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!

 GUEST POST ALERT: We have so much love for Valentine’s Day here at Muffintopmommy, there will be TWO V-Day posts this year. Today’s post is brought to you by our friend, Lisa.You may remember this well known room mama for her invaluable post on navigating a successful school year? Well, she’s finally come out of hiding (either that or she’s been stuck on 128 in a snow squall since November….or maybe in my garage drinking beer out of a can….who really knows) in time to get her V-Day bashing on. Enjoy….the following post is Muffintopmommy approved!

Love and hearts and all that junk,

MTM

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Happy Valentine’s Day – Here are your PAJAMAS?!?

The flower and teddy bear commercials aren’t bad enough, but this time of year whenever we turn on the radio we hear the voice of our favorite radio personalities trying to convince us what every woman truly wants for Valentines Day – pajamas.

Yes, pajamas.

“She’ll think of you every time she puts them on – or takes them off.”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but if the relationship were going really well, there wouldn’t be any talk of pajamas. You’d probably skip right over that part, no?

And if that isn’t insulting enough, the ads actually state, ”It only takes minutes to buy, but she’ll think you spent weeks choosing the perfect gift.”

Uh, no she won’t. Because she actually HEARD THE SAME RADIO AD — YOU MORONS!!!

Being the fair person that my mother really wanted to raise, I decide to give them a chance. Maybe it’s just me — maybe others really do think PJ’s are romantic. I’m no longer in the ‘need to impress to keep the spark alive’ category. I’ve moved into the ‘I’ve given birth to each of these children and you’re lucky I can pretend to fit my expansive arse into something remotely resembling anything available on the same floor where pajamas are sold’ category, so I foolishly decided to go online to check out their website to see what the buzz was all about.

Yes folks, it’s as pathetic as described in the radio ads — a woman sprawled about on some tasteful white bedding in what is titled a ‘hoodie-footie’, designed to keep her warm from head to toe. You got it— cover it all up. Oh she’s smiling all right —- mainly because she’s all of 17, psyched that someone is willing to cut her a big, fat, modeling check for putting on more clothing than I would wear to the grocery store.

I give the company credit — they try to spice it up by showing a photo of three women wearing three different styles of PJ’s. In some context, the sexy sleepover card could be played, but not when each woman is sporting more fabric than my dining room table and one of the models looks old enough to be my mother.  Maybe the Diane Keaton pillow fight idea should be pitched to those people who think showing an AARP card carrying, Olive Garden style dining, erectile dysfunction medication using, couple in a bath tub during national sporting events isn’t depressing.

And if head-to-toe fleece-armor weren’t enough, this romantic gift is only available in cotton candy pink. The only people in my house smiling about cotton candy pink PJ’s are not yet old enough to ride the school bus.

PINK PAJAMA DO! 5 MUFFINTOPS RATING!

But wait —- if the hooded footie PJ’s aren’t insulting enough on their own – –you can couple them with a stuffed animal —- wearing the same pathetic outfit. Again, very cute for anyone under the age of 7.

PINK PAJAMA DON'T! LOSE THE DOPEY BEAR AND OVERSIZED EASTER BUNNY CHICK. -0 MUFFINTOPS RATING!

This is further proof Valentine’s Day is one of those hellacious faux holidays. Thank you Hallmark for pressuring people into thinking that you can only show your love for someone by over spending on that one over advertised day each year.

BLUE FOR BOYS? UM, STILL NO. THIS IS ENCROACHING ON CHILD ABUSE. THE GROWN UPS ARE JUST D-BAGS!

Valentine’s Day is confusing. It makes single people feel like complete crap. Those in new relationships are anxiety ridden about what is appropriate or not. Those in ‘established’ relationships are caught in the cross between under-celebrating and appearing like they are over-compensating for a total lack of interest. And school children everywhere are just plain annoyed.

Even though we live in the ‘everyone gets a trophy’ generation, our children have figured out that this ‘holiday’ is a load of crap.

‘What are we celebrating anyway Mom?’

“It’s a day for people to express their true feelings and tell each other how much we love them.”

“Shouldn’t you tell people that you love them all the time? Why just today? That doesn’t make any sense.”

No, it doesn’t. It’s like forced family fun. Which can be made exponentially worse by requiring all of your family members to wear matching hoodie-footie ’ as advertised on the radio.

 But smile children, you need to make a Valentine for everyone in the class.

“Why Mom, I don’t even like Johnny! (* names have been changed to protect our reputation at recess), I’m not going send him a card that says ‘Smile, somebody loves you’!”

I’m sure you can find something in that over-priced box of miniature commercial cheapness.

“Here’s one that says ‘Be Mine’, maybe I can change it to read ‘Be Nice’ and he’ll stop throwing snowballs at me on the playground.”

