I aM I SaiD

Happy Wednesday Chickens!

WHAT I AM READING:

I just finished reading

One Sentence Review: Third book in a series about a girl who is hit by lightening and as a result is able to find dead people so she travels the country with her stepbrother who she has a romantic relationship with and they solve crimes and in all three books the bad guy is the innocuous character that appears in the second chapter that doesn't really do a lot but because so much is written about him/her you just know who did it sorry if I ruined these for you.

WHAT I AM DRINKING

As you can see by my Google Analytics, and the fact that comments left by people like BJ and Kreg are often a million times more entertaining than my posts, I have been pretty much laying off the sauce. But fear not dear readers. I have been learning a lot from Dr. Drew and plan to relapse in a few weeks.



WHAT I AM LISTENING TO

The Spawn have been hogging the CD player lately. ComplicatedBoy was given The Best of Michael Jackson album by Santa, who didn't realize it would lead to incessant performances of Billie Jean while CBoy calls out "Hey Mom- watch me grab my crotch! You're not looking Mom! Really, watch me grab my crotch and walk backwards! Mom, watch me grab my crotch and go up on my toes! Mom- Can I get Jazz shoes?"

Banana, on the other hand, was given a true instrument of torture from Homeland Security. It is a CD on which the cartoon character Dora the Explorer sings a selection of tunes from the '80s. My fellow Mommies will give me big props for sitting through" Vamanos! Celebrate Good Times Come On!" sung in a high pitched nails on a blackboard voice. It's enough to wish Swiper would swipe the CD.

So at work I am driving everybody crazy with obtuse tribute albums. Like the Maowbi Chorus sings U2 in Swahili. Or Bruce Springsteen's greatest hits played on bells.


WHAT I AM WATCHING

I was watching Banana play a computer game the other day HERE This is a game where if you pack your bag, the computer will tell you your PURSE-anality!! I am watching Banana go through her selections,putting make up, cell phone and tissues into her virtual pocket book when she clicks on an icon and asks me What Is Birth Control? Because apparently Japanese Animae characters never leave home without it.

But as far as TV goes, I love A & E's show HOARDERS. I actually said to Sexyhusbandomine that if I had to choose a different profession, I would like to be one of those professional organizers that goes into a person's house and makes it all clean (except i wouldn't ask them if they WANTED to keep the used paper napkin I would just throw their precious items away, cuz that's how I roll as a housecleaner) . Sexyhusbandomine took a look around at our current state of affairs in Chez Veasey and gave a dismissive snort -because apparently I am LIVING in an episode of Hoarders, but whatever.




WHAT I AM LOVING

The trick where you wrap a rubber band around the botton on your jeans, thread it through the opening and back around the button. Brings me right back to the good old days of maternity jeans. ELASTIC WAISTBANDS. Let's bring them back in style, people.

WHAT ARE YOU
reading, drinking, listening to, watching and loving?

CHeaTiNG oN My CHiCKeNS

image courtesy of the frantic meercat

Happy Monday Chickens!

While I know I have been remiss about posting here (thank you kind friends who carried this blog on their shoulders hunched over keyboards for the entire month of December) I have started a new blog that is more visual than literary. I will still continue to attempt to amuse you guys here- but please stop by and give my new site a little love. Let me know what you think

TRAIL OF HEARTS

ATLaNTa ON My MiND

Happy Thursday Chickens, Here's a quick recap of my trip to Hotlanta.



My plane ride there involved someone throwing up in the aisle while waiting for the restroom. Which means I sat for two hours with my shirt pulled up over my mouth and nose like a terrorist, my eyes watering as I tried to quell my gag reflex, pretending to read O magazine and find my happy place and not think about THE VOMIT IN THE BACK OF THE PLANE AND THE WAY THERE IS NO FRESH AIR ON AIRPLANES AND OMG SOMEONE CRACK A WINDOW..... The minute the door opened I made like OJ Simpson in a Hertz commercial and literally VAULTED over seats in order to get off the plane.



Once at the Enesco showroom in the Giftmart, I met Legendary Hollywood Actor Tony Curtis! He was all kinds of sweet. I gave him the mug I made for him and He gave me a big smackeroo on my cheek before we posed for pictures. I stood beside him smiling while the press clicked away while I fought the impulse to give the side of my face a little wipe because that man has some moist lips. I kid. Sorta. I should note he also has the Softest Hands Evah. I know because he held one of mine for like, AN HOUR, while a zealous male fan went on and on and on and on about how Spartacus Changed His Life Blah Blah Blah I am Your Biggest Fan...and I was gonna slink off, but Mr. Curtis just kept holding my hand while that young man waxed poetic. I think I had to hip check him out of the way to get my audience with Mr C.

Right across from the OUR NAME IS MUD showroom stood Meredith Baxter from the television show Family Ties, or if you are as old as dirt me, other television shows like Bridget Loves Bernie, and Family.


She was hawking her great line of skin care products, and her space was packed. I tried several times to get a picture with her, but had to settle for putting my arm around her life size poster cut out. I spent a lot of time waving to her from across the hall with my face pressed up against the glass of my showroom window til the showroom manager complained that smudges from my nose and mouth were blocking shoppers from seeing my products.

