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

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

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO MAKE A LIVING AT DESIGN

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

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

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

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

The Short End of the Stick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Daddys Not Home

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

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

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

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

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

Freedom's Just Another Word....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Great MuD August Giveaway!

Lest this turn into JUST an Alcoholic Mommy blog, I thought I would share some of my recent work for OUR NAME IS MUD with you all and give you a chance to win FABULOUS PRIZES. Because I. Heart. Comments. Just last night I think I whispered into Sexyhusbandomine's ear to "fill in the word verification,baby"

Anyhoo- here are some wine bags I designed that will be available in October. There are a whole series of them-but these would be my favorites to bring to a party...if I ever actually made it to a party with a full bottle left.

Here is an homage to Father Time for your desk. It's also part of a snarky clock series that will be available in October. Can't your home use more snark?


These are some of my mouse pads, reflecting my respect for my better half, hatred of technology, and fantastic work ethic. I await my Employee of the Mouth award.


And now: THE CONTEST! (insert confetti graphic here-because I certainly have no idea how to do that) The winner of this contest will receive this watch from my brand new series of snarky wearable timepieces. The band is GENUINE LEATHER but the materials around the face may vary slightly and be rather swatch-ish. I know it's no Wii fit, but it's the best I can do.


In the comment field below, finish this sentence:
IF I MADE A MOUSE PAD, IT WOULD SAY____________________________________________

Winner will be picked by random (numbers out of a hat) on Wednesday August 6th. ALL BLOGGERS who put a link on their blog to this contest and send it to me will receive an Our NaMe Is MuD mug of their choice from our website at www.ournameismud.com.

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Dead Fish

There are several phrases a Mompreneur dreads hearing when she walks in the door at the end of the day. Among them are: "I threw up three times today and have a weird rash on my butt" and "Remember that (insert any precious or dangerous object here) you told us Never To Touch?"

Last night, Bananna greeted me with "Mommy-there is something WRONG WITH MY FISH."

I stood in front of the plastic aquarium shaped like Sponge Bob's pineapple abode and peered through the brackish water at the lifeless form of our Japanese Fighting Fish. And Man, are those fish aptly named! You can go WEEKS without feeding them or changing their water. Erm...except when you can't. And then you end up with a four year old looking up at you with big blue eyes and asking "Is he SLEEPING Mommy? Is he just taking a long nap?"

For a brief instant I considered saying "YES-YES! Japanese fighting fish HIBERNATE in the Summer." Which would have bought some time to scoot down to PetCo and continue to perpetuate the myth that LIFE IS ALWAYS WONDERFUL. And those of you who know me can attest to the fact that I RARELY miss an opportunity to blatantly lie to my own children. Complicatedboy still believes Bambi's mother returns in Part Two.

But instead I said something to the effect of "That sucker is deader than a doorknob." And then I held her while she cried for what felt like THE NEXT THREE HOURS. And the whole time I'm doing the "mommy rub" (slow circles on the back accompanied by the words "shhh shhhh" ) I am thinking about how this is going to be such a great opportunity to talk about DEATH and I tell her "We're going to plan a GREAT FUNERAL for your fish." I can picture it clearly: Complicatedboy will deliver a beautiful eulogy, Bananna will cast flower petals into the water, we'll bow our heads as we finally flush and then we will go have a wake--WITH WINE. LOTS OF WINE. And I whisper in her ears how the fish will have this fantastic send off and then go on to swim happily in Heaven with Grandma and Chirpie, and gradually the pauses lengthen between sobs and I can see that she is clearly beginning to consider what an appropriate outfit would be for such an auspicious occasion...maybe even A PARTY DRESS?

And I take her wee hand in mine and we walk towards the bathroom together and I call over my shoulder to Sexyhusbandomine to bring forth the deceased that we might commence ceremonies--which is when Sexyhusbandomine sheepishly held up the empty aquarium and I realized the opportunity had passed.

And O my--the CRYING. The SOBBING. The HYSTERICAL CARRYING ON. And that was just me-you should have seen Bananna.

So Complicatedboy chimes in and suggests we write a letter to God. Apparently, while sitting on the end of his bed one night for HOURS waiting for him to fall asleep as he obsessed about his death, my death, the death of anyone he loved, the death of people he didn't know, and wether or not IRON MAN was a TRUE STORY.....I may have told him that he could write his feelings down as Letters to People in Heaven. I can't remember why I said this--although I'm sure it made sense at the time, and maybe I was trying to get him to do it for his homework project knowing it would freak the heck out of his teacher-but Complicatedboy thinks that I have told him that he can write a letter to God the same way he writes a letter to Santa each Christmas.... and he ran for pencil and paper:

DER GOD
HI THIS IS ME RITING THIS CULD YOU PLEASE
BRING THE FISH BAK FOR MY SISTER

He placed it reverently in the middle of the living room rug after asking Bananna and I to join him in a circle with our heads bowed.

And CAN YOU BELIEVE IT............while Bananna and Complicatedboy took their bath a LETTER FROM THE FISH ARRIVED. Apparently, in addition to being able to breathe their own poop for weeks at a time, these remarkable creatures can send messages to children after they have passed on. In bubble lettering it said:

I CAN'T COME BACK
I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU
NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO ASK YOUR DAD ABOUT GETTING THAT KITTEN

We're Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack

Sexyhusbandomine and I do not refer to our time away as "Vacation." Instead, we like to call it what it really is: TRAVELING WITH OUR CHILDREN. Exhausting, Mind Numbing, Suck the Lifeblood Out of You Traveling With Our Children. I kissed my desk at work this morning--with tongue.

I'm not 100% sure which was worse: the eight hour delay that had us sitting in the Grand Rapids airport from 4:00 in the afternoon until heading to a hotel with The Exhausted Spawn after midnight-or the hour long Hannah Montanna concert Thebananna made me watch with her last night--both events being recollections I hope will be erased like the memory of childbirth.

Thank you to my guest bloggers: BJ-who for shizzle should get herself a blog, The Recovering Lethargic (www.therecoveringlethargic.blogspot.com) only 8 weeks into this whole blogging thing and already waxing poetic about writer's block, and my girl Miss Thystle (www.missthystle.com) who I seriously think is one of the best bloggers typing today. I just checked Google analytics and readership is UP in Texas and Utah--I do hope The Cowgirls and The Mormons can be friends.

Guest Blog #3

This post is brought to you by Miss Thystle at www.Missthystle.com

When Lorrie asked me to guest blog, I was like SCORE! More people who will go to bed at night wishing they had never logged on to the Internet! But then, I started to freak out, because HELLO, the people that read my blog should KNOW BETTER by now where as you, Lorrie's readers, are unsuspecting victims.
 
Frankly, the stress of having to come up with a blog that doesn't liberally employ the some of the languages more colorful and less printable turns of phrase drove me to drink. (Actually, that's not all together true. I was drinking anyway. Because that's just how Irish Girls roll.)
 
 I finally decided that the only fair thing to do would be to tell you poor unsuspecting readers about the time I gave a pair of innocent young men an equally unpleasant surprise. Misery loves company and all that.
 
About a week ago I bought a Pilate's DVD at Costco. I read the box about how it was for people who had never done it before, it was easy, low impact, required no additional equipment, and best of all it was FUN! Look at how perky the she looks!


See? All bendy and slender and whatever. But all that perkiness belies her EVIL core.

Oh sure, she starts you out all easy with some stretches and stuff




But then, just when you're starting to think, "Hey! I CAN do this! And it's not even that bad!" she starts to get more sadistic.


