the best vacation so far. And my favorite part has been being with you all! I love Daddy and Jesse and Annie!

KIP: And I love Mommy and Jesse and Annie!

JESSE: And I love Daddy and Mommy and Annie!

ANNIE: And I love bacon and sausage and make up!

Vacation-all I ever Wanted, Vacation Happy to Get Away

So, since Jesse has a gazillion absences--enough to possibly keep him back next year and force him to repeat Kindergarten, we are taking a few more "mental health days" and going on vacation. How bad can truancy really be if it has the word TRU in it--for me--that means if I TELL them we are taking a vacation then those nice women in the office really aren't going to do anything bad. (Ok-so I lied about Disney in September and God punished me by smiting the children with coxackie which caused them to miss an additional week of school but WE HAVE THE MEMORIES). At the end of the day, I'll be proud to split a beer with my high school dropouts and regale them with "The Time Mommy told the Principal you had Strep Throat but we Really Went to Charleston Because Mommy Said if she didn't go Someplace with a Pool she wasn't going to be Responsible for What she did to Daddy."

I am looking forward to the trip. I kind of know the routine by now:

-I will spend five days packing but will forget something essential. One year it was bottles. The next it was underwear for everyone. The highlight of every vacation is when Kip turns to me and says: "You didn't forget to pack the (fill in essential here) did you?" And I will shoot him a look that says "I'll show you something REALLY ESSENTIAL if you continue looking at me that way- as if I am not perfect- and if you thought the kids needed bathing suits to swim then maybe you should have helped with the packing Mister" and then we both load the kids into the car and go find a TARGET anywhere we happen to be. We will spend an obscene amount of money on a bunch of stuff we obviously need and a bunch more that we needed but didn't know we needed. Everyone leaves happy-with VACATION MEMORIES. And stuff. Lots of stuff.

- I will look at my children with adoration for the first few hours after we arrive at our destination. Then I will start looking for the playdates that will keep them from tugging at my skirted swimsuit bottom and asking me to do stuff, like pretend to be Boots on an Adventure with Dora. If I can't find a strange child in the vicinity to play with my children, I start looking for people to pay. If I can't find either, I hit the sauce hard. I'm told I do a mean Spongebob when I'm half in the bag-and the children look so nice when they are a bit fuzzy around the edges.

- The spray on tan which looks SO GREAT four hours after I get it at the salon will start to fade within hours of arrival at our destination. I will attempt to prolong its life by refusing to swim, bath or shower for as long as possible. This will make family members avoid me. Except the children, still tugging at the bottom of my skirted swimsuit...

-I will be relieved to be away from the office for about 12 hours. After that, I will have Kip set up the lap top. I will keep my Email open and every half hour walk by it and if nothing new appears, will keep desperately clicking the "mail" icon--as if all it needs is to be refreshed and the missives will pour in. I will devour spam. Then I will start drunk Emailing people and Googeling odd aquaintances. I will hit bottom when I actually Google myself.


- Did I actually say that I spent 5 days packing? Because in reality--it will be that I spent 5 days THINKING ABOUT packing. Over a chilled glass of pinot. I have aplan for vacation, oh yes, I do.

Off to CHARLESTON tomorrow.

Teach the children well

I received this Email today. I have deleted the names from it even though I felt pretty certain that if I blogged about it-the senders would not be aware. Perhaps it was the spelling of my name as "Laurie Vefferey" whatever; I knew if it wasn't on My Space they most likely wouldn't read it--so here it is:


Dear Laurie Vefferey,

During the Fall of 2005, we, (name deleted) and (name deleted), worked as
interns at the ?Our Name is Mud? warehouse on 29th street in
Manhattan. It was through our high school, School of the Future, that
we acquired the internship. We loved the work we did there and felt
that we really helped out, even without professional training( what
you taught us was enough to produce quality results). The work
environment, was just as pleasant. Both of us would very much like to
work during this coming summer starting in late May. We would also
love to include our good friend, (name deleted), who graduated with us
last June from School of the Future. Please e-mail us back or call us
at (cell phone number with my humps ringtone deleted) to let us know whether there will be any work
opportunities this summer.
Thank you very much and we look forward to your response,
(three names deleted).


Dear Darling Interns,

I don't fault you for forgetting my name after spending eight months with me. Frankly, when I try to recall your names, an image of a thong appearing everytime you sat down is all that comes to mind. Perhaps we should both start taking some ginko balobao or St. John's Wort. So forgive me if the facts of our association are a bit hazy. Did you say I had you work in the warehouse? Because usually we just move our stolen merchandise through the warehouse. Or hang sides of beef to cure. I'm surprised I put interns into the warehouse--perhaps I meant to sell you on ebay at some point and just forgot.

I'm glad that you realize what I had to offer over the course of eight months was not "professional training"! Most of the time people don't realize that I am just pulling stuff out of my butt--so kudos to you, dear interns, for seeing through the smoke and mirrors and realizing that I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING! But man-that "quality results" thing--it gets me every time. People are so dern gullible. Just throw some of that clay stuff onto that round thing and paint it with some of those glazey things then throw it into that oven thing and presto--people are impressed. And to think I honed all of my skills on a playdough fuzzy pumper.

