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!

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!

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

Jury duty.

The very words made me cringe with fear that my VIP life would potentially be interrupted for days. The government should have known I was too very important, what with work and socializing, to do my civic duty. Yet, they called me twice back in the 90’s.

First, I was called to a drunk driving case on college break, and was released fairly quickly. They didn’t want me and I didn’t want them. I had pressing social obligations I was not keen to break. (I may or may not have torn out of there sporting a bad perm and Sir Mix-a-Lot blaring on my mix tape. “Baby got back!” Praise the Lord—smart phones and Facebook did not exist in the 90′s! Probably because the guys who invented them were in Pamper’s. I don’t feel old. Or dumb.)

I’m working as a recruiter five years later, I’m totally uptight about being called for jury duty in Boston, worried about potentially missing work (because the rigorous world of entry level recruiting surely would have ceased to exist had I missed a few days). My hair is remarkably better, but Sir Mix-a-Lot and I are still rocking out together. My colleague from work teased me mercilessly calling me Ally McBeal because I showed up for jury duty in a work suit. (Seriously, the outfit was straight up 90′s work geek—we’re talking skirt suit with gold buttons and a scarf tied around my neck. But hey, just because I didn’t want to be there didn’t mean I shouldn’t take it seriously. Someone’s life was on the line and they deserved my full attention, even if I didn’t feel like giving it. (Go ahead. Just say it. N-E-R-D.)

 In the end, I got bounced from the court in Boston from what looked to be a very interesting murder trial, after being questioned on the stand like a common hoodlum (Yeah, that’s right. Hoodlum!) by the defense because of what they apparently deemed to be bad lineage (Shoulda been because of a fashion police arrest. They could have tried me on the spot, and hung me with my goofy scarf as punishment.).

My grandfather had been a Boston Police captain, my father had retired as a detective after 36 years with the Boston Police and my brother was a state trooper out of state. It seemed they assumed due to my relations, I would not be impartial to the sketchy scoundrel who (very, mostly, clearly, definitely) committed murder, and tossed me right out of there.

 I believe that’s called prejudice. Hmph!

I will add, on my way out of the courtroom, I glared at the accused, and if looks really could kill, they could have just skipped the trial and saved the trouble and expense. Not only was I incensed because I thought the guy looked and sounded like pure evil, having “allegedly” stabbed his girlfriend to death (plus he looked like he had a perm, but now I’m just nitpicking), but I was livid they made me sit there til 3 p.m. before cutting me loose. They could have at least dumped me earlier so I could have met some friends for a liquid lunch in the city. But noooo. Mess with the cop’s kid. Like I didn’t have it tough enough growing up and not being able to get away with anything!

Incidentally, a few weeks later while skimming the newspaper, I stumbled across an article—seems the dirty bird was found GUILTY and sent to the big house. HA! I like to pretend he got a windowless cell, where they played Air Supply songs round the clock! “Making love. Making loooooveeeee, outta nothin’ at all.” Ah, the sweet sounds of justice. Those cons are lucky I’m not the prison warden. I guarantee you repeat crimes would  go down. They would so never be rewarded with the genius that is Sir Mix-a-Lot. Bread. Water. Air Supply. And maybe I’d pipe in the piercing screams of toddlers…oooh! They’d be begging for the chair.

One more thing? If you’re thinking of committing a serious crime, I beg you to reconsider. More importantly, if you have been unjustly accused of something, I recommend you get the best lawyer money can buy, or at least your money can buy. When Uncle Sam promises you a jury of your peers… that should scare you.

Have you ever been to jury duty and gotten a load of what the government is claiming are your peers? Not only were half of these jackwads strolling in late, like they were meeting friends for brunch on Sunday, half of them looked like they were not paying close attention to dental hygiene.

 Hey, I totally admit I went overboard on the Ally McBeal get up, but I swear some of these clownfools did not even wear clean clothes. It was a grim turnout. And, let’s face it, you know the people trying to get jury duty (the ones without really good stories or legit reasons to persuade the judge to get out of it) are just not the people you want in charge of your fate.  For the love of God, you don’t want people with nothing better to do than sit on a jury to actually BE on your jury!