But, still you're all, "Maybe if the dog were not trying to get in my lap and lick my face while I was doing this, it wouldn't be that bad!" so then you pause the DVD and let the dogs out and do your centering breathing from your ready position and then start the DVD again and wouldn't you know it, in those two minutes that vicious acrobat uncurled her pointy tail and she's all "OKAY! That's great! If you're ready, let's move onto the mat work!" in that chipper voice with it's pleasant accent and you're laying there listening to the dog licking the window and thinking "WTF? I thought we WERE doing mat work!"

But you are thinking wrong. Very, horribly wrong. Because that stuff you just did? That you are kind of light headed from all the deep breathing and centering and shit? THAT was the warm up! The mat work, which has been banned by the Geneva Convention, is yet to come! She expects you to do this

and if that wasn't bad enough, just when you've used the TV credenza to push your knees up over your boobs, a problem that the human pretzel apparently does not suffer from, she uncurls her rubber self and in a calm voice tells you to return to your ready position because guess what? THERE IS MORE.


ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME? She can not seriously expect average humans to do this!
 
 OH BUT SHE DOES! Okay, so there you are using the couch for leverage trying to launch your ass up and over your shoulders and the wee wicked bitch calmly informs you that now you should slowly lower yourself back to ready and then DO IT AGAIN.
 
So now there you are, giggling and grunting and trying to launch yourself into unnatural and wholly improbable positions when what do you know, the Mormon Missionaries approach your screen door and gazing inside mistake you for being in distress and call out "Ma'am? Are you okay?"
 
 Which of course, you are not. Clearly you are mentally unwell and for just a moment, frozen mid-fling looking like a hippo having a seizure you consider yelling for the jaws of life, but instead calmly roll back down to Earth as if all of this were COMPLETELY NORMAL and tell the door to door Jesus sellers that you are in fact fine, just doing a little exercise! Because the body is the Gods temple! And wouldn't they rather come back another time?

Then you firmly close and lock the opaque front door and remind yourself that it all could have been so much worse; you could have bought the Naked Yoga video instead.

Guest Post

THis post is brought to you by the brilliant mind behind www.therecoveringlethargic.blogspot.com

When Lorrie invited me to guest post on her blog I was ecstatic at the opportunity as well as honored and humbled. Then I did something a blogger should never do. I made a joke about writers block. Immediately at that second every bit of humor, insight and writing ability left my body. I've been trying for days to dredge up something of value to post about.

Nothing.....

Notta.......

Zip......

Zilch.......

I read on a blog about writing a few months ago that a cure for writers block is to just sit and type whatever comes to mind. Don't edit. Don't stop. And for heavens sake don't worry about the topic. Just let the thoughts spill out of your head and onto the keyboard, I don't think the results are meant for the consumption of others, but I'm in a giving mood today. So here goes.

As I sit here typing I am thinking about how odd it is for someone I have never met in person and who lives on an entirely different side our nation to ask me to guest post on her blog. She also asked me to add some testosterone the the mommy blogging crowd. Grunting and using clubs and trying to invent fire isn't really my thing. I'm more about sarcasm and dry humor, and Lethargy, and Gluttony, and Jealousy. I'm also about procrastination. Did you know that if you procrastinate long enough, someone else will eventually do the task? It's a wonderful thing to know that others have the ability to step in and get things done. It's their curse, not mine. I'm also into sleeping. And eating. Especially eating. I'm a Libra and enjoy reading. Last year I set the horrid goal to read a book about every President of the United States (POTUS, for short). So far I've read 1 1/2 books. Before reading them I was pretty sure that politicians were all about the power. Now I am also pretty sure they are about the greed and avarice as well. And just so you know the books have been about Abe Lincoln, who by the way was not about the power or greed but more about wanting to be remembered, and James A Garfield. I'm not sure I want to read about our more recent leaders.

And have I mentioned Dr. Pepper? I think I have. I'm also into Oreo's (double stuff) and Milk. And good donuts. MMMMHHHH Donuts.

So now that I have rambled on and bored you all entirely, I should probably apologize to Lorrie for ruining her blog and scaring away all her loyal readers.

Sorry Lorrie, I promise not to make any more jokes about writers block.

TRL

Guest Blog

How excited I am to be a guest on Lorries Blog, since I have just butted my way into her life whether she wanted to LOVE ME or not! This could be the equivalent of Ed McMahon ringing my doorbell !


I found her accidentally and am a total fan and share her weekend wine wisdom with my friends here in Dallas, the Original Chicks ("HEY to the girlz"). I don't really know where Lorries fans are located, but I'm sure she is INTERNATIONAL by now (since receiving the Arte Y Pico De Gallo award~!) BUT why I am saying that is the usual perception of people in Texas is that we all are rednecks, have big hair, and drive pickups. Well, we do not ALL drive pickups. Unless we need to bring something really BIG home. Like a longhorn steer to put in the back yard...........you know, for the kids to play with. Then for a barbeque before they get too attached.


This blog disease I've contracted actually started over dinner one night with the Chicks when someone brought the subject up of actually making $$$ doing this! We laughed and said we should start a blog, so since I do everything I'm told, I now ramble and write to them with no apparent direction or particular subject. Trouble is, I'm computer challenged so it shows up to them as an email, and I told them I like it that way because I'm like the weird estranged brother in law that just shows up in your inbox. Don't act like you are not at home. I can hear the TV.....


I have THREE dogs, which I call the sled team, and my dog blog is Tales from the House of Tail. The Scottie, Abner, is the smallest and self appointed security. He is 22 pounds of Bad to the Bone, as in, the meter reader fears him, and I like it that way. Bella, a Lab mix that looks like a dingo, was obtained in a parking lot under a free puppy sign, and bless her heart, she is challenged. I seem to hear the Rolling Stones singing 'get a girl with far away eyes' when I look at her. And the latest addition is a full blood Basset named Owen, who truly wandered into my life and we rescued each other. He has a secret to tell me but I haven't decoded it yet. So I just get those soulful eyes in the mean time. Last but not least, we live in a house the size of an AMC Pacer, so we are CLOSE, as in tripping over each other. I'm thinking about drinking my Chardonnay from a sippy cup soon.


I own and feed Attachedatthehiponlychild. She is a dream come true, and even though she thinks my ATM card is part of my arm, she is worth every penny. She is truly a Chick in Training~ the shopping/spending DNA has pretty good taste, so I'm hoping to be fortunate and not fight the weird hair, piercings, or boyfriends named Skater Boy. I know I am just twisted enough that I will be able to run off Skater Boy with ease, precision and probably alot of pleasure, and then place her in my own version of the witness protection program. I am that "Muther."


I love all types of music, and told Lorrie my rating system for a good song on the radio is whether or not it makes me want to open my sunroof. Lately, that is also a choice whether or not you want to melt your mascara because we are pretty much hovering around 100 degrees everyday in Dallas. August is even hotter, so if you are now saying "yall are crazy to live there", I'm running around in shorts in February while other far away lands are shoveling that white frozen shit that makes us crash into each other down here. Snow and Texas do not go together in so many ways.........Our kids make great DIRT ANGELS though, and that can be a year round sport!
(That sounds pretty redneck doesn't it? OK, go ahead and plug in the bug zapper. )


This was fun and I now will be forced to get my first tatoo to mark the occasion. I'll probably sign off and then think, oh I wish I'd said this or I wish I'd said that but maybe I'll be back to write again. If not, I'll just show up, and don't act like you aren't home. I see some lights on in there............