About the work environment: an image of you all comes to mind--throwing your hands over your ears and begging me not to play the Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack for the third time. Did you really mean to use the word "pleasant?" Or did you really mean "peasant"-- because I also have a memory of where I called you all indentured servants and made you call me Lord Lorrie and we discussed the fact that you were serfs--which you thought meant surfs--and you thought we were going to the beach-- so I had to lock you up in the warehouse again.

I guess my biggest question is-who drew the short straw? Did it go something like this:
"You Email her."
"No-YOU Email her."
"I'm not gonna Email her. YOU Email her."
"Bitch-I will beat your ass if you don't Email her."
"Listen Bitch-Road Rules 15 is on right now. You Email her."
"Fine, I will Email her, but since you are making me do all the work I'm gonna include (name deleted) because he is fine."

Because what I really, really want is a POTTERY POSSE!! It's true girls! Can I just tell you that when I advertize and collect applications for an actual vacancy, and some of you come along with your friend and I say "Who's this" and you say "It's my friend, he just wanted to come while I apply" and then later he asks if he can borrow a pen because what the heck he's here so why not fill in an application-I AM ALL OVER THAT GIRLS. And later, when I look and see that he has placed his gum underneath the table at which you were sitting, I think; hmmm. I can see this person in my WAREHOUSE. But I digress...

You are our future, gals. I believe that children are our future. ( I also believe Whitney is better off without Bobby and she will make a great COME BACK.) Sadly, I do not think I will ask the two of you plus your friend to COME BACK. Nothing personal: we had some great times and all. You were awesome. I mean, from what I can remember.

Yours truly,
Laurie Veffery.

Get your blog on

I know that all 5 of you---well 6, now that Diamond Diva lady reads me regularly too-----have come to be entertained.

I got................nuttin for you today. While I go seek out my mojo, please cut and paste this into your browser and remember: glitter is the herpes of the craft world.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=puzFWDPy3i0&mode=related&search=

Jesse art

"Last time she came to my house for a playdate, she cried when her Mother dropped her off. It made me think maybe we shouldn't have any more playdates."

Jesse Veasey 2007
Marker on paper.

"When I Grow Up I want to Wear Sunglasses Indoors and At Night"
By Jesse Veasey 2007
Marker on Paper.

Art by Jesse

"Give Peace a Chance or I will Kick Your Ass."
By Jesse Veasey 2007
Marker on paper

GO MARLINS

JESSE: Check it out Dad. This is how I'm gonna pose for my rap album cover.

KIP: Cough-cough--I am too worn out from trying to recover from my trachea infection and your Mother's complete insensitivity to my illness to ask you to step back in line with the rest of the boys. It's all I can do to proudly hold up this banner and let the world know that it's my first gig as Coach--and that our team is sponsored by an OB-GYN. association. But that doesn't mean we are pussies, Jesse.

JESSE: Do you think this color blue suits me?

KIP: I have always dreamed of this day. Me, my son, and a team. The five of you that bother to show up any given Sunday--we are going to kick some t-ball ass.

JESSE: I'm thinking these pants make my butt look big.

The Bad Wife

I am trapped in a never ending episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman and I am Jane Seymour except without her good looks and English accent. And a plague has come to River City and we got Trouble-oh yes Trouble, right here in River City.

I can take the poor chilluns being sick--have learned to medicate them heavily with doses of bubble gum flavored pink stuff, then medicate myself heavily with pinot grigio flavored wine stuff. I have learned how to cope with various childhood illnesses, mastering such phrases as: "Yes, you can watch your 100th video" and "If you feel like you are going to throw up, remember DAD is your go-to guy." I have accepted that my life can at some points seem to go from cough to flu to sore throat to odd itchy rash to ear infection to I ate a piece of gum off the street because my brother dared me to and now my tummy doesn't feel too good Mommy. I have spent many a sleepless night in a cloud of Vicks Vapor and all my tissues are ANTI FREEKING VIRAL. I am no wuss.

But one thing brings me to my knees, makes me long to hop aboard the Magic Schoolbus and just drive off with Miss Frizzle and the gang and never come back. Except I know the Frizz would have planned a field trip into the mucus membranes of my dearly beloved.

Kip is sick. Oh wait, did I say sick? I meant to say ON HIS DEATH BED gasping for breath literally-sounding very much like what I imagine the moans of a menstruating whale might sound like. And I want to be the Better Half that makes him a hot toddy and brings him his slippers, but 85% of me for some reason wants to KICK HIS ASS every time he starts a coughing fit because it HURTS it HURTS SO MUCH and I HAVE A FEVER and COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH. Shush honey, I'm trying to watch American Idol here. Can you go have your pneumonia in the bedroom please???

I am surely going to hell, where I am sure I will meet Satan himself and he will have a touch of the flu and ask me to feel his forehead because he feels like he is burning up.

des formations imaginares

I received this Email from Victoria today and thought I would share it with you all.