 Unless? It’s a desperate hausfrau in need of a three day, all expenses paid vaca who promises to rise to the task? Preferably a sequester, not too far from home, with yummy meals, a clean hotel with room darkening curtains and free DVD rentals? What do you say Uncle Sam? You know where to find me! Cawl me—I’m in the book!! I’m in the book!!!!!! I promise I brush my teeth, wear clean clothes and don’t have a perm. (Fine. I do still love me some Sir Mix-a-Lot. It’s not a crime you know!)

So, I’m driving home from the grocery store one Friday night (My life really is that exciting. And if you must know, I relish my solo grocery store trips as the glorious taste of freedom that they are.) busting out with some old school Billy Joel. “A bottle of red…a bottle of white…” I croak til…

“DUDE!!!”

There’s a car in front of me driving like 7 miles an hour. It’s weaving from the white line, back to the yellow line, and taking all kinds of crazy wide turns. At first I think I’m seeing things, so I keep following til I realize something’s way wrong and this person is blasted off her a*& (Turns out dude’s a she—so sorry for profiling) or she has to be in the midst of some kind of serious medical emergency.

“Crap.” I think. “I’m gonna have to be a narc and call 911.”

It was so bad I couldn’t not call.  I had visions of her taking out a small family.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi, um, well I’m behind someone who has to be super drunk or having some kind of medical emergency.” Or she’s on crack, legally blind, or sexting her Representative while driving. But I’m no expert.

I tell the woman where I am and give her the license plate number. I’m thinking, okay, bye bye, good luck with it, I’m off to take my groceries home and pick up my fun Friday night take out.

Not so fast.

“Okay, I’m going to need to take down all your contact information and I need you to keep following her. The officer is on his way and he will be looking for you guys. Don’t follow too closely—you need to stay safe!”

“‘Scuse me?”

Hey, I’m not a professional, lady. I’m in my mom car with the three car seats and all my juice boxes and grapes and boneless chicken and popsicles in the way back. Now I’m in hot pursuit of a scofflaw!? I so did not sign up for this!

But the police lady’s got me now. She’s got all my information. SHIT!

Are they going to tell the busted chick who I am? What if she gets sent to the clink and she and her drunken posse come for me? What will I do? I will have to hope I can squish her with my ginormous muffin top and then smash her with my son’s plastic lacrosse stick!

“Hi-ya! Oh don’t you take one more step there drunkylosergirl! I’ve got a Nerf football too and I’m NOT afraid to use it! And see this Transformer? It’s more than meets the eye, so watch it beeeatttch! I will shank your ass with this plastic Power Ranger I fashioned into a knife!”

 I get to an intersection, and instead of going right or left, she pulls straight ahead down this long drive that leads to a school. It’s the only way in or out. She’s a trapped rat now.

Busted!

“Okay, so, she just drove into the school, but I am NOT following her in there—I think she knows I’m following her (hot pursuit, muffin top style) and I don’t want a confrontation!” Come on lady, I’m not getting paid for this and I don’t even have my plastic junior lacrosse stick for protection. Uh ugh! And I just got these fun new Burberry glasses with my eye insurance at Lenscrafters and I am SO not getting them smashed in some suburban scuffle—I simply cannot afford to rebuy them for retail. I wanna be a good Samaritan, but not THAT good.

I tell the dispatcher that I parked in the lot next to the school driveway.

“Okay, wait there for the officer and make sure she doesn’t try to pull out of the school. The officer will be right there.” OMG, what am I going to do if she tries to get away, take out my 1 Adam 12 light from my glove box and put it on top of my SUV? Hey you! Pull over—citizen’s arrest! Ignore the pink lobster flip flops (pink lobster flips=intimidation) and Lands’ End fleece…you’re going DOWNTOWN! Sipowicz and Magnum are meeting me here so no funny stuff.

I'M GONNA BUST YOU UP IN THESE!

Just then the fuzz pulls up. OMG, I think, is this kid even old enough to be a cop? He’s adorable, but he looks like someone I might have baby sat. As I’m pondering if he could get into a bar, he asks me if the woman is still back there and I’m like, yeah dude, I would have totally apprehended her if she tried to split.

Okay, really I said, “Yes.”

