All right. Back to the funny bidness at muffintopmommy. That last post was cathartic but I’m ready to move on embrace being irreverent!

Oh, p.s., I did my good holy deed this week. Last night we took the kids out to dinner, and three nuns in full habits were sitting at the table across from us. Luckily, the boys brought their A-game.  No one took the lord’s name in vain even me,  although 3 year old did ask me if they were “the ice cream ladies” (I have no clue what he meant by that but I know my grandmother is in heaven clutching her rosary beads pleading, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what went wrong?”)

Hubs sneaky eavesdropper was floored to hear one of nuns say, “This is one of Adam Levine’s songs playing right now. He’s on The Voice and is really interesting!” Oh sister, muffintopmommy fistbump. He’s interesting all right. Is now a bad time to admit he’s on my Pinterest pinboard under the category of, “People I’m allowed to cheat on the hubs with”?

THAT'S RIGHT, SISTER. HE WAS SENT FROM GOD---EVEN IF HE'S PROBABLY NOT CATHOLIC.

So what if he weighs less than I do—many have faced greater challenges. Like infidelity. Which I would potentially totally commit with Adam Levine. But it would be infidelity with an asterisk after. Infidelity*: Hubs telling me to go for it is roughly akin to the time I was 8, huffed to my parents I was running away, packed my pleather rainbow suitcase (We are the world!) full of Ramona Quimby books and stuffed animals….and, they patted me on the head and wished me bon voyage.

Buzz.Kill.

They knew I was rolling in my pleated coolots straight toward THE LAND OF MAKE BELIEVE and would circle right back even though they dressed me in questionable attire with even more questionable travel accessories. I blame Fred Rogers. Lady Elaine ain’t real! (And neither is my quest for faux adultery. Don’t call the priest! Don’t.call.the.priest!)

Anyway, back to the good sisters. One of them forgot her leftovers so I ran out to the parking lot to give them to her. (Who knew when their next yummy meal would be? You know the padres probably get all the good eats. Grr.) The three were walking with their backs to me so I yelled, “Excuse me, sister?” and naturally they all turned around. “I had a feeling you’d all turn around!” I bellowed. (Badum dum dum…I just couldn’t help myself. Kind servants of God, they laughed at my lamo joke. Plus, they could see I had their chicken parmesan. And had been drinking.)

Me, 1. Kindly Nuns with kickass musical taste, 0.

Anyway, I do good deeds. I was practically in a coma, forced to drink draft beer with my dinner on a Monday night in front of the good sisters, because I had chaperoned a field trip to the wilderness. After riding on a plush, pimping yellow bus full of screaming first graders for half an hour, we got to look at frog skeletons, stuffed birds, catch bugs, and troll for creatures in a pond with nets and buckets. The woman who guided our tour is a howl and busted my chops for screeching, “Eeew! Yucky bug!” and guffawing at two bugs mating. Worst chaperone ever.

(Sidenote? Today I woke up with a migraine. Coincidence? Don’t ever, ever, ever, ever complain about teachers having their summers off. They need them to recuperate!)

I tried. But I am clumsy in nature. My idea of being outdoorsy is reading People mag at the beach or playing recreational cookout sports. Wiffleball while balancing a beer? Yes, please! Teetering with a bucket in swampophilia? Um, no!

Another mom and I were chatting with the teacher about camping. She asked if I ever camped and I said, not really, because…. hubs and I are afraid of the woods. And don’t like bugs (who I now know thanks to the field trip are vital to our survival…but sorry, still not a fan!). And , we would scream like a 5 year old girl if we saw a wild animal. Yes! Squirrels are too scary! I would be all about camping if I were with someone who knew what they were doing— provided I had a campfire, running water, a shower, warm bed, smores, cocktails, and faux camped on the perimeter of the woods close to vital amenities like Target and the liquor store. Is that too much to ask?

I have no survival skills. None. I would rather be dumped onto a random city street at 2 AM with just my wits about me than be alone in the woods. Truth. At least you can negotiate with people in the city. You’re bound to find someone to help you. In the woods? Bugs? Would bite me. Food? No one delivers. Animals? Would totally eat me for dinner. They’d be all, “Look at that tasty muffin top!” And it would be game over.