I received this resume and letter from a guy in Cameroon who is interested in our accounting internship.

I double-clicked on the attachment thinking that it would be a resume, but it was another email, with a note, and the resume inside that. Obviously the guy had forwarded his resume after he'd had someone look at it. Since I speak French, I quickly read the note (with a couple of word assists from Charline) and had to laugh (and laugh and laugh!). Here's how it translates:

Salut Frero!

j'ai fini de traiter ton resume; Il y a des choses que j'ai ajoutees pour qu'il soit efficace. Essayes de le parcourir et dit moi si
quelque chose cloche. Concemant ton computer skills, renseigne toi sur les nouveaux logiciels que j'ai ajoute. Moi meme je ne
les maitrise pas. Mais en tant que comptable, ils doivent figurer dans ton resume. J'y ai aussi mis des formations imaginares,
car il le fallait pour que ta candidature soit credible.
Bye

Salomon

Hello, Brother!

I finished working over your resume; there are some things that I added so that it would be more effective. Try to run with it, and tell me if you see anything odd . Concerning your computer skills, learn a little bit about the new programs that I've added. Even I haven't mastered them. But if you want to get a job in accounting, they'll have to be included in your resume. I also put in some imaginary schooling - which has to be in there so that your candidacy seems credible.

Bye

Salomon

HAPPY GOOD FRIDAY!

I received this lovely letter from a fan today:


The following message was sent from ournameismud.com by (name withheld by request proving I am really not such a bad person after all)
Hi. I love your products and stopped by the Grand Central Station store today, but was really taken aback to see "Jesus Juice" goblets displayed in the store window.
I asked the sales rep what Jesus Juice goblets were for, and he told me they were for wine.
Please tell me that this was just a dreadful mistake in judgement on the part of your buyers. If you are a Christian, there is nothing funny about Jesus Juice wine goblets. The wine offered the sacrament of the Holy Communion represents the Blood of Christ. If you are a believer, in taking the communion wine, you accept that you are drinking the blood of Christ. I don't think I've ever heard our Priest refer to the blood of Christ as "Jesus Juice". You would be doing millions of Christians in the region a service if you would remove this horrifingly offensive product from your store offerings.
Many thanks, (name removed)

So I wrote back:

Dear (name removed),

First-let me tell you a little joke: A Rabbi, a Priest, and a duck walk into a bar and....ok, maybe I'll save that one for later.

I am very sorry that our JESUS JUICE goblets offended you. Last month the "Mom, Dad, I'm Gaelic" mug had the Irish community up in arms. If we only made pottery that never danced up to the south side of edgy, well-that would make us Hallmark.

I don't know if any of the following products were still left in the window, or if a mass of Christians (Get it? That's a Catholic pun) gobbled them up, but we did also offer "Jesus Loves Me" mugs, Faith crosses, and a platter that read "This is the day the Lord hath made, Rejoice and be glad in it." The agnostics and atheists raised a rucus (damn them), I told them we are an equal opportunity offender.

Let me go on to say that I am a card carrying member of the "Millions of Christians" you refer to above. (My card happens to say "Jesus is Coming...Look Busy!"), but nonetheless, I have accepted Christ as my personal Savior and I have to disagree with you and say that JESUS JUICE is a tiny bit funny. A tiny bit. I know you say you haven't heard your Priest use the term, but let me just suggest that you don't look to Father Bob for lessons in humor--unless the title of his last sermon was "Have Faith even if you are slipping on Bananna Peels."

I know when I take communion that the grape juice in the cup is not ACTUALLY Christ's blood, or Mark Anthony and JLo would be up at the pulpit every week. Perhaps you may not have noticed that the words "JESUS JUICE" do not literally mean "THE BLOOD OF CHRIST." Last year I made a goblet that said "THE HOLY GRAIL"--for some reason readers of the DaVinci Code knew that it was NOT ACTUALLY the Holy Grail. Smart people, them. Even the ones that only saw the movie.

A common thread among all religions is love. And love can often be expressed through humor. To shut yourself off from humor and become Judy Judger is not what God wants for us all. He wants us to sit down at a table together, share a few laughs and drink some Jesus Juice.

Tonight, I will pray for forgiveness for being a Smartass, like I do everynight. And I will ask that the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, shows you the way to put the wonderful energy and intelligence you obviously posses and direct it towards making change in this word by railing against things that are ABSOLUTELY NOT FUNNY--like racism, bigotry, hate and war.

Now I need to go offend some serious Jewish people.

Love in Christ,
Lorrie

HAPPY EASTER!

When I was four years old I colored in this bunny picture and won the Citizen's Easter Coloring Contest. That's me with the blonde hairstyle (THAT I STILL HAVE TO THIS DAY) bottom row, to the left. I also won ADDITIONAL PRIZES and that's a picture of me on the bottom taking a check from the man.

I got an Easy Bake oven and a twenty five dollar check. And that, ladies and gentleman is how a commercial artist is born.

