My sister Quinn came to visit us this weekend. And I tried to convince her to give up her life in Memphis and just live with us but she mumbled something about her loving husband, a mortgage and a ritzy law firm job.

But wouldn’t she rather stay with us and enjoy a jet set life in the city that never sleeps? Oh right, we’re moving to the burbs soon. Ok, so wouldn’t she rather stay with us and enjoy a jet set life just a 1/2 hour from the city that never sleeps, easily accessible by train or car with great public schools and lots of outdoor space?

I guess not.

The weekend included wine, margaritas and some kind of drink called a gin-gin mule. Of course, this gin-gin mule came from one of those hip New York City bars that has no sign and a really long line outside. Rick whined about the line, saying he was too old for this sort of nonsense.

But we stayed. And Rick can thank me anytime for that gin-gin mule hangover the next morning.

On Sunday, we headed to the Central Park zoo.

My favorite part of the zoo was feeding the animals and then holding my hand up to Rick’s face and saying, “Smell my hand. It smells like llama saliva.”

Also at the zoo, they have these super cute turtle shells and you can pose inside them. Of course, my girls REFUSED to pose.  So I either had to resort to snapping photos of other people’s children or Quinn and I could jam ourselves inside and pretended to swim like turtles.

The choice was so obvious.

My Aunt Terrell and her husband Dana also came along for the day. Terrell just happens to be my Hanky Panky dealer (cutest, most comfortable thongs ever) and she arrived with plenty of merchandise to choose from.

Suddenly it sounds sort of shady that my Aunt comes into New York City and sells me lacy thongs out of a backpack.

One final note, we ran into an old friend on Jones Street this weekend.

He’s our friend, Erik.

His job currently has him working in New York City while his wife and three kids are still living just outside San Francisco. That’s a 3,000 mile commute. This guy deserves a martini. And his wife deserves a martini, a margarita, a gin-gin mule and whatever the hell else she wants.

So I heard a news anchor (no, not my husband) complain this morning that there has been too much news coverage of the Obama’s new dog. Why? Just because there are entire blogs dedicated to the topic?!

I mean, where else are you going to find out that First Pet Bo’s favorite food is tomatoes.

Total side note: Have you ever in your life hung out with a dog that loved tomatoes? I don’t want to make any predictions but a dog with a tomato addiction might have some issues to work out.

Anyway, seeing as we’re in a recession, layoffs are everywhere, tea parties (I did not say tea bag parties) are rampant, pirates are back in action and we’re at war with two countries… what’s the problem with a little frivolous, happy news now and then?

And anytime I hear that somebody else has purchased or adopted a dog, a dog that I personally don’t have to walk, feed or take care of – that does indeed make me happy. I really like dogs. I just don’t like the “spend all my money meeting all their crazy canine needs” part.

Maybe that anchor, who thinks Bo has gotten too much press,  just misses the good ole days when we used to obsess over Michelle Obama’s sleeveless shirts.

Speaking of happy (you know, right up there before Michelle’s blouses), I’m so excited my sister is coming to visit this weekend from Memphis. I wanted to take her to my favorite new BBQ place in the city and was just about to call up and make a reservation when I had a very brief moment of genius and remembered that SHE LIVES IN MEMPHIS. I mean, the girl is drowning in BBQ sauce 365 days a year and I want to take her for some Manhattan ribs.

So I have to think of some place else which makes my brain hurt a little bit but I’ll come up with something.

Meanwhile (and then I’ll leave you alone so you can enjoy your freakin’ weekend without me rattling on about dogs and ribs), I want to mention my kids because I heard this is supposed to be a parenting blog. The other day, 4 1/2 year-old Dylan says to me…

“Do you think you and Daddy could get married again because me and Summer missed the wedding.”

How sweet is that?

She made it sound like they wanted to be there but you know, they had a conflicting engagement like their annual racquetball tournament or something.

Well, at least she’s not asking me for a dog.

mama bird notes:

If you want to follow my genetics journey on 23andMe, here is an excerpt from my latest post.

