My purses used to be fashionable and admittedly, sometimes real and sometimes faux. Now, they’re just honking. They’re just about as stylish as something that needs to haul small cargo can be, that also typically costs, oh, $50 bucks or less.

I swear I’m getting curvature of the spine from carrying my purse. It weighs about 1439 pounds and has so much random stuff in it, I’m pretty sure if I got stranded on a desert island, I’d have enough loot in there to eat for a week, send out SOS signals and if all hope is lost, MacGayver my ass a small boat to sail out of there. But….would I want to? Being temporarily stranded on a random desert island sounds strangely appealing to me—a little bit less so than a jury sequester (Not that I’ve thought much about it. At all.) but all the same, still pretty tempting. I could pretend I was on ”holiday” at an all inclusive resort….sans the delish food, running water and free flowing booze.

Yeah. Um, on second thought, I’ll just stick to my getaway to the grocery store. Frankly, you lost me at no booze.

The best part about lugging around half a ton of ca-rap, is that when I actually need one of the 47 million things in there, I have to root around in the bottomless pit for five minutes to find what it is I’m looking for. I practically have to send a dive team in.

“Okay, stand back— we’re going in for that dented (yet salvageable!) tampon now!”

“Ouch! Oh man, I just got stuck with a random safety pin, what the hell?! But I did find this really cool mini cop car!”

Danger lurks at every turn in the mommy purse.

It’s also super funtastic when I whip my honking bigger than my arse mommy wallet out to pay for something at the drug store and stuff starts to rain down on the floor. (Do I really need to hang onto the grocery receipt from 2008…pretty sure I’m not going to be returning the French’s mustard…but do I have the receipt for the sweater that didn’t fit from last week…..offff course not. Fracking muffin top mania.)

And I know I’m technically an adult and thus, should be able to buy anything I want without fear of embarrassment, but does it ALWAYS have to be the one random teenage boy who can’t look me in the eye (his issue, NOT mine!) when I’m buying the three pack pregnancy test?* I know it should not make me blush since I am A. married and B. old as dirt. But still. Look at me through your bad Bieberbangs, punk, look at me! (Oh.My.God, I’m old enough to be his m-o-t-h-e-r aren’t I?)

Well. Still!

Listen kid, ain’t no shame in this game! Nope, none whatsoever. Even the most pious in society won’t argue, I am OLD enough and MARRIED enough to have sex if I want to punk, and if I get pregnant (gulp) the more the merrier (Insert Howard Dean scream….now!)

* Shut the front door and wash your mouth out with soap! I’m totally kidding about the pregnancy test. Just because I said I could have sex doesn’t mean I actually do!!! Wait, is it a leap year?

This is a variation of a Christmas post I ran on muffintopmommy a few years ago and was published at Parent: Wise Austin. It’s one of my faves. I hope it makes you laugh…and inspires you to shop wisely this Christmas season!  

Peace, love, joy, and rum!

MTM

You know what’s fun?  Getting a “recycled” number from the phone company.  Especially when that recycled number belonged to a toy store that went out of business — just before the holidays.

Ho freaking ho. And don’t forget the bottle of rum.

Even though this is our fourth holiday season in this house, we’re still getting calls for that toy store. Seriously, if you don’t know the joint went out of biz four years ago, clearly you weren’t their most loyal patron. And frankly? Maybe if you had been more loyal, the damn store wouldn’t BE out of business, and I wouldn’t be in this nightmare before Christmas.

The first year I should have been on Kringle’s payroll, or at least honored by the local Chamber of Commerce or something. I got tons of calls that all went down something like this:

“Hello?”

“Yeah hi, is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“Um, no, I’m sorry it isn’t. They went out of business recently. Their other location is still open. I’d try them. Here’s their phone number.”

“Oh thank you so much!”

“No problem. Have a nice holiday.”

Year two, I was still on my A game. My former career in customer service and sales proved an asset. I thought evil thoughts, but in keeping with the spirit of the holiday season, I did not voice them.

“Hello?”

“Is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“No, sorry. The phone company gave us their old phone number Yeah. Viva Verizon—NOT!”

“HA HA. You must get a lot of calls. I’m sorry to bother you.” You should be. I’m right in the middle of finding out which condo the twenty-something bachelor in Chicago is going to pick on House Hunters! I think he should pick the one with the killer view of the lake, but HE wants to be nearer to the El! If you want to woo the ladies, killer, go with the view and hoof your butt to the train. Don’t come crying to me when you’re cold and alone, dude!