Company

Jesse: Mommy, how come Uncle Jeff doesn't want to play with us so much in the morning?

Me: Because Uncle Jeff stays out very late with his friends, so he needs to catch up on his sleep during the day.

Jesse: Oh. You mean he's nocturnal.

You say you want an evolution?

A WELL RESPECTED molecular biologist sent me this look at the future of human evolution.

WHO KNEW I WAS SO FREEKING ADVANCED?

It just so happens that I have extended buttocks! My arm and leg muscles are atrophied--or at least that's what I tell the trainer at the gym who requests I use them for more than moving food from plate to mouth, plate to mouth. My pupils are often enlarged. And who knew that what I have been calling my "jowls" were actually my very own detoxification pouches? Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Darwin.

The enlarged testicles just go without saying.

No one likes a smartass

So what many people don't know is that the Emails sent to FEEDBACK on this site go directly to my mailbox. Ordinarily, this is a good thing. I am usually all sweetness and light, and my customer service skills are legendary. But sometimes I don't know what happens. Maybe it's that I've overdosed on 100 calorie packs of oreos, the planets are not in alignment, or I lost hours of sleep because a child shared my bed and spent the night with his elbow in my left nostril. Maybe I'm trying to cut down on the hooch. Maybe it's a lunar cycle kind of thing. MAYBE I AM JUST A SMARTASS. And on days like that....well....let's just take a look at an actual Email interaction I had today:

The following message was sent from ournameismud.com by Aaron:
Just wanted to tell you that I bought two mugs at a store in Boston that sell your products: the yellow "betterhalf" and the red "princess". After a very short time the 'glaze' inside started to crack so once a week we had to feel it with bleach and then the exterior glaze started to fall. A big disappointment.

So I respond:

Hi Aaron!

1) We don't make a red Princess mug. We make a red Diva mug. Which is your better half?

2) Our mugs are made to be used and enjoyed daily: not to fill with bleach once a week. Aaron! What were you thinking??? How about taking them back to the store or sending them back to us for an exchange? We're thinking drinking from a mug with cracks that you have filled over and over with bleach might not be such a healthy thing.

3) Do you feel better now that you've sent this email or would you like us to do something about this?

Please email Dan@ournameismud.com for info about making a return.

Have a wonderful day,
OUR NAME IS MUD

Which is pretty tame, considering it is ME who is writing this Email. I mean; I let "feel with bleach" go, and I did not mention the need to put quotations around "glaze". This is no tongue lashing, Aaron my friend--it is a gentle little kitten lick compared to what could have come from my keyboard; especially if I had saved my reply for after one glass of pinot.

But does he thank me? No-Aaron writes:

Yes you're right. I'm colorblind and you seem to question my integrity.
Unless I have difficulties understanding your tone or sense of so called humor
or sarcasm ("Do you feel better now that you've sent this email").
The princess is kind of purple (?). The better half is yellow (?).
We rinse it in bleach to clean it from the coffee and tea stains concentrating
in the cracks of the glaze.
I'm from Israel. I bought it as a present to my wife and myself for our
anniversary day, in a store in Boston while on a scientific meeting I attended
in the US. So, I cannot "take it back to the store".
I also do not intend to ship it back and waste more money just to satisfy your
wariness.
You wish to be fair? To respect your own art and skill and expertise and name?
You can send me a pair of mugs one with "better half" or "princess" or "diva" or
"legend" or "She Who Must Be Obeyed" and one with "alpha male" or "role model"
or "handsome devil"
And have one satisfied and appreciative customer that could respect you.
You wish to make fun of me and mockery of yourselves than I'll be satisfied with
sending the mail and just spread among my friends your attitude.
==================================
Avivi Aaron, Ph.D
Associate Research Professor
Head, Laboratory of Animal Molecular Evolution
Institute of Evolution
University of Haifa
Mt. Carmael, Haifa 31905, Israel


Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. Have you ever read my blog? Most of your country already hates me for my bad attitude and you did not have to do a thing--it's because I AM A SMARTASS. So send my email to your friends--I will post the whole discourse here on my blog for my faithful readership of three. (One of which is my husband, Aaron, and I am guessing he could kick your little scientist butt--but I'll save the veiled threats for later.)

I am sure that being Head of the Laboratory of Animal Molecular Evolution is a VERY, VERY SERIOUS JOB. And maybe you are grouchy because you have to fiddle with animal DNA samples all day, and clone sheep and stuff like that. Or maybe you are frustrated because molecular evolution really just cannot be rushed. If I remember correctly from school, it took a heckuva long time to go from protozoa to invertebrate--so I feel for you Aaron, really I do.

But I feel we could be making many more advances in this world if the scientific community would activly seek A SENSE OF HUMOR. Really dude--things don't need to be so literal. Or black and white--I mean red and brown-I forgot you were colorblind.

And I am confused: do you want me to be your personal shopper and choose two mugs from your eight suggestions above or do you want eight to be ABSOLUTELY SURE that I respect my own art (thanks) and skill (thanks) and expertise (thanks again) and name (it's my husband's, actually).