When I got the phone call from Sexyhusbandomine and The Spawn in which he let me know that the stomach flu had hit Chez Veasey, I was, as usual, completely drunk and thought they were talking about The Siths from Star Wars--not The Sick. Children. At Home. Because chickens, had I known that The Spawn were ill I would have done what i usually do...extended my trip another day or so and bought more presents at the airport.



But I did not know what awaited me at home, so I got on that early return flight home and was comforted by the fact that TWO PILOTS sat beside me. I like to sit beside pilots on the plane because when the flight gets rocky I can check their faces to see if they have an "o $hit" look on them and that way I know if it's turbulance or if my butt is toast. Plus the stewardesses are usally Extra Nice and that mean Two packs of peanuts. But this is the Gawds Honest Truth chickens-- not five minutes after we were in the air, the two pilots began discussing CRASH LANDINGS. Seems that one of them had recently had to put a small plane down in some cornfield somewhere, and that opened the topic for conversation. Which went on and on and on despite the fact that I had both fingers in my ears and kept saying LA LA LA LA LA.

And then I was home, with a Hotlanta Snowglobe for the Banana, an airport watch for Complicated Boy and a wet kiss on the cheek for Sexyhusbandomine. Ah, Home. Renovations still going on. But that's another story...

EXCyouZe Me!

Happy Tuesday, Chickens!

I will write tomorrow about my fabulous trip to Hotlanta and the kiss I got from legendary Hollywood actor Tony Curtis (saliva was exchanged even though his lips were nowhere near mine) but first- a quick review of what I returned home to.

First of: The Banana recaps the weekend for her teacher with this writing assignment:


For those of you who can't get the gist from the skillfully rendered graphic, it says I THROWED UP TWO TIMES. Yes, I returned to find that a plague had descended upon the House of Veasey. ComplicatedBoy and Sexyhusbandomine also had bugs. But (despite the fact that someone threw up IN THE AISLE of my plane ride to Atlanta)... Not Me. The whole "Fat Fights Viruses" thang is still working for me. Take two cookies and call me in the morning.

And you know what else came down with something and appears to have died in Chez Veasey? MY FRIDGE. Because the warranty was for two years. And at two years, two months, it Just Stopped Working. It was actually warmer in my crisper yesterday than it was outside. So we have been living out of a cooler. Which is no fun because Sexyhusbandomine keeps telling me I can't chill the chardonnay because The Spawn need things like milk and orange juice.

So tomorrow Wednesday I'll try to have a story or two for you. In the meantime, 5 random numbers are:
1,6,8,12,14. Those are the winners of the great buttons from Beanforest. You must email me (LVMUD (at) a o l) within two days to claim your fabulous prize. Get off you button and do it now.

CoMe See Me & TONY CURTIS In HOTLANTA

I am about to schlep my post holiday weight gain onto an airplane and head out to Atlanta for the Big Gift Show. COME SEE ME & MY NEW HOLLYWOOD FRIEND! Enesco (our owners) will be launching a new giftware line called the Trail of Painted Ponies, and legendary actor Tony Curtis will be on hand to show off his life size painted pony on Friday night, January 8th, from 6-8 PM, Americasmart Building #2 Suite 1616. You will find me in the OUR NAME IS MUD booth, where I will be standing trying to avoid eye contact with everyone and where I will have cleverly hidden numerous plastic cups of wine throughout the display. Come say hello, and let me say something completely inappropriate in response! I promise you that you can walk away saying "she looks so much younger and skinnier on her blog."

I have made Mr. Curtis a mug that says "Mr. Curtis likes it Hot," Because I am a total kiss ass like that because Mr. Curtis was in the movie with Marilyn Monroe entitled SOME LIKE IT HOT. And because Mr. Curtis' daughter is Jamie Lee Curtis, who is married to Christopher Guest of SPINAL TAP fame. I'm thinking perhaps Jamie & Chris will come over to Tony's for coffee some day, and Chris will reach into his Father in Law's cabinet and wrap his hand around my creation and turn it over to see who made this wonderful thing, and then he will have an idea to make an insanely funny mockumentary about Mommy Bloggers. Or Potters. Either could be a hysterical premise and I should get a cameo and the same sort of deal Erin Brockovich got. Which would have been a plausible scenerio except: I FORGOT TO SIGN THE MUG.

(So chickens, I will regale you with tales of hobnobbing with the famous when I return on Monday- which means you still have time to enter the giveaway below as I won't announce winners until Monday. Comment on the post below)

A SWiFT KiCK iN THe BuTToNS

Happy Wednesday Chickens! Today, I wanted to share one of my favorite artists on the interwebs with you. He describes himself as " a guy in his mid-twenties born, raised, and terrified of economic collapse in West Michigan." I think he is one of the funniest people I've never had the pleasure to meet. His shop is called BEANFOREST and he creates the most wonderful buttons and magnets. Like this one:


I am going to show you some of my favorites..then GUESS WHAT? You get to pick your own favorite-and FIVE lucky ONIB readers will win the button of their choice! You can enter as many times as you would like- one comment per entry. Just visit Beanforest's store and describe your favorite in comments. Winners will be drawn at random on Friday, January 8. So enter now: Life's short-the day is young and the hijinks are endless!