Dumped in the city? No prob. Kind of like the time two of my colleagues and I wandered away on a business trip after hitting some bars in a strange city and found ourselves foraging for food at 2 AM. (Unrelated: none of us became CEO. Or CFO. Or anything with a capital “O” at the end.) Did I panic when we walked into the Domino’s Pizza and it had bullet proof glass? No. I just took it to mean Domino’s was the best damn pizza that city had to offer and that people would of course kill for it (It was the midwest. Sorry midwest. I luvs you long time and you rule at BBQ. But pizza should not be made west of NYC.). So, I gave the kid at the window $10 to sell me the very next pizza that came out of the oven. (You haven’t lived ’til you’ve played pizza roulette….was I getting Pepperoni? Was I getting ham and pineapple? Pepper and Onion? Who knew! I still don’t know! It was Domino’s!)

We had mystery topping pizza in hand within seconds and lived to do lots of corporate learnin’/detoxing the next day. ROI! Actionable! Market Driven! Blood alcohol content!

If we were in the woods, I would have kicked it first. No question. If a ginormous animal didn’t make me his Scooby snack, I’d have expired from Diet Coke DT’s or Target withdrawal. Survival of the fittest–I lose!

What about you? Would you rather be plunked in the city or the woods?

With Easter upon us, my kids have been asking for a few things (When did Easter become Christmas by the way? What up with all the ads and kids wanting real presents? Um, no.)…anyhoo, they’ve been asking for pet fish again. This fills my muffin top with dread, because of the mass murder we committed a year ago. It reminded me of this post, and I’m throwing it out there again–as a cautionary tale!

One fish, two fish, gold fish, dead fish.

This one has a little scar.

This one doesn’t know who you are.

Some look like they hit the bar.

Some don’t seem to swim too far.

Why, this one has a big old head.

Oh shit, that one looks a little dead.

And him! And he! And her! And she! Make four more!

By crickey I’ll get that fracky fish store!

From here to there, and there to here, dead fish, dead fish are everywhere.

And oh dear God, what’s that smell in here???

Once upon a time, there was a family with three boys. They all had assorted allergies. One day, the oldest boy caught the mama in a moment of weakness. She might have been detoxing from cream , dizzy from lunges, or possibly, under the spell of Michelob Ultra Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights. Who really knows?

So she grinned, “Sure, why not? We can get some fish.” It’ll be fun, she thought. It’s probably the one pet none of us are allergic to, she reasoned. They’re cheap, they’re easy (we’re still talking fish here, just everyone forget Charlie Sheen for a minute, for the love of God! ). Most importantly, she figured having fish would teach the boys some responsibility. (That? Was a stretch, considering these are the boys who litter her home with used, dirty socks.)

Truthfully, visions of Nemo swam in her head.

This is how it all went down.

Crime table:

SATURDAY, NOONISH, EST:  The five fish buyers march off to the the pet store (rhymes with PetHO) to get their fish on! They are told by the fishie authorities (20 year olds in bad PetHo garb who were maybe definitely sniffing glue from the office supply store on their break) they needed a 10 gallon aquarium for five fish, and they would need to fill it up, do what the instructions said, and then bring in a water sample 24 hours later. If  the water passed the stringent PetHo test, they could buy fish the next day. Whining and boos ensue from the peanut gallery, until hubs tells wifey to lighten up. After getting over the shock of  dropping $85.94 on the aquarium, black rock, mini sculpture, rock garden, Spongebob pineapple (husband!),  and three bags of HOT RAINBOW (we are the world) rocks, they depart!  $86 smackers, no fishies. Hmph.

Wifey flees to the grocery store while hubs misses watching riveting golf on tv, while he painstakingly rinses three bags of tiny rainbow rocks per instructions, washes, and fills fish tank aka aquarium in the name of dadhood. Older boys take turns flicking the tank light on and off while 2 year old squeals, “Fizz! Fizz!” (Fish!) even though, there are no fish in the newly tricked out Fish Ritz.

SUNDAY, 4 PM EST:

After a raging snowstorm dies out, the family trudge to PetHo to claim their charges, h20 sample in hand. After a brief water test and consultation with the esteemed “Fishcare for Dummies” book (could I even make that up?) it was determined by PetHo the water was a little hard, but would be okay. (Side note: Does anyone else find it ironic you need to prove you have a decent home for fish to glue sniffers at PetHo, when dummies who don’t know to come in from the rain bring babies home from nurseries with no cred every single day? My head hurts.) Anyhoo, with much fanfare, the fam each chooses a fish and quickly heads home with: Mario, Sonic, Fizz, Bubba, and Lady Gaga. (She kind of had a poker face and was translucent like a funky egg. What can I say?)