Cheers,
Bj in Dallas

And We're Offfffffff (again)

The house is in chaos, The Spawn is whining and Sexyhusbandomine is asking where things are...it's obvious it is just moments until we leave for the airport. While I am away--technology willing--I have lined up a few of my favorite bloggers to step in and fill my shoes ( though sweaty and smelly they may be.)

O geeps, Bananna needs Dramamine......

See you next week!

My Image

This is...erm...Ashley or Madison or Tiffany (I forget as I was, as usual, drunk when I met her) the MODEL that the Powers That Be at my New Company hired to "REPRESENT" Mud at the Atlanta Gift Show. Once I met her at the welcoming cocktail party I basically just handed over my nametag, and concentrated on hiding glasses of white wine within the booth display (last year they ran out.) I am totally digging that my new image is this twenty something skinny bitch ( and I mean that in the most professional and complimentary way possible) instead of the frumpy forty something who hasn't had a haircut in almost a year that I was forced to live with in the past. I am sure at some point we will also be moving on up to the East Side.

And in a related story...

Last night, in that grey area that occurs after the TV has been shut off and The Spawn is told for the fifteenth time to GO BRUSH YOUR TEETH, I caught Sexyhusbandomine, Complicatedboy and Thebananna huddled around his computer screen WATCHING VIDEOS OF THE EAGLES' CHEERLEADERS. And while I believe the cheerleaders were speaking intelligently about their desire to save the planet from global warming, their love of puppies and kittens and long walks on the beach, or that McNabb fellow (blah blah blah go Eagles), all of them were Wearing Bikinis. And had their hair blowing.

"You need to look like THAT Mom" said Complicatedboy, playfully slapping my wine gut. Which almost hits him in the eye on the rebound..how's that for karma?

"Oh, Mommy looks better than that, kids" says Sexyhusbandomine, in a vain attempt at damage control. (At which point I shoot him The Look which says: "Nice try, Sexyhusbandomine. I'll consider sex with you again once the memory of this incident wears off...let's say.....September?")

At the same time, I realize that I may be witnessing the birth of Thebananna's adolescent body image struggle--and while she's only 4 now, in ten years I could find her weeping over skeleton girl images in Seventeen and secretly popping Dexitrim. Then I flash back to an article I recently read about a Hollywood starlet who used to EAT KLEENEX in an effort to stay skinny and the image of Little Bananna trying to choke down a Puffs brings tears to my eyes and I say:

"We all know that what's on the INSIDE is what matters, right?" Silence. I get the Spawn's collective attention and go on to say:

"Which would you rather have? A skinny mom in a bikini who spends all her time blow drying her hair and doing pilates or a fat mommy who is fun and creative and buys cookies?" And TOGETHER THEY SAID....

"YOU!"

Hotlanta Hotel Post 1 of duex

It looked like a nice hotel room. There was the usual pile of useless pillows that one moves from the bed to the floor to the bed to the floor, the $5.00 bottles of water, and Gideon's Bible in the side table. But I was shocked by THIS in the salle de bain.

The purpose of a magnifying mirror that enlarges your flaws 100 times is obviously to make you run screaming for the mini bar. Which I did--in order to drown the sorrow at not having either a Biore Pore Strip, a pair of tweezers, or an upcoming appointment for a Botox/Resatlyn combo.

Ah...but that was nothing compared to.......

AND THIS!

<< Insert music from PSYCHO here >>

Yes--that is exactly what you think it is. A MATH PROBLEM IN MY SHOWER.

Obviously placed there by the sadistic hotel decorating staff so that when I was done lamenting the loss of my youth I could realize my brain had also taken a powder. Apparently I have taken a detour to Hell and this is the typical restroom there. The only thing missing would be a Glade Puff Air Freshener shooting gardenia into the air every 5 seconds.

For those of you who still have brain cells that you didn't kill off in college--here is the problem:

If a truck is 100 feet long and is going 100 feet per minute and has to cross a bridge 100 feet in length...how long will it take to cross the bridge?

First person to answer correctly wins an original SMARTY PANTS mug.

Home Again Home Again Jiggety Jizz

I arrived home from Hotlanta late this afternoon. I will write more about my fabulous trip next week as well as slander and besmirch the fine reputation I know Delta Airlines has.

In addition to the hugs and joyous cries of "Mommy! You're Home! WHAT DID YOU BRING US?!?" I got "a report."

Let me just digress for a minute and say that that if anyone has a few million to invest ( an I know at least ONE of you who actually does) then a fine business concept would be a franchise of airport stores named something like "YOU CAN'T GO HOME EMPTY HANDED" or " GIFTS THAT ALLEVIATE GUILT." Because in the three hours that Delta delayed my flight home it amazed me that even as I shuttled from terminal to terminal all I was able to find was a cheap ass snowglobe and an Atlanta Braves baseball which Sexyhusbandomine is going to call blasphemous and probably throw into the trash while giving me the "We are Phillies Fans" lecture; which goes basically "Blah blah Phillies blah blah Eagles blah blah Dominic McNabb blah blah."

But back to the "report." Our Nanny, Shewhocannotlearnenglish, gestured in the usual sign language we use to communicate and pulled me into The Bananna's room. The solemn look on her face and her grave manner had me afraid that maybe the spawn had been SO AWFUL that she was giving notice. AND THEN I MIGHT HAVE TO WATCH MY OWN CHILDREN so you can imagine the horror.

But it turns out that it was not Complicatedboy or Bananna who had been in the doghouse whilst I was away. Ironically, it was Lenny the Hypercat.

In broken English and using descriptive hand gestures she explained that she had caught Lenny ON NUMEROUS OCCASIONS having sex with the stuffed animals that cover Bananna's bed. Apparently, Crocky the Crocodile had been grossly abused, along with Bunny the Bunny and Horsey the Pony. Fans of this blog will remember that my office chair used to suffer the same indignities when Lenny was at work with me. Maybe we should have sent him away to one of those Christian camps before we brought him home.

What perplexes me further is that I have a dim memory of having something essential to this act snipped when Lenny was a kitten- although- come to think of it- that action hasn't made Sexyhusbandomine a bigger fan of "Just a Backrub" either.

Shewhocannotlearnenglish washed all the victims and placed them high up on shelves that Lenny cannot possibly access. She stood there, arms crossed indignantly across her chest after pointing with disdain at Lenny who lay, smoking an invisible cigarette, across Bananna's bedspread. She waited to see what I would do.

If you think Sophie had a hard choice; try going through a shoe bag full of beanie babies searching for a sacrificial lamb. Except it wasn't a lamb. Lenny's designated girlfriend is a Webkinz Elephant. They make a great couple.

I'll leave Tweety Bird on My Left Butt Cheek

Last image of me getting ready to go to Atlanta to meet and greet, dine with the big whigs and basically bang my gong and sell my candies:

Last night I covered my self in temporary tatoos. Not just any temporary tattoos; but OUR NAME IS MUD tattoos we had specially made back in the day where we thought we were ALL THAT. The tattoos are black and have our logo and a handprint and I put them various places on my body for a hoot while I tried on 57 outfits looking for one that would make my butt look smaller.

I was under the impression that baby oil would remove these suckers fairly easily but apparently our temporary tats are of the INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH variety.

The problem with scrubbing myself raw with the cosmetic version of steel wool called BUFF PUFF, was that I had applied the tats over my new spray tan..which I got because it actually does help make your butt look smaller.

So if you come by Atlanta's Gift Mart today or tomorrow, I will be female Michael Jackson impersonator. So purdy.

I'd Like To Thank...

GUESS WHAT?!? I won the lottery in Nigeria AND a blogging award all in the same week!