P.S. If you are not a personal fan of buttons, you can enter someone else in the giveaway. For example, I know this one is perfect for BJ, and it is the perfect accessory to wear when picking up her child from school, or serving jury duty.



Happy Playing Chickens!

MaGiC

Happy New Year Chickens! I hope you all had a joyous holiday season, and that Santa brought you everything you asked for.

Ordinarily at this time of year, I do a brief product review of the presents The Spawn received from Saint Nick. I know this saved 1 or 2 hundreds of you good people from the fate of buying The Bathtub Bubble Blizzard last year. But this year had some unforseen challenges....

First of all- ComplicatedBoy's letter to Santa is as follows:


He writes; "My 3 most importet things are a portal to the North Pole, mostly all my gifts on my list (you can chose) last but not lest is that every kid in the world wold beleve in you."

So obviously, we had our work cut out for us-- as last time we checked at Target, they WERE ALL OUT OF PORTALS TO THE NORTH POLE.

So of course, we checked online.

First, we hit Etsy, in the hopes that we could buy handmade. Our first find was this:


For just $22 from a shop called BWARE this is a MAGIC KEY MOBILE. Could be very helpful, especially if you were planning on breaking into an office and stealing incriminating political evidence...but we were not. What good is a magic key if you can't find the magic portal? We searched again. And found this...



A MAGIC PURPLE SABER WAND, which combines a love of Star Wars with a belief in the occult, at a shop called ORDERED CHAOS for a mere $20 bucks. But we feared that when we waved it, we might end up on The Death Star instead of Santa's workshop, so we turned to EBAY.

Where we found THIS A MAGIC FORK for only $1000. So precious that you can't even steal an image of it.
Ah rats, out of our price range.

Therefore, as 3Lambsgraphics says... we need to just


ComplicatedBoy got a letter from Santa that said The Portal to the North Pole lay in his heart and in his imagination. Which was fine for CBoy, since what he had really wanted was some legos anyway.

BeTTeR LaTe THaN NeVaH

Hola Chickens-
I meant to post this last guest blog from Harbor Mom before The Big Day, but things like cramming 100 packages into a car, and trying to remember where the stockings were put away last year, got me distracted and poof! Before I knew it- the 25th had come and gone. But this is a sweet story to end the year on... so here it is. I will be renovating Chez Veasey this week- I'll be back in 2010 with photos and stories about how Sexyhusbandomine weilds a hammer. Until then-Happy New Year to you all!!



HARBOR MOM's post:


I am the baby of the first three children in our family (the last two were born 9 and 18 years, respectively, after my birth, so they ain’t a part of this!), born in the late 30’s and early 40’s. Our father, once he returned from WWII, worked in the chimney department of a big engineering firm, and was out of town inspecting big smokestacks over the July 4th week and Christmas week every year. Our summer holidays were spent with him at whatever tropical spot he happened to be working: Pascagoula, MS; Pine Bluff, AK, Fernandina Beach, FL, not particularly garden spots in the 1950’s. Christmas was at home (so Santa would know where to find us), but without our dad until I was 15.



My mother was a terribly talented and creative woman, which was very lucky, as there wasn’t a lot of money for anything other than necessities. She could sew, cook, paint, and she once poured and laid a concrete foundation for our back porch all by herself, when Daddy just couldn’t seem to get around it. He said he wished she could join the Bricklayer’s Union, because she was as good a brick mason as he had ever seen. She was also bi-polar and obsessive/compulsive, but that just made life interesting and taught us tenacity and patience. Christmas was always an especially difficult time for her, and we never knew from day to day whether there would be laughter or tears. Again…it made life interesting, and we all adjusted.



Mother always bought a cedar tree at Christmas. They were plentiful in Alabama, and CHEAP. For those of you unfamiliar with a cedar tree, ornaments can be hung only on its perimeter, as it is so bushy and full from the trunk out; and it’s very scratchy (but it smells divine!). My sister and I begged each year for a tree like those on the postcards and in the movies. Where the branches stuck straight out from the trunk, instead of drooping down; and where there was space in between the branches so the ornaments could be hung “inside” the tree, nearer the trunk, as well as on the tips of the branches. At that time, spruce and similar trees were available in Alabama, but very, very pricey.



When I was about 13 or so, we all went off to school that December day, planning to get our tree after school and decorate it over the weekend, and hoping it would be a ‘laughing day,’ rather than the alternative. When we got home that afternoon, we walked into the living room and stood, dumbstruck. Not only had Mother gone out and bought a beautiful Colorado Blue Spruce, perfectly shaped, she had put on the lights and all the ornaments, then spent the entire remainder of the day “icing” the tree. I don’t know if they even still make Ivory Flakes (it’s what all women used then to wash their ‘delicates’), but she had put Ivory Flakes and water in her mixing bowl and beat it to a glossy froth; then, using a long-handled wooden spoon, she very delicately and gently laid pillows of ‘snow’ along each and every limb and branch of that tree. It took hours and hours, and the entire box of Ivory Flakes. And it must have required endless patience. It was a magnificent sight that I can still conjure up in my mind’s eye. It was as if she had transported a fully decorated tree from a snow-bound forest right into our living room. Back then, multi-colored lights were the norm, and the bulbs were the size of your thumb. She had loaded the tree with lights, and they reflected off the sheen of the snow. How I wish I had a photograph, other than the one in my memory, but snapshots then were saved for special occasions, as cameras, film, and processing were expensive for most middle class (if there were even class distinctions then – mostly just haves and have-nots, as I recall).