“No problem. Their other location is still open, though. Why don’t you try them?” And look up the damn number yourself. I ain’t on the clock!

Year Three: I finally wised-up and decided to screen my calls.  Any number I didn’t recognize went straight to voicemail. Now, you’d think that, upon hearing a random woman say thanks for calling Casa de Muffin Top, the would-be Kringle’s shoppers would realize this ain’t no toy shop.

WRONG!

People really are scary stupid. I’m not trying to be all uppity, as I’m no master of quantum physics, but really? Connect the freaking dots, people! Toy store? Gone.

Yet the messages would pile up:  “Hi, do you have the jumping monkey? It jumps? Call me.”

NO!

Then…Granny called.

“Hi, um, my name is Gertrude Granmama and I’m looking for some dolls for my granddaughters. I don’t know what they’re called but they’re very realistic looking—the hair and oh! The eyes move and they smile. I thought maybe you—you know, because you’re a small toy shop might have something nice like this instead of, oh, I don’t know, Walllll —what’s that store?— or Toys-R, um, Toys-R — Oh! One of those, you know, boxy stores. Well, if you could just put me on your list, and please call me back when you get this message, that would be great. OK, all righty then, here is my number. Call me back. Bye. Oh and I can send you a deposit for the dolls? Bye! I look forward to hearing from you!”

I really wanted to ignore the message. Truly, I did. But I just felt too awful envisioning this nice little old lady sitting around doing her crossword puzzles or whatever, thinking she was on the creepy doll wait list, hoping for Kringle’s to call back.

So, out of a sense of some kind of suburban mother obligation, I called her back.  When I got her voicemail, I left a nice message stating that she’d reached the wrong number….blah blah blah….sorry for the inconvenience…blah blah blah…Happy Holidays and good bye!
Later on that evening, the phone rings. I hear my husband chatter for a few moments, hang-up, then RUN upstairs, laughing like a madman.

“That was Granny!”

“Yeah, so?”

 “Well, she told me my wife was so lovely to call and tell her we weren’t Kringle’s,” he choked, barely able to breathe.

“What’s funny about that? I AM lovely! I AM!”

“No, no no! I’m telling you, Granny…is…wasted! Totally on the sauce. She DRUNK DIALED us!”

DRUNK GRANDMA? I BOW TO YOUR AWESOMENESS. I AM NOT WORTHY.

Seriously, how do you not love that granny? She rocks. And at least she had an excuse for not knowing about Kringle’s.

Not so everyone else. ’Cause now we’re on to Year Four and already the calls have started. Now that the other Kringle’s location finally went kaput (yeah, after all of my referrals no less! I did everything I could, really), I have nowhere to send the poor saps on the other end of the line.

Unless…

“Hello?”

“Is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“Why yes it is! I just want to let you know we’ve moved to the basement of Casa De Muffin Top and we now specialize in gently used toys. Please come see our vast selection — our prices are very competitive! Please, please, come on down!”

See, I’ve been wanting to purge a bunch of the kids’ toys, anyway. This just might be my chance to save a trip to thrift store AND make some scratch for the holidays!

Bring it, Santa!

Over the past several months, I’ve been hangin’ at my local library a lot to do some writing. Most of the blog posts you read here I write standing at my kitchen counter or sitting on my couch at night. It’s my comfort zone and where most of all the magic happens. (Oh, my world is grand and I cordially invite you in–but, enter at your own peril. I don’t have time for therapy and a girl can only booze so much—so don’t be getting all judgy on me!)

The library is where I’ve gone to search for some quiet to write a book proposal. Fiction books aka novels are written in their entirety and then sold to publishers. Non fiction is what I write (Really? My theory is why even bother to make $hit up when real life is already full of the crazies, the funnies, and best of all, the perfect storm–the crazy funnies!). Works of non fiction sell based on a proposal (which is essentially a justfication of why a publisher should spend $$ to print your words) and includes sample material. The short version, which you may know if we are buds on Facebook, twitter, or you “like” Muffintopmommy on Facebook (You rule!), is that my book proposal SOLD (I’m not shouting. I’m not!) and so now I get to finish writing the book. Which, I am all kinds of PSYCHED about (ok, maybe I’m yelling a little—in a good way) because I loved writing the sample material and so wanted to finish what I started. I can’t wait to share it with you and all your best friends, acquaintances, colleagues, second cousins once removed, neighbors, people on the street you vaguely know, and your arch enemies,  for the low, low price of I don’t know what but worth every penny!