So he tells me to sit tight and wait for him. This puzzled me. Am I in trouble? Is this one of those things where if this chick isn’t totally off her rocker, I’m in some hot agua for wasting taxpayer resources? I know I said I longed for quiet time but sitting in the parking lot of a soccer field by a school on a Friday night doing a suburban sting isn’t totally what I had in mind. (This from someone who acts like trolling for produce is a tropical vaca. I know!)

OH YOU ARE SOOO BUSTED!!!

I call the hubs.

“Um, I’m in a bit of a situation, hon. Well, I’m sort of kind of being detained by the police, but I haven’t done anything, I swear!”

“What!”

“Yeah, um, long story but probably won’t have time to get that take out tonight. Kind of tattled on a drunk or sick driver here, and the police are just pulling her over now by the school and he told me to wait for him.”

“Oh my God! What! You will probably have to testify in court!”

Hmmm, I think…..a field trip to court….good news. A potential day of freedom with other grownups, albeit some potentially shady ones—but let’s not split hairs now. But also bad news…this gal might come beat me for narc-ing out on her. I start twisting in my seat, because bottom line? I’m ascared.

I’m having flashbacks to the rough bar I ambled stumbled into after college in a turtleneck sweater, khakis and loafers. It was full of guys in cut off tees, ripping butts and doing shots (fun!), and scantily clad women in tight jeans and huge ass hair that even hurricane gale force winds couldn’t have dented (not fun!). A hideously frightening gum snapping chick busted me gasping for air and gawking a second too long at her spraying her iron clad helmet o’ hair in the bathroom and snarled, “Whaddyah think yah f*&^%n’ lookin’ at blowndie?!” (I know, glass houses. Like my fake ass hair was really blonde!)

I start to sweat at the very memory.

“Oh yeah, no, I’m sure it will be fine. Heh, I’m sure they have to ask everyone for their info so people can’t call making stuff up. Just wanted to fill you in so you weren’t worried wondering why I was taking so long. Listen, I gotta go in case he comes back.”

So I wait. And wait. And wait. I’m thinking this chick is SOO busted because now at least 10 minutes have gone by and I can’t see what’s going down but I can see the flashing lights through the trees. At 15 minutes, I call my husband back.

“I’m still here!”

“What! Can’t you leave?”

“NO! The cop told me to wait. How can I leave? I don’t want to get in trouble!” Nerd til the end.

“Call 911 back and tell them you have kids and you need to get home!”

“Right. Father of the year, it’s like 9 o’clock and our kids are in bed. I’m not tying up the emergency line to say I’m tired of waiting for the 5-0 to bust the drunk and I need to get home with my groceries so we can order our Friday night take out! “ Can’t he see I’m involved with something really big here?! This is way bigger than my grilled chicken Caesar. McGruff is my homie; I’m taking a bite out of crime, not out of salad.

So five more minutes go by, and I see the perp pull out, and the cop is behind her! WHAT! He flashes a big bright light at me and I take it to mean I can leave. They drive away, and I’m thinking, that’s it? Is that any way to treat your back up? I don’t even get the 411 on what went down? I gave up my takeout and half my groceries are melting and there’s no bust and I don’t even get cred for a citizen’s arrest!? No props, no nothing?

My mind is whizzing, and just then my cell rings.

Number withheld.

 It’s the cop!

“Hi ma’am (ugh ma’am again), I’m sorry you waited so long. I didn’t know you were going to wait!” Seriously? You TOLD me to wait—hello! I don’t defy the law. I’m a geek. If you told me to stand on one leg I probably would have—even if you do look 12! Men! I hope he doesn’t send mixed messages like that to his wife or girlfriend.

He thanked me for calling and said I did the right thing. Apparently, there was some top secret (read: you can’t know) medical type issue and he was following her to the police station where a friend was going to meet her and drive her home. (I could have freaking driven her home in the time it took for me to wait for the cop to be done with her—hello, save tax money!) But I’m glad to think she got home safely, maybe because of my foray into narc-hood.

I did miss my fun take out, but no good deed goes unpunished—my muffin top was spared the worthless fat and calories—at least for another day!