The most special thing about this memory was not so much the tree – spectacular as it was to our adolescent eyes – but that our Mother. Just. Did it. She overcame whatever she might have been experiencing that day and focused all her attention on getting that tree, wrestling it into the house and into the tree stand all by herself, untangling and draping the lights and unpacking and hanging all the ornaments to decorate the tree (which she particularly disliked doing), before creating the snowy miracle we saw that afternoon. I expect that was the good part of the experience for her. I imagine she was able to be inside her own head while she meticulously ladled the snow onto each limb and branch of that huge tree, and I hope the serenity of the finished product filled her mind and heart at the end of the day. I am ashamed to say that I don’t remember whether any of the three of us realized at the time the sheer amount of mental as well as physical effort she had put into her gift to us (or whether she or we even realized what a gift it was at that time); and I don’t remember any of us ever discussing it in later years. I hope she knows that, nearing 70 years old now, I still remember that vision as if it were yesterday. And maybe I’ll try it next year, on a small tree, for my children and grandchildren.



That’s my Christmas memory.

TaLKiN TuRKeY WiTH BJ

Happy Day before Christmas Eve Day Chickens! Today's guest blogger is the vivacious and verbose B.J. With this special Christmas tale....

When I still had 'in-laws', the MIL, who we will lovingly call Cruella, was a piece of work all year, but really shined during the holidays. She pretty much started at Halloween, that slow, silent, crawl toward demanding audience participation over the next two months. She planned everthing, Tgiving, Christmas Eve & Day, and didn't leave room for you to have other activities or life. She was, you know, self appointedly IN CHARGE. Did you know that everything stops, including the World Clock and Global warming, if you DON'T HAVE TINY LESEUR PEAS?????????? Someone's 'oversight' by bringing a different brand almost caused a smack down in the kitchen one year.

M2 was about 1 1/2, and we go walking into C's for the Thanksgiving meal, and the f-in oven was on fire. Full blown, call the Red Truck, kind of fire. So I just turned around and walked back out, thinking 'me and my toddler are not going down with this freaky ship'. AND I had Vodka in the car. People were screaming instructions and all kinds of shit was going on and my NORMAL niece walked over and threw flour or baking soda or fireplace ashes on the f=in fire and put it out. But it was also all over the turkey.

SO, turkey goes into the sink to be washed off, I fix a drink in the driveway, me and M2 go in to find the Ranch Hand, who has settled into his football watching/eating chair. He's messing with the remote, while the f=in kitchen was on fire! Nothing gets to him, or he doesn't react to anything like a normal person. Meanwhile, the scene in the kitchen was high drama, about the turkey being ruined, the entire meal being ruined, Cruella's life being ruined, and on and on and on. Then my sister in law, 'little Cruella in training', said 'oh shut up" and everyones eyebrows in the LR went 5 inches up but no one said anything. Cruella Sr. went downstairs (weird split level house) and smoked about 90 cigarettes, reapplied lipstick, and came back up. She probably had Vodka down there too. We managed to get through the meal. God,I wished I had written down what went through my head while sitting around that table. If was Southern Style Uncomfortable Silence, which southern and silence don't go together.

I called these people The Adamms Family, just so you know.....

SO, in the kitchen cleaning up with my two SIL's by marriage, I say "do you think we could all get together for Christmas the Sunday before so the R family could go to Oklahoma? They both said YES for various reasons, but thought that was a great idea! **ie, they had been chained to C'ruellas cmas schedule for years, and welcomed the change. So I bring it up, thinking my SIL's will so back me up, and the look on C's face is imprinted in my memory FOR-EVAH. Then she say's 'Well,what the hell are WE supposed to Do CEve and Cmas? Sit around and look at each other?? Silence. My chicken shit SIL's say NOTHING, and the Ranch Hand stands up and say's 'you ready to go?' and I said SURE, and picked up M2 grabbed my purse and we left. Oddly, the next door neighbor was stomping out of her house into the driveway and digging through her car for something. Probably Vodka.

I won't bore you with the crying phone calls, notes, etc, we got right after that. Don't sit there and think 'oh how sad' because she promptly booked a trip to Vegas and her ass was parked at a slot machine singing Jingle Bells All The Way that year.

The next year was even better.

SaNTa iS FaT aND RiCH

Today's guest blog post comes from the fabulous SCRAPPIN' JENNY. Please show her some love at her awesome blog-some of the best photography on the internets and she needs an Etsy shop!

There comes a time in most parent’s lives when they are forced to have “that talk” with their children. You know the one. It’s often uncomfortable, you never know quite what to say and in the end, neither you or your child is any happier.