First, about this incredible honor: It is THE ARTE Y PICO BLOG AWARD. This award was created to be given to bloggers who inspire others with their creativity, and for contributing to the blogging world in whatever medium. Very few people are ever given this award. In fact research shows that ONLY SIXTY FIVE THOUSAND of these Arte Y Pico awards have been bestowed; so please don't infer that this is a chain letter in sheep's clothing. Each award links back to the original site: The Arte Y Pico Blog, which is entirely in Spanish but I am sure is an absolute honor to be associated with, since there were no pornographic pictures that I could see. In addition there are RULES associated with winning this award which I am required to post here or there may be an accident or some other great misfortune--but not in a chain mailey kind of way, I'm just sayin. You would have to get up PRETTY EARLY to fool a gal like me.

First, I need to acknowledge the kind Bloggess who bestowed this award upon me. A Ginormous Thank You to Mrs. B. Roth whose musings can be found at http://mrsbroth.blogspot.com. Mrs. B. is a new reader who is fond of purple. You are welcome here anytime Mrs. B. although I realize you will probably not join us for cocktails as you are breastfeeding. That's ok. More for me...

Next, I need to do my bit by increasing the number of awards given to SIXTY FIVE THOUSAND AND FIVE by passing it on to five blogs of note. May I have the envelope please.........

(BTW: I had WAY more than 5 blogs to give awards to-but technospazz that I am could not figure out some of your blog addresses from the comments you leave on my blog. Please spell it out going forward. Like I said, I may be coming into some money...)

www.therecoveringlethargic.blogspot.com This blog is so much better than my crappy blog.
www.missthystle.com Funny and Classy with a capital K.
www.rocketwife.com in an effort to atone for calling her tween sister a douchebag.
www.myliberalguilt.blogspot.com Who knew funny and smart were like peanut butter and chocolate?
www.creativenachos.com For Tasha, my most loyal reader who loves rainbows and sunshine

I don't think Dooce needs this particular award. Something about the fact that her WII fit giveaway garnered TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND PLUS comments leads me to believe that she's a bit beyond arte y pico.

So, thank you to all the little people and the big hipped people and the people who are related to me and the people who married me for reading my occassionally drunken ramblings. I SHLOVE YOUSH GUYS SHO MUCH.

Here are the rules for the award recipients:
Here are the Arte Y Pico Award rules :
1. You have to pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award through creativity, design, interesting material, and also contributes to the blogger community, no matter of language.
2. Each award should have the name of the author with a link to their blog.
3. Award winners have to post the award with the name and link to the blog of the person who gave them the award.
4. Please include a link to the “Arte Y Pico” blog so that everyone will know where the award came from.

Lost City of Atlanta

Hello cyberspace-it's great to be back! Took a week off to vacation at the beach with the spawn and Sexyhusbandomine. Did my best impression of Responsible Mom and utilized "Supermom Tools" like MATH FLASHCARDS and the word "NO" while spending Actual Time with Complicatedboy and Thebananna. For once, I did not feel like innocent bystanders were placing emergency calls to Supernanny whenever they found themselves in our proximity.

We even let them do sparklers, and nobody lost a finger or an eye.

Anyhow-this week Sexyhusbandomine will be in Atlanta at the Enesco Showroom. He'll be appearing Monday-Wednesday. I will personally be flying in to sign something on Thursday Night--usually I just write "suck it" on some shard of pottery but my new bosses may have different ideas...so we'll see. Please stop by and see us.

Scenes From My A Fair

Yesterday we went to the New Jersey State Fair. Ok, actually--we drove out to TARGET, and then just did the Fair as an afterthought. They say New York has everything--but a Real New Yorker knows if you want EVERYTHING you have to hit this shopping mecca on Route 3 in Joisey.

We are TARGET's ideal shoppers because we fool ourselves into thinking that just because it is in a Big Mega Store, that everything is super cheap. We're always shocked when we get to the check out--WHAT DO YOU MEAN THIS ENTIRE CART FULL OF THINGS WE DON'T REALLY NEED IS HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS? WHAT KIND OF SUPER STORE ARE YOU ANYWAY?!? Remorse....Shame....Guilt....-the cycle begins, and can only be stopped with ice cream.

We hit The Fair with the few dollars we had left. We had steeled ourselves for Sunday crowds and were pleasantly surprised to find the parking lot almost empty- turns out many people actually listen to/watch weather reports. Not THE VEASEYS. we see a looming storm on the horizon and we just flash back to the cheesy video we watched of The Secret and imagine those clouds blowing right past. We visualize the heavens filled with light, and the entire Brady Clan singing "Sunshine Day."

The Fair is a really great place to buy expensive straw -filled stuffed animals under the guise of playing games of skill. And a place where all that is unholy about American Cuisine is gathered together; fried twinkies shoulder to shoulder with mystery meat on a kabab. It's where it's possible to gain ten pounds in an afternoon and then get your picture photo shopped onto a fake Sports Illustrated Bikini Issue magazine cover.

The kids had fun and rode a variety of rides--including a lap around a parking lot on the back of a camel; although we had suggested they hop on the elephant instead. As the sky grew darker, we had the brilliant idea to take shelter in the adjacent petting zoo tent. The petting zoo had an antelope, a blind kangaroo, fifty hungry and aggressive goats, a few lemurs, two donkeys, a cow, and a miniature pony. All housed behind minimal fencing so that you could pet them. We waited under the tent, safe and dry, as the heaven's opened up and the torrential downpour began.

Unfortunately, the elephant & camel ride and entire petting zoo tent were situated on the bottom of a sloped parking lot with no drainage. Ten minutes into the storm, the water began to rise. It was a mini tsunami under the tent--in fifteen minutes we were all standing ankle deep in hay- filled, brackish rainwater. Everything that had been in the pens with the animals now floated around our feet. We held Bananna up as the water swirled around us. Complicatedboy had a great time watching the water level rise and noting that the log- like objects which were floating past us appeared to be Elephant poo.

We had actually received a portend of these events earlier in the day, when Sexyhusbandomine realized that he had run his entire wallet through the washing machine on a double rinse cycle. Clearly that had been a sign--a warning from our Higher Power to stay home.

We stood knee-deep in what was pretty much a giant toilet bowl used by four legged creatures for approximately 45 minutes while Complicatedboy asked helpful questions like "When Is It Going To Stopppppp Mommmy?" and Sexyhusbandomine made helpful statements like "I wish we always traveled with Purell. You should always keep some Purell in your pocketbook. Purell would be good to have right about now." THEN the rain finally abated and the Fair Workers began pulling out pumps and Sexyhusbandomine commanded us all to jump in what he called "Clean Puddles" and I was like "Honey, this is JOISEY." The smell of wet goat clung to me the rest of the day.

This morning, Sexyhusbandomine said to me: "If you blog about the fair, make sure you write about how I Drowned the Clown." Because indeed, for $6 he threw ten baseballs at the offensive Bozo in a booth and did manage to knock him off his perch, after being called a Loser in front of Complicatedboy. And I am sure his shoulder will not require surgery.

A little dysentery is a small price to pay indeed for a day filled with such fun.

I Can't Quit You

I HEART my new readers & commentators. Of course, I realize that we are in the early stages of our relationship, and that at some point down the road I could discover that you are rude to waitstaff, enjoyed the movie English Patient, or don't clip your toenails.. and it could be SOOOO OVER, but for now let's just enjoy this moment that has me singing every song I ever heard on AM radio. You are smart, funny, and KNOW THE PERFECT THING TO SAY. You are like typed Crack Cocaine, and worth every damn penny I spent to get some time with you. Should I reply to your replies? Should I go another week? Can you move in permanently next month? I know that you will tell me the truth...except when I ask if this blog makes my butt look big, which is your cue to suggest we order in Chinese Food. Just so ya know.