A few weeks ago,  my friend, Lisa (from previous muffintopmommy guest post fame), was gracious crazy enough to agree to watch all three of my boys for a day on short notice. A few days later I received a curious email addressed to myself and some other mutual friends with an attachment I’ll share with you below. I haven’t seen her since, but rumor has it she’s in a dark corner of her house in fetal position, sucking her thumb. We might need to call the guys in the white coats. The only good news? Vindication is mine, people, vindication is MINE.

p.s. My comments are in caps.

The email:

As you all were a huge help in my overwhelming endeavor to play muffintopmommy for a day, I thought you might enjoy a synopsis of my experience.

Janet – your boys are pure joy. Aside from their endless affection – they kept me laughing and taught me a ton. DID THEY TEACH YOU TO USE THE ASSORTMENT OF CLICKERS? IF SO WILL YOU SHOW ME?

My top 21 lessons are attached. Hats off to you for being such a good Mom. DEFINE GOOD?

The attachment:

Top 21 things I learned in Muffintop land this week

Janet – I really appreciate the opportunity to spend time with your boys this week. They are so welcoming, sweet, loving and full of energy (READ: THEY NEVER STOP. NEVER.) – not to mention so damned cute (I’LL GIVE YOU CUTE.)! It was such a different perspective to step into your shoes for just a day, taking me back to the terrific 2′s and the endless interrogation tactics of a 4 year old, not to mention the savvy 6’s – that will try to persuade anyone into thinking it was all ‘their idea’. (ADMIT IT: YOU ARE THANKING GOD RIGHT NOW YOU HAVE TWO SWEET GIRLS. SAY IT. SAAAAY IT!) My entire day was spent playing, all while laughing at their antics, trying to keep track of everyone and simply avoiding a trip to the ER! (THAT SOUNDS ABOUT RIGHT.) I couldn’t imagine doing that all day everyday while trying to get kiddos off to school, run errands, cook, clean, do laundry and just live everyday life. (YUP. THIS IS WHY MY HOUSE LOOKS LIKE A COMPLETE SHITSHOW LATELY. BUT HEY, SOCIAL SERVICES HASN’T CALLED SO YAY ME! SUCCESS!)

Thank you for providing me with the (birth control) experience. (YOU OWE ME A HEFTY CO-PAY.)I learned many lessons in that short day – the top 21 (ONLY 21?) are listed below. I’m sure you can relate to a few. Cheers!

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. LOOK HOW SWEET AND INNOCENT THEY ARE??????!!

1. If they want it – they will climb.

Dining room chairs can get you to the top of the table.

Stools can get you to the top of the counter.

The lazy susan gets you to the top of the stove.

Scaling the changing table is just plain fun.

The shelves in the pantry are like stairs for god’s sake!

And yes, you can scale the inside of a refrigerator.

Given the site of the dresser lying on it’s side in the spare bedroom –I’m guessing that this has happened before.

ROOKIE!

2. If you climb up – you must jump down.

Regardless of who/what could be at the bottom.

3. If they have something they shouldn’t – don’t try to chase them.

They will win. Every. Time. And what a fun game chase is – so if you actually retrieve what they shouldn’t have, like your car keys, don’t let them see you put them down again. The game of chase is endless — and exhausting.

4. The fireplace mantle is not high enough to hide things on.

If they can see it – they can find a way to get to it (see #1 above).

Even if it involves standing on the top of an armchair (yes the top of the back – not the seat, silly!)

5. If you hide too many things – you will start to forget where you put them.

After hiding all of the phones, remotes and DVDs within sight – I started to lose track of the hiding spots. When someone set my car alarm off for the 3rd time, I learned not to hide anything within reach. And I also began stuffing my pockets with anything that I deemed important – like my keys, phone, the epi-pen and the kids’ insurance card.

PHEW. IT’S NOT JUST ME. HERE I THOUGHT EARLY ALZHEIMER’S WAS SETTING IN.

6. I suck at hide-and-seek.

Off to a poor start  (okay – a panic attack) because I didn’t realize that a game had begun, I was impressed that the hiding spots extended far beyond the typical ‘underneath the dining room table’. (MY KIDS ARE WICKED SMAHT.) My favorite spots included – inside a basket full of laundry at the bottom of a closet, wedged in between the glass exterior front door and interior wooden door (yes, where you can barely close it if a shoe gets stuck), in the clothes dryer and in the drawer underneath the stove. Clever.