I’m talking about the myth of Santa Claus, of course.

My daughter was in second grade when she came home from school and said “All the Jewish kids at school said that Santa Claus isn’t real. They said it’s just you and Daddy pretending to be him.”

My first thoughts weren’t ones I shared with my daughter because I am a good mother and I’m pretty sure child protective services would have taken her away from me if I’d let loose with the tirade that was running through my mind. Instead I took a deep breath and asked “That’s interesting...what do you think?”

My daughter cocked her head to the side and stared thoughtfully off into space for a moment then said...

“I know there has to be a Santa because you and Daddy would never spend that much money on me.”

I smiled very sweetly at her and said “You keep thinking that sweetie.”

I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and that your children never accuse you of being Ebenezer Scrooge.=

THe HoLiDaYS aRe A GaS

The following comes from one of my favorite bloggers, KREG. In the interest of staying employed not getting cut out of the will keeping this a family blog, the slang word for passing intestinal gas has been changed to Foof, which is a kinder, gentler word. And this introductory paragraph should have been fair warning to you all, Chickens.

Growing up, the yuletide trip to see my paternal grandparents was a forgone conclusion. Everyone from that side of the family gathered on Christmas Day to exchange gifts and eat the holiday fare until gastronomic distress ensued. This was no small family gathering, as twenty four (sometimes more) people packed into the house. Even with all those people, there was never any shortage of food, and tradition demanded that we all stuff ourselves just short of bursting. As BOTH my grandparents were the children of German immigrants (but obviously not the SAME immigrants, because that's horribly illegal and wrong, even by 1910s backwater Oklahoma standards), the cuisine of that region sometimes frequented the menu. Such was the case one year when sauerkraut appeared on one of the many side tables temporarily re-tasked to the noble Holiday chore of holding the glut of food.

I love sauerkraut. El, oh, vee, eee. (A culinary love possibly second only to bacon. And maybe garlic-stuffed olives. And wiesswurst.) I put a considerable dent in that dish all by myself, but couldn't help notice that I was not the only courtesan of the sexy-fine fermented cabbage. Every time I'd return to get more, it was obvious that someone else was devouring it as well, although I could never catch the culprit in the act. Even with the unknown interloping hussy stealing away portions of my pickled love, I still managed to down about a pint of sauerkraut, plus MANY other fantastic foodstuffs.

Hours passed, and we exchanged and unwrapped many presents, posed in front of the tree, drank wine, took naps, told stories, and finally had our traditional 4:00 snack of sausage and fried potatoes before beginning the two hour trek back home. About fifteen minutes into the drive, I began to experience a disturbance in the force. Something unholy was brewing deep within me, and it wouldn't be long until the fury was unleashed. Trying to ignore the kicks of the "baby", I settled back into my seat and tried to sleep...
It was a fitful sleep, and while drifiting in and out of slumber, I seem to recall foofing at some point. At some point thereafter, I was jolted awake by a blast of cold air when my mother rolled down the window. Further, my mother, who is usually a very sweet woman, was using foul language to lament the current smell that smothered every one and thing in the automobile. The window went back up, the swear-storm abated, and I got back to the task of napping.




The return to naptown was shortlived, as I quickly found myself again in another swirl of cool air and profanities. Inner monologue: Christ, that sauerkraut was more potent than I imagined. And apparently I'm foofing in my sleep. Oh well. The window is back up now, so back to napping.
More cold air. More angry comments. Finally, my mother began quizzing us in turn; first my brother, then myself, and finally my father.
"Did you foof?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Huh-uh."

I lied straight to my mothers face, and on Christmas no less. Then I quietly foofed again. This was starting to be fun. So the cycle continued for a few hundred miles; the foofs, the window, the accusations, the interrogation, the denials and lying, the fitful napping.
When we finally pulled into the garage, my mother leaped from the car and bolted into the house, bemoaning the atrocious smell until her livid voice was no longer audible.

My brother looked at me and spoke: "Man, I could NOT stop foofing. I think it was all that sauerkraut I ate."

"Yeah, I think I may have stained the car seat with my tract-gas. Wait! So YOU'RE the other person who ate the sauerkraut!"

My father just looked at the both of us and then grinned whilst emitting one of the loudest and longest foofs I have ever witnessed.

We didn't tell my mother until the following spring.


Merry Holidays to all!


--
Krëg

OnE NiGHT STaND

The lovely and talented MISS THYSTLE has finally regained consciousness and graced us with her guest blogging post. Please do not read it if you are easily offended, under a doctor's care for abuse of Ambien, My Current Employers, or related to me in a parental capacity. The reast of you--ENJOY!

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS- THYSTLE STYLE

Twas the night before Christmas
at Miss Thystle's house
and I sat drinking whiskey
with no pants and no blouse

I had just settled in, TiVo remote
on my lap
when out in the yard there arose such a clatter
I whipped open the door to see what
was the matter

The twelve blinking Baby Jesus'
cast such a twinkling glow
they gave the appearance of ground effects
to the riders so low

I had just racked my shot gun and stepped
behind a cactus
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
but a drunken old man, chugging a beer

His eyes were all blood shot
and his clothes were really smelly
and when he blew a snot rocket
it looked like mint jelly

He sat down on the curb and started
scratching his junk
My eyes started watering
thanks to his funk

"HEY MISTER!" I yelled
"What the heck are you doing?"
"Oh MY GOD WHAT'S THAT SMELL?"
"Don't tell me you're pooing!"