(Editor’s note to Lisa’s daughter: Everyone knows throwing a snowball at someone’s face is really just a New Englander’s way of saying, “I heart you!” That boy totally digs you! Um, sorry Lisa. She has a right to know. )

And even the younger, less cynical pre-school children think it’s a hoax.

“Why can’t I just make one for my friends? Why do I have to make one for Sally? She eats crayons and bites people, I don’t want to be her Valentine.”

Bingo, kiddos.

We shouldn’t be told who to like, love or greet with Valentine’s Day wishes.

We shouldn’t be told how to express our love, admiration or complete disgust.

We shouldn’t be told when to express any of these feelings.

We shouldn’t be forced to wear or purchase pink PJs. Ever.

 And we certainly shouldn’t plan our course of action based upon a radio ad.

So on this Valentine’s Day let’s all take a minute to  tell those we love (be it our spouse, children, parents, friends, Oprah’s new half sister) why we love them and why we appreciate them being a part of our lives. Then make a pact never to get involved in shopping for PJ’s for anyone over the age of 10.

READY OR NOT, HERE WE COME....

A friend of mine posted something on Facebook yesterday, and I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this: This past year was really fantastic for my family and me, for which I am grateful,  but it really kicked some of my dear friends in the ass, so see you later 2010—I’m over you.

Word.

I thought it was a brilliant way to sum up the year. And let’s face it. When the clock strikes twelve, and a new year is upon us, we don’t know what’s in store. It’s exciting. And it’s scary as hell. What 2011 will bring no one knows.

I hope if you had a wonderful year, your good fortune and blessings continue. I hope if 2010 kicked you in the gut, you kicked it the hell back, and this year you will find the peace and happiness you deserve.

I’ll leave you on a funny note…..apparently, many out there on the world wide web are having anxiety about procuring “muffin top undergarments” or “undergarments which reduce muffin top” for their big holiday bashes–at least if the random search phrases people use that land them on my blog (Accidentally and on purpose! Welcome one and all!) are any indication. The following is a blog post I wrote last year about muffin top undergarments, in case you weren’t along for the ride back then. Or, in case you were, and you just don’t hang on my every word. (Damn you, that was my goal for 2010!) In 2011, I say we all collectively say to hell with it……muffin top or not, let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we? After all, what’s the point if we can’t laugh about all this madness?

Spanx a lot, muffintoppers. It’s been great getting to know so many of you through your comments on Facebook and twitter and the blog.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

xox,

Muffintopmommy

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I bought an undergarment that claims to “reduce muffin top”.

First, I’d like to thank the undergarment company for letting me know I’m not alone in my tragic plight. The mere fact they are marketing a product that claims to reduce muffin top, means there’s dough to be made in the muffin top biz! Which means, I’m in good company! (Don’t even get all high and mighty with me…. you bet your booty misery loves company!)

At first I was relieved that help finally arrived —since I got a muffin top way before I even knew it had a name.

(I swear, I’ve had a muffin top since the third grade. Some girls got boobs in third grade, I got a muffin top. Ain’t genetics a bitch?!)

Point is, since I’ve had my muffo de topo since leg warmers and the Rubik’s Cube were all the rage, I’m thinking it’s here to stay (clearly, since I not so optimistically named my very own blog in its honor. Sigh.)

So, when I had to get all fancy pants for a special event, I knew I had to take drastic measures. Thus, I purchased the vile undergarment (for almost the same price as my dress. No, I am not kidding. What’s up with that? Can you say, stop extorting desperate muffintopistas, greedy undergarment purveyors!)

Despite initially skipping out of the store with glee, upon further reflection of my purchase, I couldn’t help but wonder…If you reduce muffin top and whittle your waist, where does the muffin top go? It can’t just vanish into thin air (and trust me if it did, I would so not be bitching about the price. I’d pay any amount. Anything. And I’d stop at nothing to get the cash. There’d be a series of stick ups at local Targets, I’d probably be caught, but damn if I wouldn’t look great in that orange jumper sans muffin top!)

Dare to dream.

Anyway…I’m no expert in physics, but I know if you squeeze something, it has to come back out, somewhere.

So… what then?

 The cold, hard truth? The muffin top comes out your underarms and your tush. (Yes, yes it does. And it’s not pretty. Don’t even try it at home.) And when you take off said undergarment, it’s like opening up a tube of crescent rolls—”POP!! Look out, thare she blows!”

I’m telling you, between the muffin top contraption and your other undergarments….it’s one big house of cards. One false move, and you are so going down. So unless you plan to stand like a statue all evening to hold in your newly acquired under- arm –muffin- top, the gig’s up.