Let me down easy---cause I'm thinking this could lead to LINKS. Ah, *sigh* Love....

Yesterday when I went to pick up Thebananna and Complicatedboy at school on our scenic New York City block, which includes two porn shops and a Men's bar by the name of SADDLESOAP ( where all those NYC Cowboys gather), the crossing guard called upon me to act in my former role of PTA President and address complaints that one of the porn shops on the block was showing porn on the TV in their window.

Sexyhusbandomine waited outside the porn shop with the two Fruits of our Loins while I went in to speak to the manager. And for the record, if you ever want to make people in a porn shop nervous, just walk through the joint asking loudly "You work here? Hey buddy-you in charge here?" Because it was like I channeled a character from Law & Order SUV.

The Manager seemed like a nice enough fellow. He moved the toothpick from one side of his mouth to another to indicate interest, as I told him that I was the former PRESIDENT OF THE PTA and that I had received complaints about porn movies playing in the front window at 8:30 a.m. as our children made their way to school. And then he took me by the arm and walked me outside of the shop to stand in front of the window beside him.

"You watch" he said. And from the corner of my eye I spied Complicatedboy beginning to freak on Sexyhusbandomine 1/2 down the block, and screaming: "What is he DOING TO MOMMMMMMY? What is that BAD MAN doing to Mommmmmmmy?" And sexyhusbandomine was all like "He's making her watch TV, ok?" But I could tell he was worried for me. And for the record--Sexyhusbandomine had originally insisted that HE go in to speak to the Porn Shop Manager, but I overruled him-which right there tells ya that I was the Gal For The Job. Because if anybody is going to put the Kibosh on the Sausage, Sexyhusbandomine knows it is me. I HAVE EXPERIENCE.

So I stood in front of the TV with the Porn Shop Manager and watched the scene on the window TV as a dark haired young man ordered pizza by phone... And then got bored waiting for the pizza to come, and so decided to pour olive oil all over the upper half of his chiseled torso... And so was glistening and well oiled when the blonde pizza boy finally did arrive...And they did not so much as embrace as kind of slip beside each other...at which point the film spooled and dark haired young man was hungry for pizza yet again...

At that, Porn Shop Manager asked me "You see any intercourse? You tell me if you see intercourse. YOU SHOW ME THE INTERCOURSE..." And while I was going to say that technically, the two actor's conversation about the pepperoni counted as such, I didn't want to spend all afternoon talking with Porn Shop Manager while my own spawn and better half waited. So I said:

"I see no intercourse. I have no problem with this video. In fact, young dark haired stallion with the olive oil on his chest is a visual treat. And I am sure olive oil is a great moisturizer. In fact, I am going to suggest Sexyhusbandomine deals with his occassional excema in this manner. HOWEVER...8:30 am is a little early for a pizza delivery, dontcha think? And while i promise you I will stop EVERY SINGLE MORNING and watch the video start to finish--I cannot promise every other parent walking by will stop to see what the content is...SO...I am thinking in order to avoid a pitch fork and lantern situation you might want to keep the TV off at arrival and dismissal times."

Porn Shop Manager paused for a moment and say "Lady, you talk a lot, huh? I feel for your husband."

And with that he returned to his position behind the counter and I went to join my family and declared VICTORY! And Complicatedboy wanted to know what the deal was and I explained that we only allow 2-3 hours of tv a day and he TOTALLY GOT IT.

Pompous and Circumstances

Today was Thebananna's graduation. It's been a crazy week-what with prom and all those keg parties-but I managed to pull it together--after all, you only graduate from Pre-Kindergarten once.

Thebananna wore sunshine yellow as the theme of Graduation was "Sunshine, Lollipops & Rainbows." (I had lobbied hard for Stairway to Heaven but the rest of the moms outvoted me.) Bananna has been counting the days for the past three weeks to this event-asking each night before bed HOW MANY DAYS IS IT UNTIL TOMORROW? And I was all like "THIS maybe the reason you did not pass that test for the Talented and Gifted Class my dear, let me introduce you to my friend The Calendar." Then we found out that they were actually singing THE SONG "Tomorrow." I await my Mother of the Year Trophy any minute now.

Bananna was dressed and ready to go half an hour before we needed to walk out the door. Complicatedboy ( who was scheduled to perform as an older sibling at the ceremony) changed outfits up until the very last minute--almost deciding to wear a nylon football jersey until I informed him that it would be totally see-through when he got in front of the bright lights. And since Complicatedboy firmly believes in Santa, The Toothfairy, and the existence of Paparazzi-he agreed to change.

Bananna, who thinks she lives in a Stephen Sondheim Musical, performed Here Comes The Sun, You are My Sunshine and Good Day Sunshine like a pro, although we can't figure out where she learned to stand on the stage with one hand on her hip and the other outstretched for money. Complicatedboy was very much himself--singing his solo in Sunrise,Sunset with vigor, then banging his fist repetitively against his forehead and in general, Acting Out-- but not enough where we could make some cash off of his behavior by sending it off to Americas Funniest Videos.

As the Graduates recessed to Walking on Sunshine, Complicatedboy broke ranks and ran to walk the aisle beside her. Because Gosh Forbid Bananna should have that attention all to Herself.

Another child might have been angry. Another child might have yelled, or tattled, or even pushed him away. But Bananna just smiled and reached for his hand. And when her eyes met mine as they walked past together; her walking slowly and seriously and him doing some goofy duck dance, I could read in them the promise that if he gew up and I allowed him to do this at her wedding, she would kill me.

Uno... Dooce....

First of all, I am not Heather B. Armstrong, and this is not her web site. If you are a fan of the GREATEST BLOG EVER WRITTEN BY A REFORMED MORMON ON PROSAC and have stumbled across my musings through the ad placed on www.dooce.com, I want to say "Welcome" and apologize for all this garish purple... and the complete lack of flicker photos... and the fact that I am a Cat Person. I am to Heather B. Armstrong what Britney Spears is to Audrey Hepburn.

Then I want to tell you to immediately LOWER YOUR EXPECTATIONS. Because under pressure I am about as funny as an Avocado. (See? Heather would have used something like Mango. Or CROUTON.) Frankly, I suggest to get Full Enjoyment of this blog that you do a shot EVERY TIME I TYPE IN CAPITALS.

And then, for gosh sakes, please COMMENT. Because Dooce readers are fearless about their responses, while MUD readers--such as my fellow PTA Executive Board Members-- traditionally just send me discreet private Emails that say things like "May I Respectfully Suggest that you Refrain from telling the Board of Education to SUCK IT."

Heather & I share a few similarities. We are both blonde--although I have to admit I question sometimes if her carpet matches her drapes. We have both had skin cancers removed. We both have big, dark haired lumbering husbands that fix things for us. (Jon fixes Heather's computer issues. Sexyhusbandomine fixes cocktails.)

But mostly we are a study in contrasts. She lives in a beautiful house where there are mountains and they complain about the cold all the time. I live in New York in a loft apartment that looks like someone smoked crack before hitting Ikea. Her child was born with a few special needs. I screwed mine up all by myself. She faithfully records each developmental milestone and writes beautiful tributes to her daughter every month. I may ocassionally blog about Complicatedboy or Thebananna but most of the time I am yelling at them to LOWER THE VOLUME ON THOSE G-DAMN BACKYARDIGANS FOR CRIPES SAKE MAMAS GOT A BLOG TO WRITE.