So! Now I need finish this book. By a deadline. That is in a contract. With a publisher. Which I signed. My real name to. (As opposed to those bouncey house waivers where I sign my name as Juan Valdez. Don’t even think about ratting me out.)

I’m not stressed about my deadline. Honest! But while I love my kitchen counter and my arse loves some BJ’s Wholesale Club leather couch (I’m fancy!), the frat house, though rich in material,  isn’t always the quietest place to work. And while I love my work, it is still work and I want to do my best work while I work at my fun work. That I love. Even though it’s work.

Hi ho, hi ho, off to the ‘brary I go!

So the ‘brary. Growing up, I enjoyed going to the library not only because I’ve always loved me some book learnin’  and entertainment, but the library in my town felt so grand with wide open spaces and super high ceilings. The space seemed almost church like in it’s size and in the way people carried themselves, speaking in hushed tones, almost reverentially.  Sometimes I’d go with friends after school to do school work and you did not want to be hushed by one of the librarians! (Really quiet people scare me. There, I said it.)

So when I sat down at one of the tables in my current library (though lovely and cozy, much newer and less grand than childhood ‘brary), I was happy to see the following sign:

NOT A HUGE FAN OF THE MULTICOLORS---BUT AMEN TO THE MESSAGE!

Confession: I can be very impatient.

They say patience is a virtue, but it’s not a virtue that shares my DNA. Perhaps it went missing with my waistline. And my dowry. And my ability to do long division. I really don’t know.

See, my impatience manifests itself into little voices rattling in my head, as I bite my tongue till it bleeds. (I don’t need medicine! I’m NOT the one with the problem…read on! Read on!)

 If anyone could hear these voices, they might be scared. Sometimes they seep out under my breath and my husband is privy to them—he says I’m “sick”, that I need to calm down. I guess he’s the yin to my yang, or is it the yang to my yin? Either way, he might just save me from myself some day.

Is it wrong that I daydream about slamming people in the grocery store with my honking race car shopping cart (which are ridiculously hard to steer…I would soooo get away with it)? I admit it, I have produce rage.

If I’m standing behind you and you are hemming and hawing for what seems like an eternity over which ears of corn to choose—peeling the corn back, scrutinizing the ears like you’re a mad scientist in a lab—I might just fantasize about picking one up and beating you upside the head with it.

Come on! You’re buying an ear of corn—not choosing a husband, not picking a house (God help those people’s realtors if this is the saga involved in choosing a vegetable. There is not a high enough commission percentage in the world.) I wouldn’t mind, but corn costs like $1.99 for 739 ears. I want to shove $2 at the corn huskers and just shout, “It’s on me—live with reckless abandon and just randomly pick some and GOOOOOO! Be free from the ties that bind….try it, you’ll like it!”

These have to be the same people in the deli line who order five slices of ham. Five slices? What is that about? You can’t round up to the nearest quarter pound even? What are you doing with five slices of ham? Have you calculated that five slices is the right amount for one sandwich? Are you putting said ham in some kind of recipe? If you ordered a third of a pound and you got seven slices, would that rock your world? You don’t know a dog or a teenager you can throw an extra slice of ham at?

I’m certain the people who putt down the center of the grocery aisles going one mile an hour and refuse to move to the side so you can pass, are the exact same culprits going 45 mph in the fast lane on the highway. I’m not a speed racer by any means (Safety first! Meep!), but people like this just cause needless traffic jams. Worse, I’m positive their snail pace causes accidents, and theorize their lane hogging is actually a symptom of being so self centered they don’t care about the other shoppers and drivers. Now that’s just rude and ignorant—which on the scale of not so great qualities, are far worse transgressions than being impatient. Right? Right?

The only caveat with the supermarket lane hog is if the person is elderly. I can’t get annoyed if an older person is in the way at the grocery store, and no one should ever give someone’s granny a hard time—that’s just wrong. (And if I see you doing it, you’re on notice—you will get a size 8 shoe up your butt or I’ll squish you with my muffin top.)

Besides, we’ll all be old someday. Today, we get carded. (When the cashier forgets her glasses.) Tomorrow, we’re short bussing it to the market clutching the sale flyer— and don’t you forget it.

Old people are also the only ones who get a pass for WRITING A CHECK.