Damage: $27.13

For a few short hours, the family enjoys watching the fab five swimming happily, munching on fish flakes. The dad even remarks it’s soothing to watch them. The kids wave goodnight to the fish and blow kisses. Aww.

MONDAY, 6 AM, EST:

The family runs in to check on the fish. Lady Gaga is slumped against the filter. Daddy tells mummy Lady G. must be sleeping. Mummy wonders if she just had a rough night, like her namesake.

8 AM EST:

Mummy peeks in. Lady G. is still motionless, and oh look, now Mario has joined her by the pole. Something seems fishy.

9 AM EST:

Sonic is partying on the pole with Lady G and Mario. Duh, duh, duh. Another one bites the dust. It’s obvious…these fish…were swimming with the fishes…wait, what? I mean, NOT swimming with the fishes, but “swimming with the fishes”. Okay, they were dead.

12 PM EST: Back from picking up oldest at school and quick errand. Run in to check whilst holding breath. “Mommy, all the fishies but Bubba are sleeping. They must be nocturnal!” That’s right, son. You are a smart boy. RIP, Fizz. *Cries inside—I’ll get you, you glue sniffing rat bastards!*

You know where this is going because you don’t sniff glue, yes? By 4PM, EST, Monday, all of the fab five are gone. GONE!

Despite their best efforts to provide a lovely ecosytem, the mom questions if she led the fish into a death trap–a veritable fish fry. Or were these PetHo fish doomed from the start? The dad wonders what they’ll say. Ultimately they decide it’s too cruel to tell the boys all their fish died when they only enjoyed them a few short hours, so the dad tells them the fish are obviously sick since they’ve been lying around all day, and said he’d bring them back to the fish store and leave them with the fish doctor for a few days.

copyright @someecards

And now, they wait….the tank has been largely replenished with spring water, new drops, and is cycling for a few days, whereupon, the fam will get new fishies….at…rhymes with Pet-Tart.

God save the queen fishes!

Won’t you be my neighbor?

I promise I won’t spy over your hedges, park a rusty car in my yard, and will always lend you a cup of sugar. Or beer. 

The house next door has been on the market for several months. And every time there’s a showing, the kids get all excited and shriek, “Maybe those are our new neighbors!” “Maybe!” I reply cheerfully, but inside, my heart races at the prospect of the unknown! Will they be friendly/unfriendly/TOOfriendly? Will they have noisy parties with lots of booze and debauchery? Will they have noisy parties with lots of booze and debauchery and not invite me? Will they run a Pilates boot camp in their back yard and INvite me?

Oh gawd, oh gawd, who will it be? Seriously. Having a new neighbor wouldn’t terrify me so much, except the neighbor’s kitchen window looks clear out into my back yard. And our last neighbor was an older man who totally kept to himself. I’m a hundred bazillion percent certain he wouldn’t have noticed, or given a rat’s arse,  if I were running around back there dancing like the Situation, kicking a can yelling, “Victory will be MINNNNNE!”

WANTED: FUN NEW NEIGHBORS. THOSE WITH 20/20 VISION NEED NOT APPLY.

I was JUST thinking maybe I should take matters into my own hands and start actively soliciting some new fun neighbors (Where you going? Come back!) when I received an email from our friend and neighbor busting my chops. We’ll call said neighbor, “Badam”. Badam tried to trick me by starting the email in a complimentary fashion, but I knew better–this ain’t my first street fight.  The hammer dropped in paragraph two:

If I may, though, I’ll offer another economic tidbit that might be helpful to another of our neighbors, you, and the muffintop hubs.   Supply and demand works in a funny way.  Driving around the ‘hood you will notice a number of homes for sale.  That’s the supply part.  On the demand side, there is much that consumers look for.  A common axiom related to the purchase of real estate, which I am sure that you have heard, is “location, location, location.”  What this means is that when consumers can choose from a variety of available properties, they are likely to choose the one that has all that they desire and more – especially if it is in a good spot (i.e. location).  This probably will include their perceptions about the residents adjacent to their potential purchase.  What is my point you ask?  Simply this – that perhaps living next to a shed that is only painted on three sides says something to the potential homebuyer about the existing neighbors.   