He turned very slowly
so as not to get the spins
the tossed the bottle over his shoulder
and right into the bin

The light from my scope laser illuminated
his stout little form
I thought for a moment "Is that Phil
or maybe it's Norm!"

But no! It was Santa!
Drunk in my yard
Swilling Mad Dog from a 40
and scratching his nards

of course it was Santa!
It was Christmas even night
but what was he doing in the Ghetto
Barely upright?

Santa! I shouted
It's me! Miss Thystle!
Did you bring me some new boobs?
Or maybe a pistol?

But Santa just shrugged
and layed down in the grass
and stayed there slightly snoring
because he was drunk off his ass

Hey Santa! I shook him
You've got to get up!
All the kids need their presents
you drunken old scut!

Miss Thystle, he slurred
I'm too drunk to drive
Could you fire up the Juice
and give me a ride?

Away to the living room I flew like a light
wrapped myself in an afghan
grabbed the keys
and a rum mixed with Sprite

I loaded him up
and strapped him up tight
fired up the Bronco
and drove into the night

He started tossing out presents
one here, two over there
while singing along to Lady Gaga
and sipping his beer

When all the gifts were delivered
Santa turned with a smile
then he threw up in
my lap, used my coat for a pillow
and curled up for a nap

I awoke the next morning
to sunlight so bright
I was sure I'd imagined
my wild Christmas night

But there on the counter
lined up like reindeer
where eight bottles of
Jamison and a full case of beer

I looked for a card and taped to the side
was a picture of Santa's ass and the words
Thanks for the ride!

So I leave you with this my sweet little kittens
I hope your Christmas stocking is stuffed
with a ball gag and mittens, a blind fold, a whip
Durecell batteries sized D
and furry handcuffs with heart shaped keys

A QueSTioN ABouT CHRiSTMaS....

IS IT OVER YET?

I kid, Chickens. I loves me some Christmas Season. Because today's guest blogger, the lovely & talented Thystle, is currently still standing in an endless line at Walmart trying to buy beer AWOL, I have resorted to recycling the Christmas Questionnaire from last year. Feel free to use on your own blogs!


WRAPPING PAPER OR GIFT BAGS?
Sometimes both. Sometimes a lucky recipient gets a present wrapped in Christmas paper shoved into a Birthday gift bag. We like to call it reducing our carbon footprint. Our friends like to call it cheap and lazy.

REAL TREE OR ARTIFICIAL? ANGEL OR STAR ON TOP?
We don't hate on the artificial, but us city folk do not have these things you people call attics or basements, so we have to go with the real. Up until last year, we topped our tree with a paper cutout of The Wiggles in their Big Red Car. It's quite possible the Jonas Brothers may be placed there before the holiday has passed. Because how can you dream about a White Chrismas without picturing Joe in those skinny jeans in Camp Rock? Not that...ermmm..I ever think about that, Chris Hanson...next question, please.

EGGNOG-YES OR NO?
Let's see: Artery clogging? Check. Full of Junky Calories, sure to make your thighs bigger? Check. Involves alcohol? Check. Tastes like cookie batter? Check. Guess that would be a yes. Do I also need to tell you people that The Pope is Catholic?

HARDEST PERSON TO BUY FOR?
This will be the fifth year in a row we get Dee-Dad a sweater vest. Need I say more?

DO YOU HAVE A NATIVITY SCENE?
I have several: an old fashioned one from my mother, a beautiful ceramic one from my MIL, a plastic Playschool one, a Playmobile one that half the pieces have gone missing from (Joseph is now a knight, Mary is a zoo keeper) , and a new Nativity that I just made for OUR NAME IS MUD (shameless plug ahead) called "Bobble to Bethlehem" which is a bobble head nativity that will be available for purchase in your local stores next year. Unless stores find it offensive and do not order it-which I guess is a possibility. This was the fate met by my Salt and Pepper Nativity set (Jesus is The Reason for the Seasoning), which like a Jessica Simpson movie, was never released.

Note: good news Chickens! the Bobblehead nativity is available online www.ournameismud.com

FAVORITE CHRISTMAS MOVIE?
The one in the dvd player, babysitting The Spawn.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR CHRISTMAS?
World Peace, Economic Recovery, and Universal Compassion and Tolerance. But if that's too much; well, a girl really can never have too many Christmas sweaters.

GueST BLoGGER: RUTH iS iN Da GinGerBreaD HouSe

The fabulous Ruth (otherwise known as RPC, does not have a blog. So consider this foray into crafting a post akin to sneaking the first beer to an underage kid who will later grow up and become an alcoholic. I know THYSTLE was scheduled for today, but she may be hiding under a table somewhere, so hopefully she will take Wednesday. So without further ado, I give you RUTH.

Lorrie's instructions were: "incredibly moving" or "pee in your pants funny". I¹m going for the rent your garments and tear your hair... ­ how could anybody be so mean to their kids?

