Listen to Your Mother Videos Are Up!

I’m just poking in to let you know the videos from our Listen to Your Mother show in Providence on May 10, 2014 are up!

Here is my video.

I sound angry, but I was just trying not to collapse in a puddle of tears. And I mostly succeeded. Also, would it have hurt me to smile?! Apparently!

Corrective Action: Next year – humor!!



Please also check out a few of my favorites from our show, Clare Blackmer reading A True Tale Most TragicAnika Denise’s Goldie’s Death Leap, and Daphnee Rentfrow’s Really? Really! . 

Hell, while you’re there, you might as well just watch them all.

About these ads

Two A*Holes Go to a Concert

It was our first time seeing Michael Bublé, my mother and I. We were in the nosebleed seats, a place where I usually find myself, due to my remedial Ticketmaster skills, about five rows from the last in the arena. The place was filling up, though the two seats in the row in front of us remained vacant. When we saw that no one was coming, we took the liberty of dangling our feet over into the next row.

When the opening act finished, the seats were still empty. I had grown confident in the prospect of free foot seating for the entire evening.

A couple turned the corner and began to ascend the stairs towards our row.

“That’s them,” my mother said.

I sighed, sad to lose my feet seat, and returned my open-toed black platforms to the floor.

The couple was on the younger side – I’d say late-twenties, early thirties. The guy had sort of a Nick Lachey/Situation thing going on, all v-necked and shiny, and the girl was tiny, highlights, extensions, and a red halter dress that seemed to be missing some pieces.

I thought nothing of the couple until we caught a whiff of the chick. It may have been really great, expensive perfume, but due to the sheer quantity, I was unable to tell. I squinched my nose. My mother, whom, in her advanced age seems to have lost her inside voice completely, began sighing loudly, the way one does when someone at the checkout drops sixteen items on the belt in the twelve-item express line.

The ladies next to her waved their hands in front of their faces. The people behind me coughed. It was a little uncomfortable.

We figured it would dissipate, and I returned my attention to the show. After all, I didn’t pay $104 a ticket to see them.

When Mr. Bublé emerged, with a sassy slide, from behind a curtain, they whipped out their iPhones. The woman took about 87 pictures, while the guy texted? Emailed? Not sure. Something with words. I didn’t mind the glare, though – I had my phone out, too.

Two songs in, neither had released his stronghold on the iPhone. Passkey…do something…put it down…passkey…do something…put it down. I’d had my sandaled foot puked on, in the rain, at a Bon Jovi concert. I’d had my handbag submerged in beer. Drunk people had fallen on me. I’d lost a shoe, hopping on one foot for two hours, until I found it. I’ve clearly experienced worse at concerts.

Once the phones disappeared, and possibly realizing there was nothing with which to busy one’s hands, the couple started getting a little frisky.

The dude slid his hand up her dress. She kind of rode side-saddle in her chair. They kissed. They kissed again. She kissed his ear. He wrapped his arms around her. She yelled “Wooooooooo!! I LOVE YOU!!!” towards the stage in the middle of a song. They straight-up made out. She got up and sat on his lap.They swayed in the seat, like two sixteen-year-olds who had just had their first taste of Smirnoff Ice.

I was embarrassed for all the older people sitting around us. And myself. Clearly, executive functioning appeared suspended.

Were they drunk? I had no idea.

Eventually, awkwardly pulling her dress back over her what I can only imagine were waxed (or very carefully trimmed) lady parts, the woman returned to her seat.

Both pulled out their phones. She took another 257 pictures, while he did something with words.

She leaned back, with her phone in her hand. Kissed his ear. Made out some more. I’m not even sure they realized they were at a concert.

I really, really tried not to pay attention to them. But they were moving and swaying and making that sucking sound. She had also buried her knees in the man (again, older gentleman) next to her’s legs, as she sprawled across her seat, grinding on her Backstreet Boy. The man pretended not to notice. I silently hoped his pacemaker wouldn’t explode.

It was around an hour-and-a-half in, I began fantasizing about kicking them both in the head. Or just leaning down and having one of those there-are-older-people-all-around-you, are-you-kidding-me conversations, but I spent the time (between crass WOOOOOOs and I LOVE YOUs) just willing them to leave.

Before the encore, she put her clothes back on, whipped her hair around for the hundredth time, and they shot off down the stairs. Back to their hotel room? To make people at the game tables puke? Or worse? Who knows?

Our two rows looked at each other, nodded, congratulated ourselves, like we had just discovered the cure for Ebola.

I leaned over to my mother and said, “I think I picked the wrong seats.”

I always pick the wrong seats.


But it sure was a good show. HEY-OOOOO!

Momma Has Left the Building *PLEASE READ*

I have gathered you all here today to make an important announcement.