And lastly; do I make a mockery of myself if I make fun of you? Oh Aaron, Aaron, Aaron...dontcha know I prefer crockery to mockery most days darlin?

PSA- Sea of People

The following is an email I received regarding an event known as Sea of People. And since i did my share of destroying the environment with several years of disposable diapers, I am passing the info along here:

Hello there-
I'm working with a number of local community, environmental, arts, and
civic orgs to organize a rally and human installation in Lower Manhattan
as part of the Step It Up 2007 National Day of Climate Action. Our event
is called the Sea of People, and it combines the dynamics of a mass rally
with the expressive power of an interactive artistic installation.
Following a noon rally at Battery Park (in front of Castle Clinton),
thousands of participants, dressed in blue, will stretch north in two
columns along the projected eastern and western 10 foot waterlines that
may one day redefine lower Manhattan under the ten-foot sea level rise
scenario.

Both lines will extend approximately one mile north from the
Battery--roughly to the World Trade Center site on the west side and
Hanover Square on the east. We estimate that a line of this length would
call for about 5,000 participants, and no less than 200 volunteers to help
coordinate its movement and formation. Therefore the need to execute
successful and broad outreach prior to the date will be of paramount
importance. Please see the attached 1-pager and press release for more
info.

Spread the word!
We're dropping you a line because we have we have immense respect for your
organization and hope that you'll be able to help us spread the word. To
get the numbers we need to really send a powerful message to our elected
officials, we need to rally the masses. I hope you'll help us drive
people to the event--especially your
members/customers/constituents!--whether by informing them in your blog or
newsletter, or by forwarding this note, the event's website (
www.seaofpeople.org) and attached info widely.

Volunteers Needed!
Please e-mail volunteers@seaofpeople.org if you are interested in
volunteering on April 14. More info about volunteering below.

The Details:
Sea of People Rally
for Step It Up 2007 National Day of Climate Action ( www.stepitup2007.org)
Saturday, April 14th
Noon
Battery Park (4/5 to Bowling Green; R/W to Whitehall St.; 1 to South Ferry)
www.seaofpeople.org
Free and open to the public

---
Volunteer Groups:
1- Arriving at 11am - 90 people to manage the participants as they form
the "sea of people"
2- Arriving at 9am - 80 people to assist with various tasks during the
rally (passing out banners, instructions, face-painting, etc.)
3- Arriving at 7am - 30 to help set up the park and banners on the "sea of
people" water-line
4- This isn't really a group, but we need as many of you as possible that
can stay at the end to help clean up… and we'll be doing some celebratin'
afterwards!

Please e-mail Volunteers@ seaofpeople.org if you are interested in
volunteering on April 14 with which group you'd like to be in. Also,
please note that all volunteers will need to attend a 2-hour training
session/orientation at Battery Park.

3 sessions available:
Sat. April 7, 10am-12pm
Sat. April 7, 2pm-4pm
Thurs. April 12, 6-8pm.


If you have any questions at all, please don't hesitate to contact me
here, or write to all the organizers at: info@seaofpeople.org. Thanks so
much for taking the time. We hope (and anticipate) that this will be a
truly landmark day in the history of our nation's climate change
discussion.

All best!
Sung Bin and the Sea of People Organizers

Cat & Mouse

Annie was watching Tom & Jerry this weekend and becoming increasingly upset. She pulled me close, and in a high pitched voice full of urgency, said: "JERRY IS REALLY, REALLY MEAN TO TOM, MOMMY!"

"Why do you think that is?" I asked.
"HE'S JUST A MEAN MOUSE! HE PLAYS TRICKS! JERRY ATE THE CHICKEN AND THEN HE PRETENNED THAT HE DIDN'T AND THE OLD LADY CAME HOME AND THEN TOM GOT IN TROUBLE BUT HE DIDN'T EAT THE CHICKEN AND IT IS NOT FAIR AND JERRY IS A VERY BAD MOUSE. I HATE JERRY MOMMY! WHY IS HE SO MEAN TO TOM?"

Oh the humanity. What would a good mom say here? Hmmm. Perhaps the truth?

"Tom wants to eat Jerry," I explained, "Cats eat mice."

"NO! TOM JUST WANTS TO HOLD JERRY!! IN HIS HANDS! HE JUST WANTS TO HOLD HIM! SOMETIMES HE JUST WANTS TO HOLD HIM IN HIS MOUTH! HE IS A GOOD CAT!"

Ok. Perhaps I should consult Wikipedia:

Because they seem to get along in some cartoon shorts (at least in the first minute or so), it is unclear why Tom chases Jerry so much, but some reasons given may include normal feline/mouse enmity, duty according to his owner, revenge, or competition with another cat, among other reasons.
Tom rarely succeeds in catching Jerry, mainly because of Jerry's craftiness and cunning abilities, but sometimes because of Tom's own stupidity. Tom usually beats Jerry when Jerry becomes the instigator or when he crosses some sort of line.
The shorts are famous for some of the most violent gags ever devised in theatrical animation: Jerry slicing Tom in half, Tom using everything from axes, pistols, dynamite, and poison to try to murder Jerry, Jerry stuffing Tom's tail in a waffle iron, plugging his tail into an electric socket, hitting him with a mace and so on. Despite all the violence, there is no blood or gore in any scenes.