In our household Santa only ever brings small gifts to fill the kids' stockings. If there are any big presents, I want full credit as the donor. I'm sure that this has led to some humiliating times at school "What did Santa bring you?" - "A tangerine, a state quarter, and a bouncy ball" doesn't have quite the same same cachet as "A Nonetendo Playstation XOXO Whoa with triple digital feedback controllers". Still, nobody ever asked why Santa was such a tightwad when it came to our household, and the kids never asked him for expensive presents.

Despite this, Santa still doesn't always perform as requested. He frequently has to write letters of excuse. One year my daughter asked for a stop watch just before Christmas. Being too short of time to race out to the stores I ordered online. I was too cheap to pay for overnight shipping (over $20 on an $8 stopwatch!) so here is the letter left in the stocking:

Dear hmc,
I'm so sorry not to have the stop watch that you requested. I had it all ready for you but the reindeer took it when I wasn¹t looking, and used it to time their races. They dropped it in the snow and got it all messy, so I will have to find another one for you. I will send the reindeer back with it in a few days ­ it serves them right that they have to make an extra trip.
Love, Santa

A few days later the promised stop watch appeared with this note:

Dear hmc,
We¹re sorry that you had to wait for this. The Boss was VERY cross with us, and he made us come out to you specially even though we were tired after Christmas, but we had a LOT of fun with your stop watch.
Love, Santa's Reindeer

My daughter (now age 15) has never asked about the existence (or not) of Santa. I think she decided early on that if she didn't ask she could still hang up her stocking. My son asked from time to time, and got evasive answers from me. When he was about 8 or 9 he said to me "When I'm married and have kids, you will tell if it is really you who leaves the presents won't you? I'll need to know whether or not to get the presents for them". Last year for the first time I asked them if they still wanted to hang up stockings. "Of course we do!" they both exclaimed. I'm sure that the same will be true this year. After all, who can resist the chance of a tangerine and a bouncy ball!

DeaDLiNeS AMuSe Me

Happy Thursday Chickens!

The winner of the STOP GINGERBREAD CRUELTY PLATTER is........ (drumroll please) BJ!!! Congrats!

Here is the GUEST BLOG schedule for all you other elves--who will also get a little sumpin sumpin when you submit your wonderful blog entries-which did I mention should be no more than 5 paragraphs long and either incredibly moving (OMGawd I must rent my garments and tear my hair) or pee in your pants funny--but NO PRESSURE.

Monday December 14- The week will kick off with a post from the Bloggy Goddess that is Thystle.
Wednesday December 16 - We'll hear from the fabulous Ruth
Friday December 18- We'll read something that will make us have bad dreams all weekend from our man Kreg
Monday December 21 We'll see what Jen has to say about all this
Tuesday December 22 We''ll read a pithy entry from the never verbose BJ
Wednesday December 23 We'll read what Harbormom has to say
Thursday December 24 I'll wish you all a verrrrrry Merrrry.

(Blue & Kristin-I knew you did not want to write, but if the fancy strikes you feel free to jump right in)

Speaking of blog entries- the fantabulous Paul sent me this little entry in days of yore but it got lost on the mess that is my desk. I had promised to publish it, and he reminded me that i never did so. So here it is...a very big AWWWWWWWWW. Thanks Paul!!!

My grandfather was diabetic. In his later years, he had trouble eating. Though he was still exercising regularly, he had little appetite. I came across one of your products in a store. A big yellow "motivational cereal bowl." I'm not sure what you'd intended it for, but it was perfect for Grandpa. The slogans encouraged him to power through breakfast, and the sheer size of the bowl made his portion seem less intimidating. He ate from it pretty much every day, and got quite a bit of enjoyment out of it. And it helped my mother in her constant battle to keep his weight up. Just wanted to let you know of its success, and to thank you for the good it did us. Today, it sits on the counter in his memory, and I can't help but think of him every time I see it.

ELVeS WaNTeD

Haitus. Sabbatical. A Break. Whatever you want to call it, it has become obvious that manning the blog this month has gone the way of shaving my legs in the winter.

So here's the deal, Chickens.

For the month o December, I'll be featuring your fabulous, funny, tear jerking, controversial or irreverent stories about Your Holiday Traditions.

That is, if you'll send them to me via email at L V Mud (at) a o l. IF YOU DO- YOU GET A GIFT!!! Yes Chickens, I will send you a little sumpin sumpin if you send me a little sumpin sumpin. EVERYONE WHO WRITES A POST WINS!!

YOU CAN ALSO WIN A FABULOUS GINGERBREAD PLATTER BY SIGNING UP TO PARTICIPATE IN COMMENTS BELOW. Sign up by Thursday, December 11th at which point I will announce the winner and release a schedule of guest bloggers.

BTW: your own blog need not suffer on my behalf. Double posting is permitted. Ms. Claus in lingerie is not (sorry Kreg.)

So sign up below to help keep this blog chugging along in the month of December. Picture me, standing beside a red kettle, singing Silent Night if it helps.

Le BLoG

Some ex husbands go bald or get fat. Mine did neither. I know, because he has a blog.