I once sent Heather B. Armstrong a mug I made. One side said DOOCE JUICE and the other said I AM HEATHER B. ARMSTRONG AND THIS IS MY MUG. Then I made myself a mug that said STOP BEING ALL CREEPY STALKERISH.

Anyway, if you found your way to me through her--again--WELCOME. If you are lucky, you can follow the breadcrumbs back.

BFFs FOREVER

The Reign of the Two Blondes ended officially last night as Boobs Mitchell and I stepped down from our respective positions as PTA Co-Presidents of our school.

BOOBS MITCHELL: You have got to stop calling me Boobs--I have no boobs.
ME: You will always be BOOBS to me.
BOOBS MITCHELL: Well I need an ironic name for you then...how about I start calling you SOBER?

And I was all like; Go Ahead, but that will only be ironic about 90% of the time.

Boobs is thinking about escaping from the rat race that is Manhattan and moving into the wild, unexplored territories of Brooklyn. Brooklyn is to New Yorkers what dryers are to socks. People go there and you NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN.

I am not a supporter of this plan; as Boobs now lives close enough that we can plunk our kids in front of a video, have an adult beverage (Boobs is a fan of Pabst), and I don't have to worry about her safety as she staggers home. I am thinking that her life plan of a move to Brooklyn is in serious conflict with my plan to consume copious amounts of Pinot Grigio. I am thinking about telling her prospective buyers that she and her husband practice Santeria Rituals on the weekends in their kitchen and that as new owners they would have to contend with some serious Voodoo Hoodoo.

I actually did this for a friend in real life during my Junior year in college. Her roommate had moved out, leaving her with a much coveted SINGLE and Student Housing kept sending prospective replacements. Prior to an interview, we used to stage Wiccan rituals in the center of the room and douse the place with patruli. She got to keep that single her whole Junior year and she was a lucky one with the boys, if you know what I mean.

New York is such a hard place to make real friends. There is a sense of the temporary at all times. You refrain from getting close because--who knows--tomorrow someone might decide to move to Greenwich so their kid can see what grass looks like without having to get on a subway and travel uptown. For this reason, We try to surround ourselves with people who have BOUGHT their Manhattan abodes. And not just because they often pick up the check. We're thinking-hey-you own a place, perhaps you're sticking around for a bit. So next thing you know you are opening up and forming bonds and it's just like a Lifetime TV movie except you never have an affair with each other's husbands.

But the bond Boobs and I have is unbreakable--forged by two years of experiences that have included heated discussions about REALLY REALLY REALLY IMPORTANT stuff: like our complicated children, our desires to be better mothers like the Mennonite Mom we know, how cute the gym teacher at our kid's school is (O My gosh he so is, and sometimes he comes to school in SOCCER SHORTS) , and how children could be traumatized if at the Holiday Fair there were TWO SANTAS instead of one. And she has taught me A LOT. Lessons like: "Don't Put It in Writing", "There Is Always a Chance They Won't Notice", and "Thou Shalt Not Volunteer." I weep at the thought of not kareoking with her again, or having her Notarize some forged document. We have plans to write books together--fabulous best sellers about our Great Adventures in the PTA or Funny Stories about People Dying.

So obviously, I must stop blogging now and get to the Green Market to try to find the live chicken I need for my plan.

Next She'll Get a Tramp Stamp

Dear Mommies Who Stuck Their Noses in The Air As I Walked Thebananna and Complicatedchild to School This Morning Looking Like This....

It's Crazy Hair Day--ok? Thus declareth Thebananna as "Principal For a Day" which she is today. She earned that title the old fashioned way--through her parent's cold, hard CASH at the last school auction. We figured it was good practice for a future Presidency. Nothing says "Work Ethic" like a little Nepotism.

Really, our goal for Thebananna is to just keep her off the pole. And make sure the piercings are in discreet places.

This Week in DALLAS

I get it, I get it. Even Worldsgreatestmotherinlaw Emailed to THANK ME for ending the 120 blogs in a row postings. I think if she could have figured out a way to enclose cash, she would have. The last time people were this effusive about me stopping something, I was singing the full length version of COUNTRY ROADS at karaoke night. It's a crying shame I never got to do my rendition of SUNSHINE ON MY SHOULDERS because I feel confident I could have brought the house down. Especially since I had choreographed my own interpretive dance to go with it.

So let's all just get in the proverbial shower together and realize it was...just a dream.

The "experiment" did show off the great sense of humor Sexyhusbandomine has. If you read back through the comments you'll see just how lucky I am to have a man who is the Wind Beneath My Wings-even if that wind is from last night's chili supper and even if he often blames that same wind on one of our children or the cats.

Perhaps you will be lucky enough to sit beside Sexyhusbandomine on a plane this week. If not--try to stop by and see him this week in the Enesco showroom. He'll be at The World Trade Center in Suite 409 at the Dallas Giftshow. We'll be launching our brand new OUR NAME IS MUD lines including Garden and Partyware. I'll be staying home with the chilluns. Barefoot in the kitchen as usual, practicing my rendition of MUSKRAT LOVE, sans the hand motions.

Meet The Lorries

Blog post 2 of 120 in a row.

I have decided that in addition to posting 120 blog posts in a row, that I will also seek out and meet 120 Lorries on the internet.

Starting with THIS.... the number one image result on GOGGLE. Sadly, in order to communicate with her I had to provide my credit card and proof that I am over 18 years of age.

Our Name IS Blog

I was listening to Matt & Meredith this morning and they did the lead in for A COUPLE WHO DECIDED TO HAVE SEX EVERY DAY FOR 120 DAYS IN A ROW. At which point I shut off the TV...in case Sexyhusbandomine was paying attention. I just hope Sexyhusbandomine realizes that it is A) The Kids B) the Job and 3) Because I am soooo tired from the Kids and the Job, which are the primary reason he is not participating in a similar experiment like: LET'S GIVE HUSBAND A FOOT RUB FOR 120 DAYS IN A ROW or LET'S GO TO BED AND FALL ASLEEP INSTEAD OF PASSING OUT DRUNK FOR 120 DAYS IN A ROW.

Instead- I have decided to BLOG FOR 120 DAYS IN A ROW. Yes- EVERYDAY. I am taking the proverbial newspaper into the proverbial can, and I am going to do my business.

BLOG 1:

Crap.

119 Blogs to go. Writer's Block already setting in. Can this end without me doing something desperate like creating a dream sequence that ends in a shower or eating my companions?

Or writing about........the weather?

Beastly hot. Two words to describe my agony: Thigh Chafe. More tomorrow.....

Banned From Book Club.

Recently, I stumbled across a blog called The Undomestic Diva (http://www.undomesticdiva.typepad.com ) which has the promising tagline: Just Doin the Best I Can When I Feel Like It. The woman who writes it turns a great phrase and seems to have a healthy share of a little something I like to call A SENSE OF HUMOR. I was psyched to see her "NOT A BOOK CLUB BOOKCLUB," which she billed as the mullet of bookclubs: business in the front, party in the back. And then I read the book list:

THE LIST
One for the Money - Janet Evanovich
Two for the Dough - Janet Evanovich
Three to get Deadly - Janet Evanovich
Four to Score - Janet Evanovich
High Five - Janet Evanovich
Hot Six - Janet Evanovich
Seven Up - Janet Evanovich
Hard Eight - Janet Evanovich
To the Nines - Janet Evanovich
Ten Big Ones - Janet Evanovich
Eleven On Top - Janet Evanovich
Twelve Sharp - Janet Evanovich
Lean Mean Thirteen - Janet Evanovich
Fearless Fourteen - Janet Evanovich
Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin
Something Blue - Emily Giffin
Baby Proof - Emily Giffin
Love the One You're With - Emily Giffin
Swapping Lives - Jane Green
Ask Again Later - Jill A. Davis
Remember Me - Sophie Kinsella
Good in Bed - Jennifer Weiner
Welcome to Temptation - Jennifer Cruise
Running With Scissors - Augusten Burroughs
Water for Elephants - Sara Gruen

I pride myself on being somewhat of a voracious reader: I can do PEOPLE cover to cover in one short visit to the powder room. And so I commented on the book selections and here is what I wrote:

I just stumbled across your blog and thought WHAT LUCK! Now I know what Janet Evanovich's publisher is doing with her spare time!

