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!

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.)

So I’m walking to the bus stop yesterday to pick up my first grader (in the balmy 50 degree New Hampshire freak weather–BOOM!), and I glance over at four year old who’s skipping along and ask, “Hey, how do you like your new shoes?”

“They’re TELLIBLE! They make me really slow!”

I THOUGHT THEY WERE PRETTY SNAZZY MYSELF.

“Oh, pumpkin, no.” I think to myself. “It’s not the shoes. It’s the DNA. There’s a reason why mama was never picked first seventh in gym class.” (Thank God for my sparkling personality. Which has gotten me nowhere far in life. Well, I did score that extra slice of cheese for 3 year old at the deli. A win for the chatty!)

I think it, but I don’t say it. Who am I to be a four year old dream crusher? Perception is reality, people.

“I don’t think you’re slow. Show me whacha got…go, run, go!”

Sure enough, he blasted off, stopped, turned around and beamed, “Oh… actually they make me really fast!” before leaping over a man hole cover at the bus stop for good measure.

“Awesome! You are SO fast!”

Being a parent is a buzz kill sometimes, don’t you think? By that I mean,  so many times during the day I find myself saying, “NO!”. No, you can’t climb the shelves of the pantry, three year old. No, you can’t eat fruit roll ups for lunch, four year old. No, you can’t play your new DS until you do your math homework, six year old.

You can’t talk with your mouth full. You can’t “fly” off your brother’s loft bed. You can’t use my floor lamp as a fireman pole. You can’t wear your Mario shirt to church. You can’t sit in the clothes dryer! (Definitely NO!) You can’t play ball in the house… right Carol Brady?

No. Nahnonono. NO!

Sigh.

UM, YEAH, I HAVE NO IDEA WHO "GIMP DADDY" IS....BUT THANKS ,PHOTOBUCKET AND GIMP DADDY, BECAUSE THIS BUZZ KILL PIC SAYS IT ALL!

Buzz.kill. Buzzzzzy buzzz buzzz. Buzz.

I decided I’m going to try to say yes as much as I can, when I can. Saying no as a parent is obviously necessary sometimes.  We can’t have the inmates running the asylum. And in a household of climbing, adventure seeking boys, no is literally a safety precaution. But would Cheez-It’s for breakfast once in a while kill them? Would tossing a football in the hallway really rock my world? If a lamp breaks, is it priceless anyway?

There is a gigundo grey area between prison warden and total anarchy, right? And our kids….are not us. They might look like us, they might even act like us (frightening?), but they’re not us. They are their own little selves. Fast or slow, good at math or stuck after school for extra help, fantastic singers or glass breakers, star scorers or bench warmers, they are their own unique selves. If I’m a slow runner, that doesn’t make my kid one.

Our kids are a clean slate. A beginning to a wonderful story that is still unfolding. It’s theirs to write with our help and guidance.

I saw this quote on (cough) Pinterest–it’s attributed to Albert Einstein. I have my doubts about if he really said it, but it doesn’t matter, as the quote is meaningful nonetheless:

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

Sometimes I think it’s best to keep our thoughts to ourselves, let our kids go, and watch them fly.

If we tell them they can’t enough, they just might believe us.

If we tell them they can enough, they just might believe us.

And I just checked the box. Cheez-It’s are made with 100% real cheese (only the best for mah babies!), making them a really not good breakfast indeed!

Hubs and I got married waaay back when no one knew what a hanging chad was. We were lucky enough to go to the Greek Islands for our honeymoon. (Pre-Euro= cheap ouzo. Opa!) It was an amazing trip and we swore we’d go back for our 10th anniversary. Crazy kids. (That was two years ago….I think we got as far as Carrabba’s.)

UM, SADLY NO, GREECE FOR 10 DAYS. COLD ASS COW HAMPSHAH 4-EVER.

Anyway, while we were vacationing near the equator, hubs teased me because I was slathering myself in buckets of sunblock….I literally massaged Coppertone all the way into my hairline. (It takes work to be this sexy. It really does. If he was hoping annulment at that point his face didn’t show it. )  I interrupted his teasing to remind him of my 100% proud Irish potato heritage. (I vacillate throughout the year between the color of flour, sugar, and pizza dough. I am? Job security for the field of dermatology. And beer distributors.) So I offer him some sunblock and he replies, “Um, no thanks…” (eyeroll) “I’m Italian!”

I reply, “Yeahhhh, you’re HALF Italian, you’re from Boston, and we’re near the equator, but it’s your party, dude!” Smarty McOliveGarden!