7. Coloring is boring.

If trying to keep boys away from climbing, jumping or hiding – find something slightly more exciting than coloring. I felt like the annoying junior-high art & crafts teacher.

8. Washable is a relative term.

We love all things Crayola in our house – but somehow the purple crayon doesn’t seem to wash off of the tan wall, white woodwork or glass window  – nor does the green marker come off of the wood table. Hmmmmm.

9. Moon dough is an outside toy.

It may last longer than playdough – but it also doesn’t stick together. There will be remnants of that stuff in every corner of the house for the next 6 months.

10. Pieces of dough sand look surprisingly like fish food.

It’s even available in the tropical colors fish love!

11. Fish don’t like to eat moon sand.

Less invasive than the matchbox cars and legos that made their way into the tank, the fish still didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about it.

12. No is also a relative term.

Learning that the phrase ‘not now’ doesn’t buy you anything but aggravation – I quickly (like in the first 10 minutes) changed my answer to no. As in, no you cannot stand on the counter and use your mother’s iPad.

HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU GUYS THIS ISN'T MY KID???!

13. Answering the phone is code for ‘we can do whatever we want now’.

So in the minute it takes you to answer the phone that you have stashed in your pocket along with your car keys, the epi pen and insurance card – a 4-year old can scale a stool, stand on the counter, launch an iPad and start playing Monkey-tales. My bad – I didn’t realize that I had previously used the relative term ‘no’.

14. If you don’t answer the phone by the 3rd ring – someone else will.

Figuring it was safe to let the out-of-state call go to voicemail, I decided not to answer it. Imagine my surprise when I was handed a different phone by a toddler stating ‘Mommy won’t talk to me anymore.’ Apologies to the caller in the 914 area code. I assure you that these children were not home alone, they’re just far more technologically savvy than I am.

15. Toddlers do appreciate artwork.

After a bed jumping incident that sent a 3 foot box canvas flying off of the wall, we had an art appreciation moment. The painting was closely examined (manhandled) and I was serenaded with a boisterious version of the ABC’s for the next 20 minutes.

16. Desparation may allow you to let them play in the rain.

Somehow outside seemed more controllable than inside – regardless of the freezing rain/hail. Heck this is New England – they need to learn how to weather the elements. And now I have everything I could possibly need right in my pocket anyway.

17. Wet bark mulch can be molded into an awesome jump.

Even more awesome when placed at the end of a sloped, wet, slippery driveway and tested with every ride-on toy in the garage. Thankfully the cute, white, picket fence can be used as a crash pad.

18. If one wants to go inside – you all have to go.

Given #’s 1-17 above – no further explanation is necessary.

19. ‘I need privacy’ is code for – you will be cleaning up a big mess later on.

This one involved an entire roll of toilet paper and a plunger. My apologies for being naive – but I’m actually thankful that the door was kicked in to reveal one sitting bare arsed on the bathroom rug unraveling a second roll of toilet paper to ‘finish business’. I hope I remembered to tell you to wash that rug.

20. An electric toothbrush makes a great scalp massager.

Added bonus – fill it with strawberry gel toothpaste and it will leave these cool red streaks in your beautiful blonde hair!

21. Not all chicken fingers are created equal.

Trying to pass off homemade cutlets as chicken fingers will go over like a lead balloon. The response I received from my little food critic – ‘they taste funny AND they’re not shaped like dinosaurs’!  This polite observation was delivered with a side of ‘and you call your self a mother’ sprinkled with a dash of ‘you dumb broad’.

WHAT CAN I SAY? MY KIDS HAVE A DISCERNING PALATE LIKE THEIR MOM.

Kudos to you Janet for doing this all day, every day. And Muffin top be damned – that Bud Light saves your sanity! (IT’S CHEAPER THAN THERAPY.) And I’ll be happy to share one with you in the driveway anytime. (JUST ONE? HOW WILL THAT HELP?)

I LOVE MY KIDS TO PIECES BUT ON SOME LEVEL IT’S GOOD TO KNOW THEY GAVE MY MOST UNFLAPPABLE FRIEND A RUN FOR IT! NOW WHO WANTS TO BABYSIT NEXT? STEP ON UP!