Good to know.

Why do I think Kip and I should start worrying about the type of guy Annie may end up bringing home one day?

Annieism

Shopping with Annie. Passing the restrooms.

ANNIE: Mommy, what does that say?
ME: Men's Room. That's where Daddy and Jesse go.
ANNIE: What's that say?
ME: Women's room-that's where ladies go.
ANNIE: Where is my room?
ME: You would go to the Women's Room.
ANNIE: Oh No-I want my room to say "Angels."

Jesse's Mona Lisa

Does my kid have TALENT or what? This came home from school yesterday. I love the use of stencils to carefully write the phoenetically spelled words--it is very DAVID KRAMER-esque in a way-dontcha think?

Irrational Fears

I have several. In no particular order, they include:

1. PAN FIRES. You're happily cooking something in bacon grease, then woosh, a fireball appears. Inexplicably, I have had this fear since about the age of 14. I try to avoid frying at all costs, because in addition to fearing pan fires, I fear that if a pan fire actually DID occur that I would try to put it out with water--even though I know you are supposed to smother it. This fear causes me to keep a bag of flour close by anytime I am working on the stovetop. I need paxil before making the kids a burger.

2. GEL TRAYS. This is an irrational fear of someone trying to make a model of my underbite. Think huge, gag inducing plastic tray filled with something vile and gooey. I think this actually happened to me around age eleven when I got braces--but the memory is hazy and I'm not planning hypnotherapy anytime soon.

3. MY CHILDREN WILL CHOKE ON POPCORN. "Dad-can you rewind? Mom is standing in front of the t.v. telling us to eat one piece at a time again. And will ya make her move that Heimlich Maneuver poster out of the way too, please?"

4. SEA SNAKES. I don't actually know what type of water these things swim in, but MY GOD I am always hoping it is seaweed brushing up against my thigh.

5. THROAT CULTURES. I know they aren't so bad; so it's not really the wooden swab that causes my heart to pound and palms to sweat. It's the fear of vomiting all over the person who is going to stick that stick down my throat. Why can't we come up with a way for testing for strep that involves spitting into a cup or something? That's a walkathon I would pledge to.

Charlie Me Boy

I have been fortunate to work with some of the best and the brightest--and CHA-LEY is one of my favorite ex-employees, and one of the few who actually still speak to me.

He recently sent me a link to his new website which I promised to pass along to all 3 of my faithful readers. Enjoy.

www.barmondestudios.com

From The New Yorker

Reprinted with absolutely no permission whatsoever--but a good laugh is a thang to share:
The Wisdom of Children
by Simon Rich March 26, 2007

I. A Conversation at the Grownup Table, as Imagined at the Kids’ Table

MOM: Pass the wine, please. I want to become crazy.
DAD: O.K.
GRANDMOTHER: Did you see the politics? It made me angry.
DAD: Me, too. When it was over, I had sex.
UNCLE: I’m having sex right now.
DAD: We all are.
MOM: Let’s talk about which kid I like the best.
DAD: (laughing) You know, but you won’t tell.
MOM: If they ask me again, I might tell.
FRIEND FROM WORK: Hey, guess what! My voice is pretty loud!
DAD: (laughing) There are actual monsters in the world, but when my kids ask I pretend like there aren’t.
MOM: I’m angry! I’m angry all of a sudden!
DAD: I’m angry, too! We’re angry at each other!
MOM: Now everything is fine.
DAD: We just saw the PG-13 movie. It was so good.
MOM: There was a big sex.
FRIEND FROM WORK: I am the loudest! I am the loudest!
(Everybody laughs.)
MOM: I had a lot of wine, and now I’m crazy!
GRANDFATHER: Hey, do you guys know what God looks like?
ALL: Yes.
GRANDFATHER: Don’t tell the kids.

II. A Day at UNICEF Headquarters, as I Imagined It in Third Grade

(UNICEF sits on a throne. He is wearing a cape and holding a sceptre. A servant enters, on his knees.)
UNICEF: Halloween is fast approaching! Have the third graders been given their little orange boxes?
SERVANT: Yes, your majesty!
UNICEF: Perfect. Did you tell them what the money was for?
SERVANT: No, sir, of course not! We just gave them the boxes and told them to collect for UNICEF. We said it was for “a good cause,” but we didn’t get any more specific than that.
UNICEF: Ha ha ha! Those fools! Soon I will have all the money in the world. For I am UNICEF, evil king of Halloween!
SERVANT: Sir . . . don’t you think you’ve stolen enough from the children? Maybe you should let them keep the money this year.
UNICEF: Never! The children shall toil forever to serve my greed!
(He tears open a little orange box full of coins and rubs them all over his fat stomach.)
UNICEF: Yes! Oh, yes!
SERVANT: Wait! Your majesty! Look at this! Our records indicate that there’s a kid out there—Simon—who’s planning to keep his UNICEF money this year.
UNICEF: What?! But what about my evil plans? I was going to give that money to the Russians so they could build a bomb!
SERVANT: (aside) I guess there’s still one hero left in this world.
UNICEF: No!
(He runs out of the castle, sobbing.)
SERVANT: Thank God Simon is keeping his UNICEF money.
SECOND SERVANT: Yes, it’s good that he’s keeping the money.
THIRD SERVANT: I agree. Simon is doing a good thing by keeping the money from the UNICEF box.
SERVANT: Then we’re all in agreement. Simon should keep the money.