Take my advice…..and please don’t shoot the messenger….there’s just no easy fix. You can reduce muffin top in two minutes flat, but you’re either going to explode, implode or seriously contemplate throwing the garment in the “feminine products only” trash receptacle in the bathroom stall at your event. (Tell me cleaning people do not find evil muffin top and gut sucking apparatuses tossed aside when they clean restrooms after events. I defy you to prove otherwise. I will go on record stating desperate muffin toppers across the US are being driven to ditch in droves.)

LIKE HELL, LADIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I tell you what, I am so traumatized from my run in with the garment, I am this close to being desperate enough to do crunches!!

I KNOW!!!

When you’re home all day with small children, any adult interaction is key. It’s absolutely vital for a parent’s sanity to at least attempt to have some contact with adults. Don’t even come to my door trying to sell me on some mags or the good word of Jesus unless you’re prepared to chat.  I really don’t care if you’re from the high school lacrosse team or The Church of Latter Day Saints. (They’ll probably be coming by more often if they ever read this blog, trying to help my troubled soul. Really? Can you blame them?) I’m sorry Mormons, you seem lovely, but I can never join up with you. You frown on booze and I’m not giving it up, not even for the Lord. But let’s chat over coffee when I’m home alone with the kids. Decaf, natch.

OF COURSE I WOULD LOVE TO TALK ABOUT JESUS AND MY WAYWARD PATH!

It’s just the days are long around here. The hubs is gone for a good twelve hours a day between work and commuting. By the time he gets home, I just might be talking to myself. (Where did I put my glasses? OH! On top of my head. Where did I put my beer? OH! On top of the mantle. Where did I put my toddler? OH! Gotcha….I SO know where my son is almost all the time!) And the brain? Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not livin’ up to its full mediocre potential.  Love my kids, they say adorable stuff, but there are only so many conversations a gal can have about Transformers,whether or not fish have teeth, and the importance of thorough hand washing. And the brawls about the same damn toy when there are eight trillion others I’m twisting my ankle over? Repeat after me: I’m a mom, not a martyr bar bouncer. A mom, not a martyr. A mom, not a….oh never mind.

At some point, in between crafts and Cheerios, I have to sit and wonder what is going on in the world outside the confines of my kitchen.

To find out what’s up in the local community, I have the newspaper.

To find out what’s up around New Hampshire, the country, the world…. I have my kitchen tv for the news.

 But to find out what’s up with 300 of my closest cyber friends, I have Facebook.

If you’re not on Facebook, I don’t know if you can appreciate how much essential information you’re letting slip by! I’m scared for you. I am. See, Facebook to me is my “work watercooler”. It’s where I find out pressing, up to the minute details, like who passed their boards, whose kid put a diaper on their teddy bear, and whose dog swallowed the car keys. I know which childhood friend is on call at the ER, who’s having a baby, what they are naming said baby, and what their Facebook friends think of what they’re naming said baby.  I know who wishes essays would grade themselves,who loves to dance in the rain, and whose favorite smell is fresh cut grass. Are you a Fanilow or more of an AC/DC guy? I think I can guess! I know which moms like to drink and swear (please take note I’m not alone) and which ones won’t get all judgy on me for stating one night, “I’m hiding under the kitchen table. Do you think my kids will find me?”  I can see riveting revealing photos of my friend’s friends’ 40th and my husband’s cousin’s daughter’s dance recital. Don’t you wonder what your old next door neighbor’s favorite movie is or what your son’s friend’s mom’s five biggest pet peeves are? Join Facebook, and wonder no more!

From the east coast to the west, and even Europe too, I have a thread of individuals who make up my unique network of “friends”, even if I can’t quite recall how I even know one of them. (It’s not you, silly! I swear!)

Facebook is vital in my life because I need to know what my sorta friend from high school and my roommate from college’s sister is up to in real time, all the time! Wanna know who’s getting married? Divorced? Havin’ a baby? Midlife crisis? Botox? New boobies? Barium enema? Just ask the bankrupt US Postal Service—no one’s gonna mail you a letter, sweatheart! Facebook, baby.

OH THEY'RE REAL AND THEY'RE SPECTACULAR!

Truly, Facebook reminds me I’m really not alone, that my kids aren’t the only ones trying to wash their hair with diaper cream in the middle of the family room or dance on the counters….that maybe I’m not the only mother out there convinced there ain’t enough Calgon to even think about taking me away some days. It is a community of sorts, albeit a randomly constructed one.

I know, I know…. I might get tortured, or worse, pitied, for admitting Facebook is my window to the big outside world some many days. But most days, it’s just nice to know I’m not flying solo on this crazy journey called life.

I know, I know. That does look like Mo Rocca and an unidentified supermodel, doesn't it?

Just back from a fanfreakingtastic time at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Conference (If you missed my last post about her and other randomosity, click here.) It was all kinds of awesomesauce. Should I say it again? Should I? I just can’t stop myself. I laughed. I cried. I schmoozed. I boozed. Sadly, didn’t snoozeee-ed. (Something’s gotta give. I decided I’ll just sleep after I’m dead. I’m practical that way. Until then, I’m going big or going home.)