Who even writes a check anymore besides 85 year old ladies? The 85 year olds get a pass because God love ‘em for being out shopping and kvetching about banana prices. But frumpy 40 year olds, they should know better than to hold up the line writing a check since the FREAKING debit card came into favor 15 years ago when they were 25, which leads me to deduce they are just annoying and in desperate need of a corn cob slap as a general public service. You’re welcome.

Really, how you conduct yourself in the grocery store speaks volumes about you as a person. Take heed of my rules and we’ll be fine. Otherwise, you just might get hit with an errant banana if the hubs doesn’t keep me in check. (Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not perfect either. Let’s discuss this over some corn….I’ll buy, you fly!)

I received a very important piece of mail today–express delivery no less. It said “dated material” and “immediate response”. With shaking fingers I tore it open. Perhaps this envelope contained my prize winnings from Kenya! New shoes for mama! Squeelicious!

“Dear Friend”, it began.

Friend? My friends email me. Sometimes they call me (despite knowing a 2 year old will holler the entire time, “I wanna talk to YOU!”). Sometimes they even go all gen Y and text me.

I scan to see which friend sent this formal letter. Wait a sec. It’s  from Bert Priddle. The only Bert I know rocks a striped shirt, and sleeps in a twin bed on Sesame Street. I don’t even think I ever caught his last name, but I know it’s not Priddle. He’s just Bert. Like Beyonce. And Cher. And that hydrangea hating Michigan Brit Madonna.

Bert Priddle, I don’t know how to break this to you, but we ain’t friends. My mama told me to be nice to everyone but you’re a stranger and I’m a little uncomfortable that you’re calling me friend. We’re not even random Facebook friends. You’re not even my best friend’s cousin’s sister’s next door neighbor I met at a party once in the bathroom line and bonded with over the resurgence of pigs in a blanket and PBR. That guy? Is totally my friend now.

And really Bert, I hear just fine, thanks. If you read my extensive body of work (This? Right here. It’s my blog. Not everyone can have a blog, Bert Priddle.  ) you would know that because you would know I live with the loudest people to roam planet earth. Little people, Bert. People who I’m fairly certain might be phenoms because I reckon they can wake the dead.

WE HEAR JUST FINE, THANKS!

Really, Bert Priddle, do your research before you waste your money sending me dated express mail. Your suggestion that my ears “may just be plugged with ‘earwax’” is rather presumptuous, given we’ve never even formally met, aren’t friends, and have never bonded over mini hot dogs. I’m fairly certain even the hubs, with whom I am in the married way a few times a year, does not even know the status of my current ear wax sitch. (Awk-ward. But Bert, you need to know how wrong you are, you really do!)

So Bert Priddle, I will have to respectfully and LOUDLY decline your invitation to your SPECIAL HEARING CONSULATION. (You didn’t have to get all shouty in the letter, Bert. If you’re gonna accuse random strangers of being deaf and ear waxy, it doesn’t mean you have to imply they need glasses, too. You really need to pick a thing and stick with it, Bert.) Own your theme, Bert. Own.it.

It’s too bad, Bert, because if we had crossed paths some other way, maybe we could have been friends. I’m sure deep down you’re a nice person with excellent hygiene, but Bert, I’m trying to serve as an example for my boys, and I can’t just be flying off to earwax inspections, even if they are FREE!, with strangers. I wish you the best of luck with your Miracle Ear, I really do.

One more thing….you wouldn’t know anything about my prize winnings from Kenya, would you? Just text me…….

In muffin tops and clean ears,

Muffintopmommy

It’s the early 80s… a little girl with a blonde bob and a ‘tude grips a Shirley temple, standing impatiently next to her parents in a dark bar. The mom is nursing a pink glass of wine and the father, a draft beer (he clearly won the drink lottery in that crew). It’s a busy Friday night, but the girl doesn’t even hear glasses clinking and people laughing. Expressionless, she watches smoke dance in the dim light as the trio wait for a table in the restaurant, too furious to believe her parents put her in this dreadful situation. As she taps a blindingly white Nike Cortez adorned foot, the tension is palpable. Despite wearing her brandy new rainbow legwarmers to complete her look, she can think of only one thing at this moment, and it isn’t grade school fashion.

“How could they do this to me?!”

(Why no, I’m not talking about why an 8 year old was in a windowless bar inhaling stale Parliament smoke. Good guess though.)