Fast forward to that night. My Good Fella is limping through the streets of Mykonos, fried yet shivering, whimpering in all his half Italian glory.

“I’ve never had a sunburn before.”

Welcome to my world, Homie. Welcome to my world.

I look at him, his demure bride of 4 days, my sun kissed pizza dough face glowing, and snicker, “E-qua-tor.” (Ok, it’s technically not even that close. At all. But in my defense Widipedia wasn’t even invented yet so how was I supposed to know? So maybe I took some creative license to make my point!)And, I might have added something about how he should probably listen to his smartypants wife in the future. He was too weak to reply. But I took his silence as his tacit agreement.

There have been a few million other times in our marriage that I’ve nagged. And a few times when he’s been astounded at my profound lack of common sense, mostly around cooking utensils. It’s worked, this thing we’ve got going. So fast forward 12 years, three kids, and two houses later. It’s our youngest’s three year old birthday. (Sobs!) I’m feeling sad he’s not a baby any longer, as evidenced by him managing to convince me to bake him a fire truck cake. The boy is seriously obsessed with all things firefighter. He was a firefighter for Halloween, watches Fireman Sam daily, and knocked my floor lamp down the other day shrieking, “This is my fire pole, mama!” 

 So….I didn’t want to attempt any Martha shenanigans with the cake, but I spent two and a half hours doing just that because he looked at me with those big brown eyes. (Mamas, you know the look!)I wanted to buy one, but I can’t because all the bakery ones say “may contain peanuts/tree nuts” and my boys are allergic. So I was left to my own nut free devices. By the time I finished it, I was sweating. It was kinda stressful! It took patience (I have none!), skillz (No, none!) and a steady hand (And…no.). When the thing was done, I was happy it kind of resembled the photo provided and swore to high heaven I’d never use the pan again.

 It was a crisp zero degrees in beautiful Southern New Hampshire on my boy’s birthday, and one of our small pipes wound up freezing in our basement playroom. So Hubs cut a hole, propped up my industrial strength, professional hair dryer (I know people) and retreated back upstairs. I said, “Hmm, I don’t know if that hair dryer thing is such a great idea, hun.” He mumbled something about being Italian insulating the pipe for next time, at which point I went on to attend to other pressing matters. (Food Network. Cheese and crackers. Adult beverage.)

A few minutes later we fix dinner for the kids and we’re all chatting about going bowling the next day (I kick ass with the bumpers up!) when I turn to him and say, “I smell smoke!”

He says, “I don’t smell anything!”

I say, “I.SMELL.SMOKE.”

(I am a lot of things. Some good, some not so good. But dude, my Karl Malden nose rocks. Scents give me massive headaches. I have smell radar. The police should fire Fido and hire me for their sniffing assignments. I can even walk on two legs. Not to get all braggy.)

Hubs looks at me, blasts downstairs, yells, “Whoa! Fire! Dial 911!” By now the smoke is wafting up the stairs and it’s rancid. I push the fire button on our burglar alarm pad, throw coats on the kids, and we bolt outside. They are shoeless and it is zero, but the alternative is clearly worse and I’m worried about my oldest’s asthma to boot.

Hubs runs out a few minutes later and tells me he put the fire out—it was small— and gives me the key to his car and the kids and I pile in. Within a few minutes, my street is filled with cop cars, fire cars, and two firetrucks. The firefighters go in to see what’s what. They use a machine to make sure there are no embers in the walls that could have caused another fire later. My husband ap0logizes up and down for his hair dryer experiment and he said the firefighters tried to make him not feel like a dummy by relaying other, dumber things people have attempted. (So nice!) They said he did the right thing unplugging the hair dryer, throwing it out in the snow, and dousing the fire and that if he hadn’t done that, our house would have been up in flames by the time they got there.

Scary! So grateful we were all okay.

All the awesome firefighters stopped to say Happy Birthday (including a super cool woman—girl power!) to my little buddy and remarked on the irony of this happening on his big firefighter birthday. I said the theme was a little too played out for my taste! They let the boys go on the fire truck and invited us to stop by the station for a tour. Love them and I’m sure no one will ever forget this birthday! I told the fam I will make the fire truck cake ONE more time for the kind firefighters and we’d drop it off next weekend. 

HOPEFULLY THE FIREFIGHTERS WILL JUST LOOK AT IT AND NOT TRY IT. YEAH!

Hubs wound up apologizing to the boys and me for the hair dryer stunt and I actually felt sorry for him because he felt so sorry. (We all make mistakes even me.)

But not sorry enough to stop from asking him, “Are you burnt? Do you need any sunblock?”

Hey, that flame was strong!

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!