I had SUCH HOPES for this list. After reading your posts I thought-here is someone who will recognize the true genius of Jackie Collins. I've always wanted to explore the literary prowess of Stephen King. And if you threw in that new autobiography by Tori Selling I WOULD BE YOUR FAN FOR LIFE.

May I please spare you and your readers the agony of reading Water For Elephants (HE DIES IN THE END OK) and recommend The Final Confessions of Mabel Stark by Robert Hough? I realize the paragraph above puts my literary taste in question--but this is an awesome book about the original lion tamer for Ringling and involves escapes from mental institutions and animal maulings and DAMN I know you will love it.

For gosh sakes, wouldn't ONE Janet Evanovich be enough? Or is she like the Chinese Food of authors?

NOTE: Water For Elephants starts with a 98 year old author bemoaning that he will die soon--so in terms of spoiling it for everyone it is sort of like saying "The Mystery Gets Solved" when discussing a Nancy Drew book because it is THAT OBVIOUS.

And so it was with SUCH SURPRISE that I read the following comment:
Lorrie-
Hey thanks for ruining the ending of WFE for me.

I have been following this web site for quite a while & never have I read such a rude comment. If you don't like the book choices that we voted on months ago, please feel free to show yourself to the door.

This has been a place to go for comic relief in our day & you know what? WE ALL DIE IN THE END.

and this one in support of that one:
Sing it Beth!


Now to be honest-in between that response I had waxed a little poetic about MY OWN BOOKCLUB which my faithful readers will remember was held at a cocktail bar and involved a visit by Teen Idol Leif Garret. But really; that comment was to further endear people to me because AFTER ALL: I"M WORKING FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT HERE PEOPLE.

That said- it was a shock to find myself totally and completely BANNED from commenting on this website. I was in such denial i wrote lengthy replies TWICE; each carefully crafted to be one part snort wine out of your nose funny one part charming and endearing. BUT THOSE BITCHES WOULD NOT GIVE ME A SECOND CHANCE. Not that I really mind.

Ok, I do. Not that I am suggesting that any one of you 1600 readers (AND YES DAMN IT--BLOGGER STATS SHOW THAT WHILE I GET 1-2 COMMENTS, 1600 OF YOU READ MY INANE MUSINGS REGULARLY) not that I am suggesting that any of you go to her website and write some sort of snarky post. I mean, that would be wrong. Even though you can do it anonymously. But I'm not saying you should do that because I AM THE BIGGER PERSON and maybe, just maybe...Janet Evonovitch books are worth all this fuss.

Libra does not mean a French brassiere

Advice from my horoscope:

Don't make nasty comments about yourself behind your own back.

Do play soccer in bunny slippers at dawn in a supermarket parking lot with a gang of sadomasochistic stockbrokers who've promised to teach you the Balinese monkey chant.

Don't decorate your thigh with a sloppy tattoo of the devil pushing a lawn mower.

Do eat ripe organic strawberries that have been genetically modified and irradiated, and do chain-smoke Marlboros as you peddle your exercise bicycle, and do wander through a garbage dump while listening to Mozart on your iPod.

Don't get hooked on the fantasy that there are only two kinds of people, those who align themselves with the forces of light and those who align themselves with the forces of darkness.

Do start an organization called POMP (Proud Owners of Multiple Personalities), dedicated to erasing negative stereotypes about healthy non-schizophrenics who enjoy being a community of many different selves.

Don't lie on a floor surrounded by wine-stained poetry books, crumpled Matisse prints, abandoned underwear, and half-eaten bowls of corn flakes as you stare up at the ceiling with a mad gaze, muttering gibberish and waving your hands as if swatting away demons.

Do run along the tops of cars during a traffic jam, escaping from bad guys as you make your way to a helicopter that takes you to a spot hovering over an erupting volcano, into which you drop the Buns of Steel video.

Don't put your soul up for auction on the eBay website.

Do write a cookbook filled with recipes you've channeled from dead celebrities.

If you come upon a lamp with a genie in it, don't wish you had a magic wand.

Hmmm. Damn good thing I'm a Libra.
All predictions from www.freewillastrology.com

Friends, Romans, Countrymen...lend me your

ear.

Tonight I had a big chunk of my right ear removed--the price I paid for several years spent slathered in baby oil and iodine and trying to get highlights from lemon juice. The surgery was pretty much painless and (woopee) I got to read an ENTIRE ISSUE of Good Housekeeping which featured seven women who WALKED THEIR WAY TO SKINNY which is all kinds of inspiring (read: I'll start Monday.)

The thing about having your ear cartilage cut away with a scalpel is that YOU CAN HEAR IT and it sounds like the Pacman video game. Like Pacman on Red Bull.

I have seven stitches. I have finally done something that impresses my son. Who knew that the key to his heart was disfigurement? I would have cut off a few toes a long time ago had I known the injury would elevate me to such status.

Sadly, sexyhusband o' mine does not find the ear wound that attractive. In between trying to take pictures of it with his cell phone camera so he can show me HOW DISGUSTING IT IS he described it as rather oozy and wet. And if I weren't absolutely sure that his mother reads this blog (HI NONNEE) I would have something to say about his previous reactions to those two words.

The Constipated Blogger

So, in case you haven't noticed, I have been a little--shall we say "stopped up" --on this blog these past few weeks. Maybe it's because nothing interesting has happened lately in my personal life (skin cancer is really a bummer of a topic) or because I have become newly aware of the need to be hyper vigilant not to offend my current boss, any ethnic or religious group, family members, current friends and former acquaintances, and THE ENTIRE PTA OF PS11. Or maybe it's because in an effort to lose that last pesky 50 lbs I have foregone my usual nightly glass (read: bottle) of pinot grigio and as a result have totally lost my blog mojo.

Whatever the reason: the results are the same and now I fear that all three of my loyal readers are set to desert me for some blog by a mom who COOKS! or KNOWS CELEBRITIES! or DOES A GOOD JOB AS A MOM! It will just be me and my uber supportive Mother In Law (HI NONNEE) out here in cyberspace. So I turned to the most reliable source in times of trouble and I GOOGLED THE HELL out of blog topics.

The number one GOOGLE result is www.chrisbrogan.com/ 100-blog-topics-i-hope-you-write. And he starts off like this:
People often ask me how I come up with things to blog about, and I find the question strange, because my problem is the opposite. I have too much to blog about.

Which made me want to say: "well whoop-de-freeking-do Chris Brogan. You must lead AN INCREDIBLY EXCITING LIFE." But then I looked at the 100 suggested blog topics and here is a sampling:

How I Use Facebook
Should My Town Use Social Media?
Technology That Empowers Me
Twitter Jaiku Pownce Facebook
The Difference Between Fark and Truemors

WHAT THE HELL IS CHRIS BROGAN TALKING ABOUT ANYWAY? Because I have absolutely no idea what a Twitter is (distant cousin of Tweety Bird, maybe?) and Facebook is a place my young nephews hang out on and hope I never figure out. So Fark yourself Mr. Brogan. Where are the inspiring blog topics like: My Recent Trip To Kmart. Because I CAN RUN WITH THAT BALL. And by the way, Jacqueline Smith-not only beautiful, but what a designer.