And how was YOUR day?

I started my day with a dentist appointment.

The dentist recommends that I have two root canals done as soon as possible and lay off the Sensidine I have been mainlining for weeks. Her advice in terms of surviving the procedure was not to discuss it with anyone. Seriously. She completely recommended a cone of silence be lowered on all discussions of....shhhhhhhhh........ROOT CANAL.

We shall speak no more of it. Apparently you will share something with me that will make the procedure that much more difficult--something along the lines of abject fear and pain.

She also said I needed to rinse my gums in warm salt water for the next couple of days--hence the big plate of crinkle cut fries and hot tea that I have before me.

Later I went to Jesse's Parent Teacher Conference where I was crushed to find my son was performing solidly and consistently at his expected age and grade level. Because we all hold out hope that standard and mundane measures of intelligence will still capture what we know is our child's complete and utter brilliance. Come on: this child adds boogers to his figure drawings--is that not advanced attention to detail? And he has worked out how to spell seven different profanities and enjoys rhyming the word "fart" -- where is the credit?

Then I ran home to sew patches on Jesse's karate Gee (which is the karate outfit and is pronounced with a hard G) which recently accidentally got dyed pink in a washload that had some red items thrown in. Not that having a pink Gee in Chelsea is such a bad thing--you just have to make sure that certain belts don't clash later on. (Thanks Mark) Thinking that sewing the patches on the Gee would be a process that would take 15-20 minutes, imagine my surprise when I found that the hotel sewing kit I had chosen to use was without a prethreaded needle. Which leads me to the next blog post...

UPDATE: Kip sent a single text message from today's karate class. It appears that I have sewn the patches on UPSIDE DOWN.

Sew What?

Lots of people have unusual collections. One of my best friends at Stamford High School, Richard Burns, got a job post college at an exclusive tanning salon in Hollywood, and was on Letterman with his collection of carefully folded paper towels preserved in plastic sandwich bags. He would wipe the sweat off of the tanning bed after a celebrity had used it, preserve it and then label it. His collection was quite impressive and even included Sylvester Stallone's sweat. This is the boy I went to Homecoming with.

My own collection is of hotel sewing kits. I have always had a fascination for these little compact gems--the prethreaded needles, the single white button, and small but utilitarian safety pin. One of the many perks of marrying Kip Veasey was that my Mother in Law, Nonnee, has helped me amass a serious collection of EPIC PROPORTION. I have hotel sewing kits from literally all over the world. I've got hotel sewing kits from China-Greece-you name it. I won't know where it is on a map, but By God, I know what color threads is preferred.

Just an aside here, in case you were wondering: Kip has a secret collection of deli napkins. I find piles of them in the odd times I am alone in his office and go rooting through his desk. Last year while he was away in the Orient, I discarded approximately 426 that he had shoved in various places.

But back to the sewing kits because the reason for this blog is to alert you to an alarming trend. In an effort to cut costs, it appears that more and more, hotel sewing kits are ceasing to contain prethreaded needles with a variety of thread colors. I KNOW! IT BLEW MY MIND TOO! It seems that the powers that be have decided to opt for about six thread options--you got your white, black, brown, blue, green and pink....but only one needle. YOU MUST THREAD YOUR OWN NEEDLE. It's an outrage really--because these are EMERGENCY sewing kits after all--and in my mind it's kind of like requiring that someone crank up their own juice on a defibulator. When you have a sewing emergency in a foreign country, you are counting on that needle being prethreaded.

Must log off and write congressman.

pics from the party

Kip and I. He channeled his inner "King" I went for "Aging Diva"

pics from the party

Here are the lads. Anarchy tshirts designed by Ed.

Pics from the party

I think Sophie looks really great when she tarts it up. Plus-isn't everything from the 80s TOTALLY back in style now anyway?

pics from the party

One of the people in this picture is PTA President. Can you guess which?

pictures from Jesse's birthday party

Jesse and Annie both with green hair. Jesse's washed out-Annie's did not.

Jesse & Julian's Birthday Bash

Jesse and Julian shared their birthday bash this weekend. It was great because Julian's mom did all the hard stuff-especially making EIGHTY cupcakes. Silly Billy performed. A good time was had by all.

I Have Dyed My Poor Child's Hair Green

A day later, I do see that warning on the spray can, ok?

Little Annie now has green hair thanks to a can of green hair spray dye we employed this weekend for Jesse's birthday party. Apparently it can stain the hair of lighter blondes and isn't recommended.