 BAdam 

P.S. – This is sent only as a wise-ass comment, and is not related in any way with my ARB responsibilities.  And if anyone asks, if the by-laws are read with a strict constructionist’s eye there is nothing in there specifically prohibiting a ¾ painted shed. <——-    (Good to know, Badam, shanks!)

Side note: The ARB to which Mr. HallMonitorNarcBadassBadam refers to is the “architectural review board”. You’re supposed to contact them when you make any changes to your property, which I find rather puzzling since I reside in a neighborhood of suburban tract homes that, while lovely in their ImaytrytoenteryourhomebecauseohwowyouhavetheexactsamehouseasmebutyourdoorcolorisdifferentbutIforgotmyglassesandohimsortatipsyway, 

and I’m relatively certain might be made from popsicle sticks and glue, but hey, who am I to fight the MAN?

Since I’m old fashioned, anything outside is all on my hubs. (Unless I want him to cook dinner/mop the floor/make a bed. Then I’m not old fashioned. This is how you do it, June!)  And some intel on the shed: It was installed in my backyard last year on the promise from the hubs that it would be painted, flowers would be planted in the cutesy little flower box, and shrubs would flank it—in short, it was supposed to look better than my real house! (I might have had visions of stashing myself in there with my crack Pinterest, sipping a cocktail! I’m not above partying with power tools for some alone time.)

So I forwarded the email to my MAN. I said, “Nice going, dude. Badam’s challenging your manly skillz and Imma holding the bag. If you’re looking for me Saturday, I’ll be loitering at Lowe’s hoping Yard Crashers from HGTV finds me!”

He took immediate and decisive action by responding promptly to Badam, throwing me–the woman who bore his three children, one with an epidural I KNOW was fake–under the bus, “I can’t take that much credit, only ½ of it is painted.  If I haven’t painted the back side, facing the neighbor’s house, why would the side facing the “swamp” be painted?  Come on, I only have a few hours during a day to get stuff done until my wife wants to play “kill the cooler”.”

That was uncalled for. And utterly not really false!

I felt inclined to set the record straight.

“Now…BAdam. Surely you know I’m much more savvy than you realize. The 1/2 to 3/4 painted shed is all part of my master plan. You see, the kitchen window in the adjacent property overlooks my deck and my backyard. This is unfortunate for a few reasons. If I may?

Scene one: New neighbors glance out the window to see Muffintopmommy guzzling domestic beer out of a can at 4 PM while her minor children play “Ninjago” with discarded paint brushes and snack on bags of potting soil hubs has yet to put to use on aforementioned shed.

 Scene two: New neighbors glance out the window to see Muffintopmommy frolicking in her wt blow up pool in her Miracle (but not miraculous enough–a hundred bucks, a wish and a prayer only gets you so far, Badam! You’re just lucky your wife does triathalons, mkay?) bathing suit with her screaming white Irish skin, in the shadows of a gorgeous 1/2 painted shed. 
 
Scene three: New neighbors glance out the window to see Muffintopmommy frolicking in wt blow up pool in her Miracle suit with her screaming white Irish skin guzzling domestic beer out of a can while her kids screech, “Mama, I thirsty toooooo!” in the shadows of a gorgeous 1/2 painted shed.”

I don’t need upstanding people moving in next door spying on my Clampett lifestyle, getting all up in my biz, calling social services and slipping Weight Watcher and Supertan brochures under my door. Do.not.need.it.
 
So? The shed? Well, it’s genius is what it is. That shed screams to potential buyers, “Keep on walking, Jack. Ain’t nothing to see here!”

Because we all know the best neighbors, besides fences, are NO neighbors.

By the way, what are you doing Friday night? Wanna come over and play kick the can while hubs paints the shed? Come on over if you’re not too busy with the nerd herd Hall Monitor convention!”

Now if you’ll pardon me, muffintoppers/potential neighbors,I’m off to enjoy my remaining wt solitude while the getting’s good—since hubs has promised to paint the rest of the shed soon, time’s a ticking!

I’m baaa-aaack.