No, I’m not pregnant. (HAHAHAHAHA! Can you imagine that?!? Whoa, boy! Give me a second to wipe the tears from my eyes. Deep breath. Phew. Okay.)

After nearly three full years of being Momma Be Thy Name, your main dish and mommy blogger extraordinaire, I am afraid to inform you that she’s retired.

Well, what the hell does that mean?

The short answer is, I no longer identify myself (or my blog) as Momma Be Thy Name. Or, as others have, at many points, referred to me, Mamma, Mommy, or Mama. I know. It’s a mouthful. I have retired the logo and the tagline, and have edited my social media accounts to reflect the same.

There comes a point in every endeavor at which costs begin to exceed benefits, and though you know my kids are torturing me after bedtime, hauling the water out of the tub, and coloring on the walls (green marker this morning – has anyone seen the Magic Eraser?), I had to face the fact that, though it is fantastically entertaining (for you AND I), writing about it is simply not my passion.

Sure, I enjoy laughing and crying and marveling at my kids and family, and my own rapid (and sometimes painful) evolution as a mother, but it’s not the ultimate direction I wish to take, rather, the “brand” I wish to remain.

I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. It’s in my bones, my blood. I’ve been narrating scenes, and life, in my head since kindergarten. It’s just who I am. Over the years, I’ve been lucky enough to build and grow a diverse collection of skills (and followers – Hey!), and for that, I am grateful. But I feel that now is the time to build upon those skills, broaden my scope, and cultivate further growth.

I’m still here, it’s still me – and I intend to continue writing here about many of the same topics I have been – making you laugh (hopefully), cry (I hope not!), or nod in agreement. Even my kids. Sometimes. Maybe.

I’d love for you to stay and join me on this new leg of my journey, if you don’t miss Momma too much, but I totally understand if you don’t want to.

I was lucky enough to keep all my accounts intact through this change, so if you’re following me on Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, Facebook, etc…you really need not do anything.

I hope to continue to provide you with value, laughter, and thought-provoking content. There are just a few things you’ll see less of. Like the word “momma”.

All good things must come to an end, and for that dear, sweet cartoonified lady, I’m afraid this is it. Back to your ’50′s-style Formica kitchen. Go on!

I do encourage you to stick around, though – we may just be approaching the good part.

The Movies I INSIST My Kids See

I’ve been working on this post for a while, carefully weighing the merits of some of our new classics, in hopes that I can carefully curate them and be the first to

Terminator 2: Judgment Day

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

introduce them to my kids.

Your kids, you say? But they’re only three and four!

I know. I know.

Let’s just say I’m looking ahead – being proactive.

If you were to compile a list of movies you absolutely insist your kids see, what would be on it?

Please come by and read mine at BlogHer. It’s got a few surprises. And bring your 3D glasses. There’s always the possibility of a 3D re-release.

My Dreaming Boy


dreams (Photo credit: raffacama)

“I had two dreams, Mommy!” he yells at my face, in my darkened room, at the crack of dawn.

“One good dream, and one bad dream…” he begins.

I don’t remember all the details. I wish I did. It was early, and he was talking so quickly. He and I were racing in race cars, and there was a huge dinosaur that ate lots of plants.

That was a few weeks ago.

He’s come to me since, explaining the details of the stories that happen while he sleeps. I just stare at him, watch the tip of his nose bob up and down as his cherubic little lips struggle to compensate for the speed of his mind.

I could listen to him all day, talking about what he sees and does while he’s asleep. I’m awed by the fact that he remembers events that occurred at least a year ago, and even more so that he can tell me of his adventures during the night.

Every morning, when he (and both his siblings) cuddle up to us and ultimately fidget to a point that they’re excused from the room, I secretly hope he’ll roll over and tell me about angry mountain goats, unending rainbows, or marshmallow clouds.

I can’t get enough.

And I don’t think I have been able to truly reconcile with the fact that I actually grew his tiny brain, in his tiny head, in a sac, in my stomach, that has itself sprouted neural pathways sufficient to dream.

It’s a milestone. To me. I’m not sure the parenting guides note it as such (I stopped reading that drivel before he was two), but it’s definitely a milestone.

As right-brained as I am, I always get a little burst of joy when one of my kids makes up a song, or a poem. Or they interpret music through their bodies. Or when their insides come spilling out through a piece of art.

That’s the stuff I live for. The words, the harmonies, the expression.

Just to hear him tell me he had a dream was exhilarating. His ability to articulate the content is an amazing bonus.

As such, I’m looking forward to hearing him tell me what he sees in paintings, when he looks up at the sky, and when he notices a pretty girl for the first time.

I reckon it will be equally sweet.

This is one of the tiny little nuggets of unadulterated goodness in my life. A Ferrero Rocher, so to speak. A dark chocolate sea salt caramel. And I’m going to savor it. For the next year or so.

Until my twins start telling me about theirs.



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 9,263 other followers