I comfort my self that both children refer to it as "chartreuse."

Coke or Pepsi? A conversation with Peedles

Peedles: Thats always what people think they should ask you to find out the real you..
how about something really important....something that really matters in the world and defines the sort of person you really are....like tight pants on baseball players like they use to wear (which gave us yet another reason to look forward to spring) or that loose crap that they wear now (that should be reserved only for
former Olympic German women shotputters...and I mean no disrespect for Helga and her posse)? Thats the sorta thing that defines me...

Lorrie: I'm with you P. -love to cut through the bullshit and boil people down to their essence: what are you-chicken or beef? But I like a more subtle question. Like these:
Darfur or Survivor Fiji?
Global Warming or celebrities that shave their heads?
Who would you rather sleep with: young George Clooney or older George Clooney?
General Tsaos Chicken or Chicken with Peanuts?

P: just so we''re clear the options do NOT include a meanage a trois with both old and young George Clooney -- preferably while they are both wearing tight baseball pants?

Lorrie: Hmm. Now there's a thought: I can see young George Clooney now, with his Facts of Life hair in yellow rainboots (must be some odd episode that is stuck in my mind) and Older George Clooney in ER in that episode where he rescues the boy from the sewer flood (my gawd--he is wet yet again) and then an ever OLDER George Clooney who is talking about Darfur. Ok-scratch the last George.

But seriously Peedles, you need to get out there and date more. If it's men in uniforms that do it for you, might I suggest you come visit me in NYC where men in uniform abound? We've got doormen, mailmen, policemen, firemen...the DHL men wear a striking combination of red and yellow and are so masculine they switch to the shorts version around this time of year.

Also: my brother is coming to town MARCH 30. That would be my TWIN brother. Need I say more?

P: Date more? Is that possible? We have those same guys in uniform here and they all have southern accents! Here in the south even our firemen wear shorts. I just thought of something though...maybe thats what the original question meant: Coke GUY or Pepsi GUY? Hey LV....can your brother please bring me a soda?

Pink Puffy Coat

So just last week I was about to retire my pink puffy coat which is arguably one of the uglier winter coats I have ever owned--being a baby shade of pink and very puffy. (Kip will disagree. He thinks the turquoise coat from the winter of 05 with the faux dog fur collar is the ugliest, hands down.)

I purchased the pink puffy coat because Annie spent this winter in a pink puffy coat, and we had tons of fun putting our coats on together and saying: "Power Up Puffy Girls" and combining ballet moves with Power Ranger kicks. I have also cut my hair to match Annie's hair--so maybe there is a deeper regressive problem there that can be explored in another blog- but for now let's just say that Annie and I walk proudly down the dirty streets of New York and are a VISION IN PINK.

I purchase all my clothes for three reasons: comfort, warmth and irony.And if they hide my ass, well that's just an added bonus.

Anyhow-I was about to retire this coat but now it looks like it will be around for another 2-3 weeks. Damn this weather. Why can't global warming just get us all to a nice temperate 70 degrees stopping point and THEN I will heat my house with solar.

Who is Peedles?

Peedles is my friend. She lives in Virginia--not to be confused with Vagina-which is Annie's new favorite word-- she runs through the house yelling "Vagina Power, Vagina Power!"--but back to Peedles--who btw also has some Vagina Power; she actually may live in Virginia Beach, but since my knowledge of geography is based on a RISK gameboard and all I know is Australia is purple... OK I DON'T REALLY KNOW WHERE THE FREEK SHE LIVES, ok? But we have been friends lo these many years.

And one can never have too many friends because who else is going to read your blog? And maybe comment--speaking of which: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE I AM WORKING REALLY HARD HERE TO HALF WAY ENTERTAIN YOU.

But I digress yet again.

Peedle's real name is Patti. But trust me, she is really much more of a Peedles than a Patti. "Patti" conjurs up images of someone perky who plays Women's Lacrosse. Not that Peedles could not kick some serious ass if you put her out in a field with a big stick. It's just she's more the type that lures you under the bleachers because she stole a pint of peppermint schnapps from her parent's liquor cabinet and later makes out with the captain of the rugby team while you lay passed out in a pool of your own vomit near by. Peedles is all about fun.

One of her many skills-and trust me, she has plenty--is her ability to finish any song lyric you put out there-with an emphasis on the 80s. Her ability to blame it on the rain, rain, rain along with razor sharp wit (you need a bandaid when you get an email) is one of the many reasons I love her. And I must love her, because when we went away to Deb's for the weekend and I hadn't slept in a gazillion years because I'd just had a baby, and there was only ONE proper bed on the porch-which btw I had CLAIMED in the first half hour of arriving for the weekend-- and she passed out on it-I half slept in a freeking CANED BACK chair so she wouldn't have to move.

Anyway--because she is hysterical, I have invited her to share my blog. Because if you are stuck alone out in cyberspace, there is no one else you would rather have pull up in a virtual cab and holler "We're going to Vegas" than this mudchick. So without further adoooooooooo.............