I figure pimping his blog two decades after our divorce is the least I can do; seeing as he let me keep the china.

HaPPy TuRKeY DaY!

I know it is tomorrow, but most of today will be spent at The Spawn's school-where ComplicatedBoy is performing in the 3rd Grade play. His big line is: "Announcing-The Teams of the NFC" but yesterday he mistakenly said "Announcing-The Teams of the KFC" which is ironic, since Kentucky Fried is wayyyyy too healthy for us, but not as bad as it could have been if he had gotten even more creative with the letters F, C and K. Whew.

So Chickens, here are some great Thanksgiving Day quotes to read at your computer while you should be doing something more productive. I hope you and yours have a wonderful day. I am thankful for my family, my friends, my health, and obviously, GOOGLE would be at the top of the list today.



George Carlin
We're having something a little different this year for Thanksgiving. Instead of a turkey, we're having a swan. You get more stuffing.

Erma Bombeck, No One Diets on Thanksgiving
What we're really talking about is a wonderful day set aside on the fourth Thursday of November when no one diets. I mean, why else would they call it Thanksgiving?


Jon Stewart
I celebrated Thanksgiving in an old-fashioned way. I invited everyone in my neighborhood to my house, we had an enormous feast, and then I killed them and took their land.

Johnny Carson
Thanksgiving is an emotional holiday. People travel thousands of miles to be with people they only see once a year. And then discover once a year is way too often.


Kevin James
Thanksgiving, man! Not a good day to be my pants.

What are you thankful for?

BaNaNa PeaLS

Actual Real Life Conversations with Banana at Chez Veasey this weekend.

BANANA: Mommy, why do we want God to blow everything up?
ME: What do you mean?
BANANA: How come we sing Kaboom - by-ya My Lord?




(After asking The Spawn to set up The Nativity this weekend. Because we used to be in retail.)
ME: Did you finish setting up the manger?
BANANA: No, because Jesse put the baby Jesus down his pants. And now Christmas is ruined forever.


(While I am beside her reading in bed)
BANANA: Mommy, both our breath smells like we ate our favorite things! Mine smells like I had a bowl of popcorn and yours smells like you had a bowl of wine!

(At brunch yesterday.)
BANANA: Mommy you know why I don't like mustard? Because it's called grey poop-on.

OuR SCHooL iS CHooL

When The Spawn reached school age, we faced a decision many parents have to make living in The Big Apple: Public Education or Private Education.

I taught Kindergarten for several years in one of the most elite private schools in Manhattan. That shipping heir that dated Paris Hilton? He was in my class. That socialite that appears often on Gossip Girl? She was in my class. I can tell you that the President of HBO has a pink marble staircase in his brownstone, and that the Saudi Arabian princess I taught wore three carat diamond earrings that dwarfed her tiny earlobes. But what I can't say is that the $28,000 they paid for a half day of kindergarten back in the 90's bought them a truly exceptional experience. Fingerpainting is fingerpainting even if your smock is from Prada.


That said, we originally pursued the idea of a Private School for ComplicatedBoy and The Banana. We completely blew the interview for CBoy. I believe I described him by saying: "He's Complicated." Right before I CRIED. That's right: in the middle of an interview with a Channel wearing Headmistress, perfectly manicured nails tapping a long list of interview questions in a folder, the vastness of my love for my boy washed over me, and I began to weep and my nose began to run copiously. Although she had begun the interview by saying she had LOTS to ask us, two minutes later she closed her file and told us she had "enough information to make a decision." They later sent us a letter:




So we pinned our hopes on The Banana to pave the way into a fine institution of learning. Except the actress Molly Shannon was present in our group interview,





and while we had all been told beforehand to dress our children in casual playclothes, her ginger haired daughter arrived in A Red Sequined Dress. RED SEQUINS. So nobody noticed when Banana created an exact replica of the Parthenon in the block area. Everybody was looking at Molly Shannon to see if she would smell her armpits, and when they weren't looking there they were looking at THE RED SEQUIN DRESS. We didn't get in there either.


But everything happens for a reason Chickens, and as luck would have it, we landed in one of the Greatest Schools in The World. A school with small class sizes, a curriculum that values the arts, great principal, and a swimming pool in the basement!! A FABULOUS, AMAZING, PUBLIC SCHOOL!!! And We Love It. The Spawn have thrived there, as have we. We love our school. It is The Best.


But our school is in trouble now thanks to Mayor Bloomberg and a total lack of city planning. The past few years have seen a huge influx of families move to Chelsea. So many children...No New Schools. So our diamond in the asphalt now faces the possibility of losing it's art room, it's music room, it's library , and it's small class size next year if we cannot get the Department of Education to live up to promises it has made for increased space.

But guess what? YOU CAN HELP. Even if you don't have a child in this school. Even if you don't have a child at all (Kreg, I'm talkin to you.) EVEN IF YOU DON'T LIVE IN NEW YORK!!! Because you have An Email Address!! And if you will just take two seconds to sign an online petition it will help save The Spawn's school!! This will be your good deed for the day, chickens! Just click on this link. The Spawn thank you and so do I!

Two seconds. Come on. Please?