“My dad is a bit obsessed with crab cakes lately. He orders them in every restaurant we go to. And then he immediately judges them. And when it comes to critiquing food, my father is very definitive…”

To read more of this post on 23andMe, click here.

Remember how we thought we had sold our apartment when our buyer suddenly headed off to Central America on a vacation and apparently is still lost in the jungle and surviving solely on bananas and berries because we never heard from him again?

Well, we found another buyer. One without immediate international travel plans. Nothing is signed yet so please please please don’t even consider offering us even one smidge of congratulations. Not a mazel tov. Not even a thumbs up. Seriously, put your thumb down. Why are you trying to curse me?!

And now I’m sort of FREAKING.

Because what the hell do I know about living in the suburbs? Sure, I grew up in the suburbs but you know, I was like 11. That was 4 billion years ago.

I mean, what if no one likes me. For instance, I drop off  Summer at this class twice a week here in the West Village and it’s basically nanny central except for two other moms who can barely say hello to me because apparently they have so much riveting material to discuss with each other. They practically skip off to coffee hand and hand and I sort of look down at my Blackberry like I have something VERY important going on but really, I’m just wondering why they are so unfriendly.

So what if ALL the moms in Westchester are like that?

Also, my one Westchester friend told me that in her town everyone wears exercise pants 24/7… like they are headed to the gym or just went to the gym or might someday go to the gym. And she, an ex-NYC girl, finally broke down and started wearing exercise pants too.

So, of course, I’m now imagining the rest of my life in exercise pants and frankly, I don’t think I own enough.

And not only do I need to order some Lululemon like immediately but I also have to start reading books because I think book clubs are the key to making new smart, funny, fabulous friends.

But reading could seriously take my focus off “Gossip Girl”, “90210″ and other teen dramas that need my undivided attention (not to mention all the Zac Efron TV appearances lately) so maybe I should find a TV club where I could make so-so smart, funny, fabulous friends.

And I think I’m going to need a suburb transition support group.

Because obviously, I’m prone to nervous breakdowns over exercise pants.

mama bird notes:

Have you seen Contributing Mama Daphne Biener’s piece on high fructose corn syrup? YOU MUST. It’s scary but incredible information. Click here to read more.

Are you going to Blogher ‘09 in Chicago this summer? Jessica, Wendi, Christy, Anna and I need more votes for our proposed panel on humor, “Dying is Easy, Comedy is Hard.”

If you’re interested, please sign up. Seriously, help us gals out. Click here and tell BlogHer that you want to hear our fabulous insights on humor writing. Oh, and then shoot me an email with your fabulous insights on humor writing so I have something to talk about.

Finally, a thank you to Lainie of My Baby Blog for saying such sweet things about me. I am very humbled.

By Contributing Mama Daphne Biener

It’s one thing to give into temptation every now and then.  I should know.  I am the first to admit a certain talent for polishing off an entire box of girl scout cookies.  It is also I who successfully dives elbow-deep into my kids’ Halloween stash each fall.

But giving in to such temptations is one thing.  It’s completely different to be tricked into believing that these things are not indulgences at all.

Which is why an Australia consumer watchdog group recently called foul, and made Coca Cola retract ads they had run spouting off about the wholesome goodness of soda. Let’s get something straight: soda may be tasty, it may be a convenient way to infuse an extra dose of caffeine, but it is no health food.

We have enough information to wade through in our effort to make informed decisions.  All I’m asking for is that our indulgences are indulgences, and our healthy choices really are healthy.

So yes, high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) really is a big deal. A big bad deal.

Oh come on, the corn syrup lobby is saying.  Sugar by any other name…  Who cares if that sweetness takes the form of honey or brown sugar or highly processed high fructose corn syrup?

We should care, a lot.  If moderation is the key, then HFCS is a slippery Houdini. It’s nearly impossible to moderate the stuff.