Though I had a rocking time with friends new and old, met some phenomenal and inspring authors, and had an extra bounce in my butt because the whole thing took place where all the magic used to happen, my alma mater, The University of Dayton, I came home feeling refreshed (in a sleep deprived kind of way), motivated (in a I want to conquer the writing world in a six to twelve month kind of way), and excited to see the hubs and boys (in a….I really, really missed you in the best kinda way.) 

Now that I’m back on the job as den mama of the frat house, with the perspective of having been around only adults from Wednesday to Sunday night (some of them flat out famous–but I’m not one to name drop….. MoRoccaBillScheftChristianLanderWadeRousehearthimLorettaLaRoche

SteveDoocyGailGollinsBombeckfamily

and breatheohI’mjustbabblingnotnamedroppingnotnamedroppingATall….. I found myself, the only grown up in this joint from 7 to 7 (Which reminds me. A 12 hour shift with no breaks? I so need to call the labor board once and for all.) listening intently to the words that came out of my mouth today. I’m a giver, so thought I’d share with the caveat that when you read the following quotes, you need to keep in mind they were said/screeched/shrieked/whisperedthroughgrittedteeth with love as I attempted re-entry. And by love I mean, LOVE. What? You do know what love is, right? (I’m sorta getting worried about you.) 

And yes, this is all further proof I am an intellectual. 

1. “Ack! Softsoap is not a snack!” 9:30 AM. To baby. 

2. “You cannot eat more than one doughnut. That’s just gross.” 9:45 AM. To 3 year old 

3. “Well, I’m glad you think we handled that situation well, because you know, he’s our oldest and really? We don’t know what we’re doing. We’re kind of figuring it out as we go along.” 11:55 to 5 year old’s preschool teacher, at the end of year conference. (She laughed. Nervously.) 

4. “Why yes, I would like fries with that.” 12:30 PM. To waitress (enabler!), at lunch. 

5. “Why did I have fries with that?” To baby, 12:50 PM. (He replied, “AHH AHH AHH MAMA! MAMA!”  His enthusiasm implied positive reinforcement.) 

6. “OMG, I can’t believe Sami just said that!” To tv, 1:15 PM. (You do know who Sami Brady is, right? From Salem, USA. Still nothing? “And these are The Days of Our Lives”…ring a bell yet? Ok, now I’m really worried. First you don’t know what love is and now you’re not down with Sami? We need to talk.) 

7. “OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! You pooped in the potty! You pooped. In. The. Potty!! You are the MAN!”  To 3 year old, 2:15 PM 

8. “You cannot have the whole bag of candy for pooping in the potty. No. No. Nooooo. Uh uh. No. One piece. Onnnne piece. That was the deal and you know it, mister!” To 3 year old, intense toddler negotiation, 2:16 PM. 

9. “You already know how to go potty. Am I supposed to give you candy for life for just taking care of bizness? You’re not getting candy! Fine. You can have ONE piece. ONE. UNO. ” To 5 year old, 2:17 PM. My negotiation skills honed from 10 years in sales fail me yet again. Damn Tommy Boy for dying. I could use a sales refresher! 

10. “Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleeeeepppp.” 2:45, Me to..baby monitor. There is not a trace of desperation in my voice. Not at ALL. 

11. “Why yes, that was a picture of the famed Mo Rocca and me on Facebook. He’s my homeboy. Wait, I think that’s him on the other line. Can you hold?” 4 PM, me to girlfriend via phone. 

12. “What’s for dinner? That’s rhetorical, right?” To the hubs, 6:15 PM, via phone. 

13. “Get off the dining room table!” Me, to baby, 6:45 PM. 

14. “Oh why did I have fries with that?” Me to self, 8 PM, crying inside, dying inside, doing bicep curls at gym. (Which is entirely misleading because I checked and I have no biceps.) 

15. “Why am I drinking whey protein in a pint glass? What has become of me?” Me, to self, at 9:15 PM. 

16. “Why have auto insurance companies, Propecia and Zithromax left me over 100 comments on my blog today? And referred to me as kind sir? And kool? They dig me–they really dig me!! Who needs an agent when I’ve got Propecia love! Looks like we madeeeee it!!!” Me to self, 10:30 PM. (I’m totally running with KOOL. That’s an endorsement if I ever heard one. I’m KOOL. I rule…..What? I said I’m KOOL, not, I’m a TOOL. Don’t you guys listen? Hello…please see accompanying photo for proof!) 

17. Stroke of midnight, to self, during sleep………..Um…don’t you think that’s kinda private? And anyway, you’ll have to ask the hubs that one.