I thought about running away in my flip flops for reals this time, but let’s face it, we all know I ain’t that fast.

The fam and I finally took the plunge and did the Disney trip over school vaca. I have to say, I was a bit of a cynic about the materialistic Disney machine prior to my trip and sort of looked at it like I was checking the box for the kids, but I had soooo much fun. Really. I feel really lucky we got to go even though we might not be able to send the boys to college now. (That mouse is like a B movie mafia guy….smiling at you while he picks your pocket all week!)

GIMME ALL YOUR MONEY WHILE I STAND HERE LOOKING INNOCENT AND DEMURE. ALL OF IT. YES, EVEN THE BEER MONEY. NOW, HAND IT OVER!

Naturally, the most fun was seeing it through my kids’ eyes and getting a sunburn in February. My three year old mauled Handy Manny like a tween at a Bieber concert. Turns out my four year old who’s afraid to go downstairs alone, rocked out on Tower of “Tennis” (aka Terror…he didn’t even say it right the first time which is what made it even funnier), the scariest ride I’ve ever seen —I wouldn’t even get on it. (Bawk-bawk!) The hubs stumbled off it like the walking wounded shouting, “Never again!” like Costanza. And oldest, feeling loud and proud for turning seven the night before the big trip, handled the rides like a pro and told me, “Don’t worry, mom. I’ll hold your hand on the rides because we all know you’re chicken.”

Aww. The shaking must have given it away. Damn.

I’ll spare you all the deets of my trip/Disney education and share just one of the many funny things that happened. I’m in Epcot at Canada buying a beer (eh?) and seven year old is standing right next to me. I’m chatting with my friendly neighbor to the north as I shell out ten smackers for the fun maple leaf souvenir cup (Yes, I am a 12 year old deep down), and I look over and seven year old is sitting on a split rail fence, teetering, and about to fall backwards. I exclaim, “Hey! Get down before you fall!” I could picture the headline in the paper, “7 year old plunges off fence at Epcot while drunken soccer mommy swills Labatt’s Blue nearby”.

It would have been a two foot drop into some Canadian hedges. And I was not drunk! But still. You know how other writers twist things!

But the funniest part was the Canadian bar keep quipping, “Oh don’t worry—-if you fall and get hurt in Canada we have free healthcare!”

Excellent point! I felt better. I needed that $50 urgent care co-pay for my draft beers!

Now who wants to loan me $10 bucks for a box of wine? Because while there truly is no place like home like Dorothy said,  re-entry? Well, it’s difficult in a foot of snow in flip flops. (Now I remember why I usually spend school vaca week at Tarjay!)

So remember a few weeks ago when I said I feel like a biggity buzz kill sometimes, but I would not not not inflict my thoughts on my kids? I vowed to let them go and watch them fly.

As it turns out, surprise! My six year old really seems to dig math. I figured this out over the course of the year and his teacher confirmed it. Good for him! So when a form came home asking if we wanted to sign him up for something called “Math Superstars”, which is  just a few sheets of extra math homework per week, I leapt at the chance for him to math it up.

Now, I wasn’t a horrible math student, but I had to work really hard for average grades, and I despised it like Ohio State hates Michigan, like Carol Brady hated kids playing ball in the house, like muffin top hates swimsuits. With the exception of tying for first place in the multiplication table contest with a smartypants in third grade, I was no standout. (Did I mention the prize was a trip out for an ice cream sundae with the teacher? Ladies and gentlemen, meet Pavlov, the accidental mathematician!) 

Yes, yes I do.

Science and I–which sometimes seemed like thinly veiled math—were hardly bff’s either, but at least in science you could blow stuff up and learn to be grateful for the geniuses responsible for me being able to drive over bridges to fun vacation spots without plunging to my death—-go Physics!). Only because I was a motivated student kind of a nerd who went to a free math SAT prep class after school, did I actually manage to get a better score on my math SAT’s than my English. (You’re the man, Mr. Sweeney!) I’m not sure who that probably surprised more—my math teachers or my English teachers. Regardless, besides balancing my checkbook (and by balancing, I mean going online to see what’s what and making sure I didn’t blow the mortgage at Tarjay) and figuring out important math problems in my head (If the shoes are $59.99 and they are 40% off, how much are they? A great fracking deal!) I’ve steered mostly clear of math the past few decades.