How can we even keep track when this sneaky substance lurks in every nook and cranny of the supermarket? It’s not as though we seek it out.  It sneaks in to our diets by way of soft drinks, cereals, and condiments.  Crackers, bread and peanut butter.  And just about anything else that we buy in a box.

It’s everywhere.  That Snarky Spy of Safeway.  That Trojan horse of Target.

The stuff is messing with our minds.  Am I right to be a little peeved to find that after obediently digging into a healthy lunch, (let’s say salad, yogurt and a glass of chocolate milk) I learn that the dressing, the yogurt and the chocolate milk are all packed with high fructose corn syrup?  Here, in my deluded quest for health, I have just consumed the equivalent of a jumbo-sized bag of M&Ms.  With none of the fun.

And that doesn’t even touch on the myriad of other health issues that hfcs brings to our lives.  Studies have found that food items loaded with HFCS have unacceptably high levels of mercury.  Mercury is linked to problems in brain development.  HFCS is also blamed for the recent and drastic increase in diabetes in our country.  That super-sized soda sits on the side of the meal pretending to be a harmless drink; our body devours it like a bag of Halloween candy.

Thing is, our bodies don’t know what to do with the HFCS; we don’t get full from the stuff, and that means we can consume many more calories from HFCS than we ever could from sugar.  And trust me, I can consume a lot of sugar.

If I want to eat my candy, I’ll eat my candy.  But if I’m going to sit down to a healthy lunch by way of reparation for that splurge, I better get full credit when I eat those greens.  I do not want my veggie intake tallied in the dessert column down there in internal accounting.  And I don’t want to unwittingly spoon this over-processed, mercury-laden, spy of a pseudo-food into my kids, like I did yesterday when I poured out their Rice Krispies.

********

Want more information about this stuff?  Read Michael Pollan’s book, Omnivore’s Dilemma.  It’s one of my favorites.  Also add the documentary King Corn to your Netflix list.  Two crazy college grads try to grow some corn, and get themselves educated in the process.

Daphne’s Tips at the Store:

1. If the item says HONEY in the title (ie, Honey Wheat Bread,) it usually DOES NOT include HFCS. This is not always true, but a good quick rule of thumb.
2. The aisles on the inside harbor the most hiding places for HFCS.  Shop the outside perimeter.
3. If it comes in a box, a bag, or a jar, take a quick glance at the ingredients.
4. Nothing we eat should have 546 ingredients in it.
5. If you want that Popsicle, eat the Popsicle.  And enjoy it in full awareness.

You can read more of Daphne’s work on The Rocky Mountain Moms Blog, on her eco-fabulous site, A Greener Biener, or here on the mama bird diaries.

I can still remember the moment I fell hard for VH1′s reality rocker dating show, “Rock of Love,” starring Poison frontman Bret Michaels. I somehow missed season 1 and 2, pretty much the same way I failed to embrace skinny jeans for the first couple years they were around.

But then one fateful evening, I caught an episode of season 3.  One of the contestants, a very wasted Kelsey (us sharing the same name is just a flattering coincidence) yelled out, “I can’t be the first girl to ever get drunk and lay on a speed bump.”

Apparently, Bret couldn’t handle a chick who spooned with speed bumps while intoxicated so Kelsey’s tour ended right there.

But this Kelcey stayed on for the rest of the ride.

In last night’s finale, Moody Mindy lost out to the Penthouse Pet Taya. I was personally rooting for Mindy. Mindy proved to be a terrible singer in one of the challenges and given that my 4 year-old can carry a tune better than I can, I felt a special kinship.  Or maybe I was just somehow brainwashed by her deep Southern drawl.

“Rock of Love” is a trifecta addiction:
1. Fascination with the number of ways cleavage can be displayed.
2. Amazement by how many open mouth kisses Bret can deliver in one episode.
3. Deep pondering over what’s under Bret’s bandana.

Does the guy have hair underneath there?

Can anyone find a photo of him (without a bandana or cowboy hat) in the last 5 years? Link to it and maybe I’ll call you up and sing “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” You just won’t find this offer on other blogs.