No, she can’t believe her parents would force her to go out on the most important television night of the year, and frankly, she’s totally torqued about it. (She knows they would so not be here if it were Superbowl Sunday or the season finale of Alice. The injustice—well, it’s simply appalling.)

 As the minutes crawl on, the writing is on the wall.

All she can think is, “Oh shit, we’re never gonna be home on time for The Wizard of Oz!” (Oh yeah, she thought “shit” not “shoot”. Hey, that’s the price you pay for taking your kid inside the bar. They’re lucky I didn’t say it at mass on Sunday.)

Finally, they’re seated. The waitress, the dinner rolls, the salad, the dinners and OHGODTHANKGOD—her parents aren’t dessert people— finally the check—none of it comes fast enough.

“We’re never going to be home in time for the Wizard of Oz! Can we go? Can we go? Can we go nowwwwwwwww? Please? Please!”

LOOK DOROTHY, I TRIED CLICKING MY LEGWARMERS TO BUST OUTTA THAT JOINT, BUT I GOT NUTHIN'!

There’s desperation in the girl’s voice now. (The parents exchange a knowing look as they finish their cocktails. Perhaps they wish they had just ordered out Chinese, or brought a muzzle. Or maybe, thought to use birth control in their 40s. One can only imagine…)

The car ride is an excruciating seven miles. The girl squeaks from the back seat, “Drive faster dad, drive faster!”

“We’ll be home on time, don’t worry!” her mother offers, trying to placate her. (Read: shut up whinybag, shut up.)

Lies!!! Bloody lies I say!

The girl? Was me. The traumatic memory, all mine. Forever, burned in my brain.

That was the year I missed the first TWENTY minutes of THE Wizard of Oz.

I recalled this night of family fun (Slash borderline child abuse?) yesterday as my four year old and I were watching Bee Movie on DVR at 2 pm. That’s right, 2 pm on a random Monday. With breaks for potty and snacks.

I tried to explain to my son that when mummy was little, certain movies were so special we could only watch them once a year—when they were actually on tv.

His face was painted with pure bewilderment as he struggled to grasp the concept.

And why wouldn’t he be confused? He’s never known a world without dvds, dvr, and on demand cable with its dozens and dozens of high quality kiddie shows. He’s watched movies in the car. In the car! I know, that’s not even a big deal anymore, but can you imagine if someone dropped that bomb on our Strawberry Shortcake world, that some day we could watch Wizard of Oz IN THE CAR? Hot damn, that would have solved my problem that fateful night.

My friend reminded me not only did we only get to watch special shows and movies once a year, but we only got to watch cartoons once a week on Saturday morning. And if for some reason we missed them first thing Saturday morning and turned on the tv too late, we unfortunate children from the Boston area would find men in too tight dress slacks playing candlepin bowling. The horror we children of the 70s and 80s endured.

Yet somehow, we remain unscathed.

And in the process, as we’ve laughed and cackled about kids today and how spoiled they are, and wondered aloud what the future holds for them, the truth is now impossible to ignore.

I? We?

Have turned into our parents.

(You know, minus ripping the butts and taking our kids into bar rooms. I think there are rules about that stuff now.)

So after I shouted to the weather gods and all who would listen last week about how I was digging the 97 degree temps (Seriously? I took some heat (wink, wink) for that post. Someone musta been hating on me for saying that because they unsubscribed to muffintopmommy after that *apparently controversial* little diddy I posted. *Insert sad face* Maybe it was someone who sells hot cocoa for a living, lives in hotty, hot, hot Texarkana, or just isn’t down with my devil plans. I’ll never know!)

I think they cursed me because I got stuck in some randy weather this week. The hubs and I took the kids to Santa’s Village in northern New Hampshire the other day. It’s a really cute amusement park geared toward younger kids with a Christmas theme. I love it too, because, aside from watching how proud and excited the kids are to be able to ride some of the rides by themselves, well… I’m a total wuss and even I’m brave enough to ride all the rides.  (Even the scary log flume ride which makes me simultaneously hold my breath and think death is imminent, while I clutch one of my kids in a Vulcan death grip because HELLO, why are there no seatbelts in the damn thing?) I totally get it. I get it. Some physics nerd figured out it’s physically impossible to plunge to your death due to velocity or gravity or whatever fangled thing the pocket protector crew are calling it these days but STILL. That just doesn’t compute to an English major who very truly worries about impending bodily harm to her brood.

WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT DEATH DROP?!! *photo courtesy of Santa's Village

Anyway, when we left our house which is a little more than two hours away from Santa’s playland, it was sunny and 75. When we got there, it was 61, cloudy, and intermittently rainy. WHA-AT?

We still had a blast, and I’m here to tell you, Santa is making a list and checking it twice. You heard it here. I trust you’ll be good! better than me

THESE BOYS WERE SCARED STRAIGHT!

Not only was it Christmas in July, it was also my birthday. When you get to be a woman of a *cough* certain age, birthdays can be rather ho hum. But… the hubs never disappoints, and he so sweetly posted this on Facebook after our freezing ass day with Santie:

“Happy Birthday to my great wife and great mother! Oh, and a lucky lady I might add. You are welcome Janet for being able to spend your special birthday at Santa’s Village.”

I had to give him props as he had, indeed, outdone himself this birthday–except for where he sorta implies I’m both his wife and mother. (I let that part go. Marriage = shutting your fig, bat face sometimes.) Instead, you can publish it on the world wide web. Regardless! I responded:

“I AM lucky. Not every gal gets to be serenaded by a freaky, inbred looking elf on her bday and eat a burger that tastes like it’s from the elementary school caf! Romance: alive! Oh, and I almost forgot–scream louder than her 2 year old on the scary log ride!” (Dude, I told you I wasn’t kidding about that log ride!)

It’s all magic, all the time around here. Insert contended sigh. I mean now you know why I drink.

Kidding!

I speak only the truth here at Muffintopmommy. It hasn’t set me free yet, but hot damn, when I got home from my day o’ freezing fun, there was a big, brown box on my front steps!!! The truth got me a prize from Lands’ End!! And if you follow the muffintopmommy page on Facebook, you know they saw my Ready, Set, Scream post about 4 year old screaming for me to wipe his little arse when I was trying to talk to them on the phone about an order. Well, they thought it was  funny and  were happy I mentioned how wonderful their service was (truth!), so they kindly said they’d send me a cover up to go with my bathing suit. I don’t make much from this blogging gig zero, nada, zilch, so I was all, “Squee, hee, hee!” when they told me that. I told the woman I’d be psyched to get another cover up. I love their cover ups and actually wrote a review of one I’d bought earlier in the summer on their site. (Under the alias muffintopmommy. I’m muffintopmommy on yelp, too. This double life is gettin’ kinda crazy. Even the fam is starting to refer to me as MTM.) See!

OUR KIDS HAVE PEANUT ALLERGIES SO I USUALLY MAKE ALL THE CAKES. NOW THAT I KNOW WHAT HUBS AND KIDS CAN DO I'M FIRING MYSELF!

Anyway, there was no cover up in the box! It was even better. Instead, there was funtastic oversized (how better to hide my middle aged eye wrinkles!) sunglasses, which I totally need because I’ve had my others for three years and Klutzy VonKlutzenberg I am, I’ve dropped them on the pavement so many times they’re scratched; a super adorable sun hat to shield my butt white Irish skin from the sun at the beach; and, a perfectly sized tote, simply screaming to be filled with smut mags, books, Cheez-It’s and perhaps an adult beverage or two.

Oh Lands’ End, how’d you know????

Virginia, there really is a Santa Claus! (He lives in Wisconsin and his initials are LE. And his summer stuff is now 65% off. Holla!) Thank you Lands’ End for hooking me up. (And for including a packing slip which said $0.00 because hubs was really eyeing me suspiciously when I said it was a fun box of free swag–what I can I say? I have a shopportunistic reputation. )

Despite the fact that I’d just gotten home from from my 12 hour round trip voyage to the North Pole aka Northern New Hampshire and my makeup was all smeary and I was craving a beery, I had to take a pic of the fun swag in case you want to buy now and save!

I'M NOT CUT OUT FOR THE PLUS SIZE MODELING GIG I IMAGINED. I WAS TRYING TO BLOW YOU A KISS BUT FORGOT TO MOVE MY HAND. SO NOW I JUST LOOK LIKE A REALLY BIG FISH. AMATEUR.

And yes, that is a Lands’ End polo I sported ALL day. What are the odds? (Um, actually, pretty high. Please refer to my reputation.) The shorts are not Lands’ End. They are from a little store I like to call, “Che Marshall’s”.

 I’m not looking forward to my next bday because nothing can top Santa, fun Lands’ End swag, and a muffin top cake! May your birthday this year be so merry!