I figured my kids’ math homework might stump me eventually, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I’m not going to lie to you. Some of the Math Superstar problems are hurting my head.

Example:

Five scarecrows had a candy corn eating contest.

Ben ate the most candy corns.

Jen ate more than Len.

Jen ate less than Ken.

Zen ate less than Len.

Write the scarecrows’ names in order to show how much candy corn they ate.

My son and I figured it out together but dude, this is why English people shouldn’t do math. My brain was whizzing. Why are scarecrows eating candy corn? They’re fake. Most scarecrows are badly dressed dudes, so what is Jen wearing? Not faded overalls and bad plaid I hope! And Jen ate more crap candy than two dudes–I wonder if she has a scarecrow muffin top? And anyway, who names their scarecrow Zen? Is Zen a Buddhist scarecrow? Isn’t it bad karma for Zen to try to scare away crows, who are gifts of nature, and overeat candy?

Moving on to exhibit B:

There are 3 children and 1 wagon ( I wanted so badly to scratch out the 3 and the 1 and write out three and one instead!). Two children can play at a time. One child can ride and one child can pull. In the table, show all the ways the children can ride and pull. (Then there is one column for child riding and one for child pulling.)

Well, this is a dumbass question. You know damn right well the one kid who doesn’t get a turn is going to be whining/crying/pitching a shit fit screeching, “When is it myyyyyyy turn? Is it myyyyyyyy turn yet?” You know the kid pulling is going to pull the wagon too fast, and you know that wagons were not designed by the smart bridge Physicists/Engineers because the damn things suck at hairpin turns. So you gotta figure the rider is getting dumped out onto the pavement. So that leaves two kids crying, pitching a shit fit, and one kid remaining. The one kid remaining will demand his turn from the whinybags who are crying, but the two cryers won’t want to pull him so he’ll start wailing, too.

Let’s review, mathletes: that leaves three kids crying, after only one turn. So that leaves 5 different turn combinations to go, math geniuses? I don’t think so. I’m calling bullshit on your fuzzy math. Meanwhile, the mom who sent the three to play with the wagon is cursing under her breath and counting the minutes til happy hour–she knew it was a stupid ass idea in the first place.

 You can be all Big Bang Theory Sheldon smart, but you can’t check your common sense at the door, son!

Finally? This one:

Teaka finishes dinner at 6 o’clock. She reads her book for 2 (t-w-o, mathletes, two!) hours. Then she goes to bed. Draw the hour and the minute hands on the clock to show when Teaka goes to bed.

Okay. But first….what book was Teaka reading? Is Teaka a kid or a grown up? This might help me guess what book. After she puts her book down, does she brush her teeth? Floss? Check her email? Balance her checkbook *cough*? Do some push ups? Write in her diary! Ooh! Check Facebook? Twitter? Pin some shit on Pinterest? Does she really go right to bed? I know you’re thinking the answer is 8 o’clock, but I find that hard to believe, frankly. But with no further information, I was forced to watch 6 year old put 8 on the little clock, but I do not feel good about it. At all. Because again? I have to call bullshit on the math superstars for leaving out pertinent info!

But I will hold my tongue. I will let him go. And I will watch him fly.

This is my brain on math and science.

As my brain explodes. (At what velocity and force, I really don’t know. I was probably talking about 90210 that day in Physics.)

A few months ago, a friend sent me an invitation to something called, “Pinterest”. Have you heard of it? I didn’t know what it was at first so I did what I always do when I don’t know what something is….nothing. (I put the I in initiative.) Then I got another invitation so I took the next step, set up an account under my alias, Muffintopmommy, and promptly forgot all about it. Til one day a few weeks ago when a funtastic muffintopper pointed me to a recipe blog called skinnytaste (nom, nom, low fat goodness!) whose glorious recipe pictures led me back to……Pinterest.

People? 2012 is the year I met my personal crack cocaine.

It was a circuitous route, but like all addicts, I perservered. And once I got there? It was the point of no return—I was ALL in. So now what? Naturally, Iwanna do like most good junkies do…. give others a taste and suck you all down my wayward path. That’s right. After being asked several times last week by friends what Pinterest is, I feel it is now my obligation to spread the good word. (I’m not going door to door. That’s just silly. It’s January in New Hampshire and this territory is owned by Girl Scouts right now. Have you ever tried to cross a sash clad, ponytailed, four foot tall ninja carrying an order form for the holy grail of minty cookies? Don’t. Just don’t. Just smile and give them all your money.)

