A few weeks ago, I won an award. No, not a certificate of sucktasticness, which I proudly won a few years ago. Meeeemories!

I was nominated for a blogging award on my friend’s blog, Nurse Mommy Laughs. (The funny thing is–I can’t find it now–it vanished. Really. But I’m still a winner. I swear. I knew it as early as 7th grade, when I guessed the weight of a ginormous pumpkin at a fair, and won a free Rolls Royce ride around town. I have skillz–don’t want to brag but that was NOT easy. And, I have to say, ginger ale in a plastic wine glass has never tasted better. I’m sure that driver was so cranked to pick up a tinsel toothed 7th grade girl in neon pants and Barracuda jacket and her mom. Two thumbs up on your raffle investment, Rolls company!)

Anyyyway, I have a proven track record of winning. Clearly. And I hope you check Stacey’s blog out. Stacey is a mom who spent many years as a pediatric RN. Especially when you have kids of your own, you realize it takes a very special person to have the strength to work with sick children. I thank God there are caring people like Stacey who can do it because those kids deserve the very best, and I would be bawling in the corner. Guessing that would not be helpful. I tip my Bud Light to Stacey and all the health care providers who work tirelessly on behalf of children everywhere.

Nurse Stacey’s award came with rules. I don’t like rules per se, but since  I’m A. a nerd herd rule follower and B. Stacey is good peeps who knows how to wield needles, I’m going to do exactly what she says. So no one gets hurt. She said I’m to share 7 things with you all that you don’t know about me. Let’s try to get through this without horrifying anyone. Ready? GO!

1. I’m a LEO. (That probably splains a lot.)

2. I loooove to throw parties. And I’m a total “more the merrier–grab a red Solo cup and come on by” type person….how-e-ver, this has been hampered somewhat in recent years by children sucking me dry and their activities, but I hope to get my Martha Stewart Animal House on more now that the kids are getting older.

3. I am 74 years old.

*Please note my fashion and cooking prowess. I know. You’re wondering how I juggle it all. Many do.

4. I once got carjacked around the corner from Fenway Park in broad daylight. (Please visit the Boston Tourism Board to book your next, fun getaway! “The spirit of Massachusetts is the spirit of America!”) (Bet you didn’t see that one coming!) The funny thing is, it happened before car jacking was even in vogue. (I’m a trendsetter.) And, I was only 12. Nothing like being held at gunpoint to make a bucked tooth, Barracuda jacket wearing girl scream! I screamed so loud that I think the glass on the car windows shattered, the dude told me I could go, and I jumped out as he was pulling away. I have skillz again! I can wield off gun toting bandits with just my voice! (Shut up.) No need to carry pepper spray or a weapon. Armed and dangerous, right here. Step off, bad people! I will send you running. RAR!!!

5. I know. It’s hard to top 4. Ask my mom. Let’s see….I was born in Boston and lived in the same house from the time I was born until I left for college. I went to college in Ohio–completely random choice based on a brochure (really)–and loved it. I went home with one of my bf’s one weekend to Cleveland and asked her, “Why can’t I see the other side of the lake?” True story. She was like, “Um….because it’s in Canada, dummy!” Growing up outside Boston, we always went to the ocean and any lakes I saw were small–I had seen great lakes on map but didn’t understand the magnitude until I really saw one. Who knew they looked just like the ocean! (I’m worldy, I know.) I was also informed by my midwest friends that my plan to “run through cornfields because it looked fun” would cut me and hurt like hell. Who knew!!! So I just stuck to Coppertoning at the lake.

6. I once gave my scarf to a fun girl in a bar in Blarney, Ireland in the spirit of fostering international relations. Meaning….we bonded over Irish cider, she liked it, it was from Tarjay and I knew I could get a new one when I went home! Plus, I felt I owed something to the good people of Ireland for letting me kiss their cold, wet, germy, grey stone.

7. Once in college I went white water rafting with some high school friends in East Bumbleebee Ass Crack, Maine. We faux camped/shivered (Seriously. Northern Maine I think has like one day of summer. All the other days are fifty degrees or below.), cooked out, and drank beer to keep warm. All fun until the next morning, when I had to put on a tomato red wetsuit fatsuit (And seriously. Tomato red. Who looks good in that color? I want names.) Really regretted not taking the chilled out canoe trip–might have cursed my friend who planned it lured me with grilled meats and beer. We actually got in a raft where a 95 pound raft guide assured my girlfriends and I that if any of us fell out, she would pluck us to safety. Ok, crackhead, smoke some more dope in the woods, crunchola bar. Guess who dumped out first, went skkying down the river, sans paddle, with just my wits about me for a few miles? ME. Big Red. Let’s just say that now I know how my towels feel during the spin cycle and that a hung over muffin top is no match for the wilds of Maine! Eventually, after I said my mental good byes in my head to my family and the cast of The Outsiders (“Stay gold, Ponyboy! I’ll see you on the other side!”), forgave the carjacker, and pondered briefly who would be bequeathed my bitching mix tape collection, I rounded the corner, the choir of angels Van Morrison sang to me, and a raft full of hot guys on a bachelor party plucked my tomato ass to safety. As I choked and sputtered like a wrinkled, red, sexy beast. GAH! “Hey guys, look what I caught!” They were actually very nice guys. But now you know why me being outdoorsy is playing wiffle ball while I sip my beer!

That is all, muffintoppers. For verifcation purposes, my church going, 79 year old mother is on stand by to swear this list is almost 100% factual. (Fine. I’m actually 75.)

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!

I’m baaa-aaack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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