Luckily-there is always a NUMBER TWO in Google and this was "The World's Largest Blog Niche and Topic Idea List" which sounds Mighty Promising, doesn't it? I was all prepared to SUPERSIZE ME a writing topic. So what a disappointment to find that these were the listed topics:

Adult Education
Your Brain & Learning
Campus Life
Education Reform
Home Schooling

I don't have a helluva lot to say about any of the above except maybe The Campus Life topic, but both my husband and my father are readers so I couldn't be truthful and WHAT FUN IS THAT. So we were back to square one, or Google #3, which pointed me towards www.timschmoyer.com and the "100 blog topics I Hope You Write" which again, SOUNDS SO PROMISING....
But turns out Mr. Schmoyer is a fan of Mr. Brogan and he basically just appropriated Mr. Brogan's list and put a Christian Right spin on it as follows:

How to use Facebook for Ministry
Technology I use in Youth Ministry

BUT THEN I SAW IT! Blog topic #18 on his list! Addressing Porn and Masturbation at Youth Group! Now THERE was a topic I could sink my teeth into! If I were not worried about offending my boss, any ethnic, religious or social group, friends and family and former acquaintances and that damn ENTIRE PTA of PS11.

Lindsay Lohan Has Great Taste

And I'm not just calling this entry that because I want to move up in Google! Behold this week's issue of PEOPLE magazine. That's our MOTHER tile hanging in La Lohan's room! It has a FEATURED ROLE in the opening credits of Dianah Lohan's new reality show on e.

I'm off to make a mug for the Spears girls.

Shameless Promotion

This is a shot from the June issue of Entrepreneur Start Ups magazine. Pick up a copy at your local newstand.

Almost Famous

I just got the news that I will be appearing beside Katherine Heigil in the movie The Ugly Truth which starts filming this week and will be released by Columbia Pictures in 2009. OK- I won't actually be appearing BESIDE her...more like BEHIND HER or ON HER DESK. It is also quite possible that the director will have her DRINK FROM ME. I was up for the part against millions of mugs and they chose me! I can hardly believe it! I may never have to waitress again.

I'll admit for a long time we were jealous of that PRINCESS mug that has been appearing regularly on Law and Order. Ever since she got that gig she has stopped returning phone calls and the only time we see her is if the paps happen to catch her leaving lunch at the Ivy. I've heard there's a possibility she is moving into Phoebe Price's cupboards.

But truthfully....what I really want to do is direct.

CLOWNS

In my previous post I wrote to a circus director that we both knew similar clowns. I need to go on the record that I meant ACTUAL CLOWNS. I was in no way referring to my family, co workers, friends, superiors, local union people or any ethnic or religious group I have had contact with in the past 44 years.

My friend Nancy Schwartz left Drew University, where we both were studying, to attend Clown College in Orlando. Nancy was four foot tall and she felt she could really carve out a future for herself if she could master the unicycle and learn how to cram thirty people into a Volkswagon Bug. I went to visit her on Spring Break and I can tell you that there's no fraternity in existence that can out-party the kids at Clown College. Two words: Naked Juggling.

As fun as that experience was, I admit to not being a fan of those who don the red rubber nose. Maybe it was Stephen King's book IT--in which he wrote graphically about a clown's face appearing in in the space between the sidewalk curb and the sewer grate. Maybe it was the fact that most children's party entertainers I met smelled of a mixture of flop sweat and beer. Or maybe it was Judy Collins singing ISN'T IT RICH, DON'T YOU AGREE. (Until recently I used to think she was singing ISN'T IT RICH, DON'T YOU LOVE TEA.)

Along with all the other odd proclivities and genetically programmed angst that I have passed on to Jesse, FEAR OF CLOWNS definitely ranks in the top 5 (Along with FEAR OF BALLOONS FLYING AWAY and FEAR OF CHOKING ON A PIECE OF POPCORN.) He was two the first time we encountered a band of them, randomly strolling on stilts through a restaurant, wearing clothing with patches and bright red smiles. Ours was the child that had to be physically removed from the setting, screaming hysterically at the top of his lungs, and obviously SCARRED FOR LIFE. Since then we must always be certain that anywhere we go is a CLOWN FREE ZONE.

Just like Pagliacci did
I try to keep my surface hid
Smiling in the crowd I try
But in a lonely room I cry
The tears of a clown

More Real Mail

The following message was sent from ournameismud.com by Al:

I recently received a gift from your company.  It is a desk plaque that reads "Impossible you say?  Nothing is impossible when you work for the circus."
I love it.  Do you know where that quote came from?  Who said it?  I'm more curious than anything else.  I am a circus director for Illinois State University. You see I actually do work for a circus and this motto applies to me very appropriately.  Any help on this issue would be great. 

sincerely,

Al


Hi Al!
Thanks for your Email. I'm so glad you like our plaque. As to who first said: "Impossible you say? Nothing is impossible when you work for the circus." the answer would be: Me. You see, I work for a circus too: except instead of three rings I have two different phone lines and a computer and instead of lions and tigers I have small children and an endless TO-DO LIST. But I think we both know similar clowns.


Kindest Regards,
Lorrie

Happy Mother's Day!

.
One of the ways that I try to balance Motherhood with Everything Else is to LIVE BY THE CALENDAR. It hangs prominently in the kitchen and Our Entire Lives are carefully noted on the Appropriate Dates. In addition to helping us avoid scheduling conflicts, we can be ready anytime Annie asks HOW MANY DAYS IS IT UNTIL MY BIRTHDAY--which is asked and answered at least three times weekly...for approximately eleven months at a time.

Lately, odd entries have appeared on certain dates. Last week, Tuesday May 13th, the entry read in bold letters: NO SCHOOL. I almost fell for it.... but in his eagerness Jesse had added the word "YAY" underneath.

Today is Mother's Day, and oddly enough the next two Thursdays are National Jesse and Annie Days. Apparently the calendar company has decided to add these holidays into May--along with the words "No Yelling Allowed."

Marry Sheree's Brother

(You can see a picture on Sheree's blog at www.musewarepottery.com)

This is my brother, Russell. He's 6'4" and around 210 lbs. He turned 50 on August 15, which makes him a Leo - fire sign - strong willed, opinionated, bossy, charming. He's handsome, wicked funny, a gifted musician and chronically single. While there is nothing actually wrong with him, he does work weird hours & often has to travel to make a living. The last time I counted, he had something like four (five?) cars and seven motorcycles. This alone may explain why he has never married. Who wants to park a block away?

This is a man who can fix just about anything - ok, your car or motorcycle but maybe not your broken furniture. He will make you laugh every day. He might cook you hot dogs or spaghetti but you'll have get the dishes out of the sink first. You'll need to seriously clean the bathroom. He'll write you a song and sing it to you and it will be poetic and romantic. You won't want to mess with his garage. I call it Man Land. And even though he tortured me as a child and I hated his guts, I'm very fond of him now so you'll have to share him. Our family is crazy. You'll need to be, too.

Back to Blog

Forgive me, dear readers, for leaving you hanging these past two weeks. Nothing really noteworthy happened this week with the exception of these two OMG moments:

I caught Jesse at the bathroom sink with a tube of self tanning cream that he mistook for Kip's hair gel.

and

I caught Jesse sitting at the keyboard hitting random keys--one of which happened to be DELETE--while my email was open on the screen. So if you haven't heard back from me, now you know why......