Wanna come along? Consider this Pinterest 101. Right here. Right now. Time to woman up. This isn’ t for sissies. And it can be confusing. After one friend emailed me asking me to explain it and why it was so addictive, I sent her an email that I thought made sense, to which she responded:

“Ok, I think I kind of get it.  I can pin things to my board and they will stay there if I want to go back to them?  Do you share stuff with others?  I take it back…I don’t think I get it at all.”

She seemed down, so I emailed her back, “You is smart. You is kind. You is important.” Thank you, Pinterest, for reminding me of that phenomenal quote from The Help! I love you Aibileen, I love you!

People who are smart, kind, and important still often can’t grasp the concept of Pinterest because you see, it’s one of those things that’s harder to explain than it is to actually do. I know that sounds weird, but my best recommendation is to jump in with both feet and try it. You do need an invitation from someone who’s already on Pinterest. I know, it’s super exclusive. That’s why I am surprised I got an invite. (But really…if you need an invite, email me and I’ll send you one.)

So here’s my best stab at ‘splaining it. Pinterest is a virtual pinboard. Did you ever cut out pictures from a magazine of things you liked… a fun outfit? A wedding dress? A cool looking kitchen? A yummy recipe? And pin them to an actual corkboard? (Yeah, me neither, but I kinda wish I did.) I hear people who aren’t like me (read:organized) do, or they carefully file these clippings away for future reference/inspiration.

Well now, even disorganized dopes with no initiative can display everything we love! The really crack coke part of it is, you can follow what others display too, and “repin” what they have displayed on your corkboards. And you can have dozens and dozens of corkboards showcasing anything and everything your muffin top desires! For example, I have categories like, “The Yummies” for recipes, “The funny” for hilarious sayings, “Shoes and clothes and shoes, oh my!” for houses (Der, clothes and shoes! Just making sure you’re paying attention–this is so not important!) ,  and “Let’s Get Physical” for exercise tips. I even have a board called, “People I Want To Have A Beer With” and “People I’m Allowed To Cheat On The Hubs With”! Calm down! Stop calling me Newt. It’s just for funnies and let’s face it, Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights isn’t into me hasn’t returned any of my  calls, text messages, or emails.

And who doesn’t love a trip down memory lane? Someone’s pin totally brought me back and led me to the greatness of this 70′s commercial:

Time for Timer!

Makes me teary. And inspiration? Is at your fingertips, my friends!

Can you even guess where I found this fat-tastic weight loss inspiration? Who needs to pay for Weight Watchers! Pfft!

 So pin those yummy recipes, Julia! Showcase the most fashionable outfits you’ll never fit into or be able to buy, Gisele! Pine away for that perfect porch to have a cocktail on, Martha! Be inspired to conquer your muffin top, um, Muffintopmommy!

See, Pinterest is almost like the life we wish we had or everything we aspire to be: in shape, well dressed, well spoken, well intentioned, grammatically correct, repurposing, funny, inspirational, selves……..who drive fantastic cars, cook like famous chefs, sip gorgeous cocktails on sweeping verandas whilst taking time to smell the perfectly pruned hydrangeas.

Mama can dream. Mama.can.dream. Don’t we all deserve a break, if only virtual, from cars covered in winter’s salt, shirts we bought because they were on clearance at Target, and humdrum dinners we could assemble in our sleep?

But hey, just don’t blame me if you’re soon writing status updates on your Facebook page like I did last week:

Dear Pinterest, thanks for making me hungry, hate my clothes, and want a new baby. I would complain, but your inspirational messages prevent me from not appreciating the wonderful kids I have, the (mediocre) food I cook, and (nerd herd) clothes I wear! Well played, Pinterest, well played.

Don’t hate the playah, just hate the game.

**You can even pin blogs! But apparently putting a pinterest button on my blog so you can follow me or pin my blog….is above my pay grade. I tried. And failed. On Pinterest, I’m much more talented…..so if you’re looking for me? Try there. And if anyone finds a blog post giving the 411 on that, pin it baby, pin it!