Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in OH &^%$!! | Posted on 10-03-2016

It was an egregious act of a desperate woman.

When the priest said for better or worse I had no way of knowing just how bad it would get before I committed the ultimate act of betrayal. Fifteen years! Fifteen years I’d given this man. So I felt entitled. Empowered.  And certainly not regretful.

Like many others, I didn’t mean to do it. I’m a good person. I vote! I pay my taxes! I don’t even jaywalk. But the man cold sent husband to bed unexpectedly one day. He snored softly, paralyzed by an over-the- counter elixir.  I left him to his sweet, pharmaceutical slumber, when the trash bag I’d been filling in the bathroom beckoned.

I clutched the bag, ready to go downstairs. But then in my line of sight, flung haphazardly on the edge of the tub, there it was— mocking me.  THE hoodie. Oh, I resented it. I resented its fraying neck and faded, unraveling letters.  I resented every single mystery stain that was seemingly impenetrable by every brand of laundry detergent sold in the continental US. Glowering at my prey, I moved like a one woman Swat team.

In one fell swoop it was in the trash, relegated to the same status as a used Q-tip. Seven years of dump runs, yard work, Red Sox games, splattered beers and dreams….gone in a fit of blind fury.

The exhilaration in knowing that it could never hurt me again fed my soul.

But I didn’t just do it for me.

I did it for every woman powerless to stop her spouse from running errands in foul, filthy, sports team attire.  I did it for every newly married gal who held her breath wondering WHO might have spied her husband in all his hobo attired glory but who remained silent for fear of hurting her husband’s feelings! (I had those once. Amazing what sweatshirt rage will do to dull your heart.)

Unlike a woman whose pride dictates she duck behind the cheese case if she dashes out looking disheveled, men who venture out boldly and without shame in perma-stained hoodies  would think nothing of bear hugging the PTA mom, the Pope, or the President in aisle nine.

 The next day perusing the Tarjay ad like the rest of the innocents, I’d almost forgotten all about my crime. My inexperience at being a calculated criminal would soon be revealed.

The translucent trash bag—I’d left it slumped in the corner of the bathroom. Rookie.

“JANET! You waited! You waited til I was totally incapacitated!”

“Yes I did!” I roared without contrition.

“Til death do us part”, he said.  It’s not my fault the priest didn’t expressly mention death by hoodie.




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, OH &^%$!!, Uncategorized | Posted on 27-03-2014

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I knew I should have just stuck to shiny! pretty! sparkly! Pinterest. But I tried to play with the big kids and now, 600 people who have ever been linked even tangentially to me or my email account, have been invited by moi to “connect” on LinkedIn. One errant click of a button is all it took and now I am connected to law students, nurse managers, and police officers from here to Chicago and back! Every time I open my email I cringe, wondering which virtual stranger is my new LinkedIn bestie.

Within minutes, I received a polite email from the gentleman whose condo we are renting this summer in Hilton Head….”I’m sorry Janet, but I can’t connect with you on LinkedIn. I retired in 2010 and I’m not sure why LinkedIn hasn’t deleted my account.”

OHMAHGAWD. I hope the key code to get into the joint works once we haul ass all the way to South Carolina from New Hampshire! Don’t worry, sir, I won’t be hosting any soirees for strangers in your retirement nest egg with Dawn from Chicago and Bill from Ohio. You know how LinkedIn people bring THE PARTY. I wants my security deposit back!

Just got this email from the room mother from my middle’s class, “Hey Janet! I don’t do linked in but my hubby does. I’ll make sure he sees this. Thanks!”

No–cries inside–thank you for being so nice and not realizing what a cuckoo I am!!! I’m dying. DYING. And now I’m wondering if all the parents in oldest’s class are getting requests because I am the room mom! You send in that donation for the Family Fun Night or you WILL get more LinkedIn requests, people, okay? (I think this is an abuse of power! I am totally getting kicked out of the PTA!)

Frankly, I AM a little pissed HGTV rejected my request to connect. Ditto for you, Lumber Liquidators. Where’s the loyalty?



No really, the worst part? Is the people I sort of know like the room mommy. Little league coaches? A friend’s husband from town who I’ve met like 1.5 times? OHGODOHNO did my kids’ principal get one???? The parish priest?  The town hooker? (Ok, there is no town hooker, but if there was—oh yeah, I would have totally requested her!) Now I’m left to wonder—who is going to see me in frozen foods and think, “Why did you contact my husband/wife/great Aunt/stepcousin on LinkedIn, ya freakshow!?!”

My friend texted me about something right after LinkedInGate2014 so I had to fill her in and she texts back, “So funny—Adam just said to me, why does Janet want to be friends on LinkedIn—he wants to know did this go out to all your email friends or just him!” I replied, “Just him. #winkwink But wait, does he want to go shoe shopping tomorrow?”

She replies, “Ha ha ha! I love you!” and I’m like, “Yeah, so do 600 people on LinkedIn!”

When hubs got home from work, I felt compelled to confess my blunder–fully expecting him to be all, “What’s LinkedIn?” and shrug his shoulders. Instead he says a little too loudly for MY liking, “Oh, I know! I got like 5 requests from you–so annoying! You know, people make mistakes like that and get FIRED from their jobs!”


OH shit, husband, I am going to lose my huge ass job here at Casa de Muffin Top. Who will be in charge of arse wiping now? Please don’t report me to HR.

I might send him five more requests today. You will connect with me, husband! YOU WILL!!!



Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Friends...you got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Uncategorized | Posted on 26-07-2013


Forty years ago, Bad, Bad Leroy Brown was at the top of the charts, Archie Bunker curmudgeoned his way into our living rooms on All In The Family, the MRI was invented, Billie Jean King kicked some tennis arse, and the Oakland A’s were World Series Champs. And in Boston, a little squawker was born. The thing about being born in 1973 to parents who were 40 and 45, who already had kids who were 13, 12, and 7, is that after a while the writing’s on the wall. Irish + Catholic + ohgawdmygawd. They must have hit one of the DiGirolamo’s infamous parties and, to quote Teresa from Real Housewives of New Jersey, “Brown chicka brown chow.” Too many Schlitzes? Too many VO and waters? No Catholic birth control. BOOM.


Well, all I can say is, thank God we weren’t Presbyterian. *waves hello *no offense God faring Presbyterians and all other birth control loving denominations

My family was so loving about it though. While one sister told me my parents bought me on the corner for a dime and got change, the other told me when my mom found out she was preggers she banged some pots and pans together. When the doctor called our house to share the great news a new sister was born, the third chick to make my brother wait for the bathroom, bro reportedly went behind the couch and cried. Pussy. He would be sorry when I turned out to be full of awesome. Not really. When the doctor called back, he refused to take his call. My how times have changed!

But hey, NO hard feelings! This all explains a lot, doesn’t it?

My parents were kind enough to soften the sibling barbs and say I was a”happy accident” and that I “kept them young”.

Um hmm.


1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, and……

Lights! (But not too bright, my wrinkles will show!) Camera! (Um, not too close, and let me tilt my face to hide my three chins!) Action! (Brown chicka brown chow! Shut it. I’m 99.9% sure I will not repeat history as a card carrying cafeteria Catholic heath-en!)…….


Now that it’s spelled out, it seems like a lot. 28 more than the Electric Company song. 40 years on fast forward……Walking, talking, falling of my biking, awkward buck teething, first dating, kissing, missing, soaring, oversleeping, dancing, boozing, schmoozing, marrying, birthing, parenting, writing, flighting. That was FLIGHTING, not FIGHTING. Who do you think I AM?

40. It’s just a number, right?

40% off is a lot.

$40 dollars. Not a lot.

40 lbs. Not a lot. Unless you lose 40 lbs. Then it’s a lot.

40 boyfriends, husbands, hook ups, mystery illnesses? Yup. A lot.

40 miles. Not a lot. Unless you’re running. Or swimming. Or spelunkswimhikingbikingtriahaloning. Then it’s a lot.

I know I should probably look like this right now:



But seriously. 40 is the new, what, 11? It’s all good. I’m happy. I’m healthy. (The holes in my liver will close up after summer, c’mon!) I have a wonderful family and much to be grateful for. A few months ago, I came across this quote, “Growing old is a privilege that is denied to many.”
It is. And I well know it.

So on my 40th, and for the next hopefully 40 or 80 years (you never know—this kid brought to you by Schlitz and VO—here’s hopin’!), I’m going to heed a line from my favorite writer Erma Bombecks’, “If I Had My Life To Live Over”, “I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the sofa was faded.”

WORD. Let’s do it everyone, whether you’re 30 or 40 or 50 or 99.

We’ve earned it. With every bad breakup, boss, unfortunate hair style, trauma, scar, and loss. Every hope, dream, goal achieved. We’ve earned the right. To know who we are, who our friends are, who will gain the privilege to grow old with us and pop a squat on our faded sofas.

So bring it. 40 more years or bust. We meet here. At dawn, we ride!






Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage | Posted on 05-07-2013

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I KNOW! This is a skitzo post. First, the gas card winnah!!! Pamela T! Please email me at janet@muffintopmommy.com with your full name and address so I can have Stop and Shop mail your $FITTY dollah gift card. WOOP! Thanks to all for entering!

And now, this.



So you know how when you have small urchin childs and you are prone to shop at 98 miles per hour throwing this and that into the cart? So I grabbed this cute green Ralph polo shirt at Che Mar-shalls. Extra grande. VIVA LA MUFFINTOP! Ahem. I get it home and throw it on and I look like Mike Wazowski from Monsters, Inc! Maybe a green apple. Or a pea on GMO steroids.

What the schluck, Ralph Lauren?

I grab the shirt, hold it up, see that it indeed says XL, EXTRA GRANDE, and not extra fricking flash your muffintop small. And then I see, under the XL, hidden from the eyes of hasty shoppers, “SLIM FIT”.

Slim fit?

Slim fit.

Um, Ralph? If I’m buying an extra grande shirt, there ain’t nothing slim about me. What in preppy hell is your ever loving point? Extra Grande +Slim Fit = Oxymoron. GET A WEBSTER’S DICTIONARY, RALPHIE!

The hell, Ralph. I’m breaking up with you. Obviously, you only want slim chubsters to wear your shitz. That’s what I get for cheating’ on mah Merona. They have REAL xl’s. Hell, they even have XXL! EXTRA EXTRA GRANDE!

Ralph. You had your chance. When I’m rich and famous some day never, I shall not be rocking your duds on Jimmy Fallon. Or at the playground. Whatevs.



Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Retail Therapy | Posted on 01-07-2013

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"I'M JUST TRYING TO TREAT MY FAMILY TO A LITTLE FUN!" --photo courtesy of photobucket


Are you filling up the family truckster and hitting the open road this summer? (Take me with youuuuuuuuuu!) Stop and Shop is here to help put the swagga back into your wagon. They have graciously offered to give a $50 gas gift card to one lucky Muffintopmommy reader and one Muffintop (moi!).

You know you’re a solid grown up when receiving a $50 gas gift card makes you go BOOM like Santa’s on your roof! But seriously, I’ve been saving on my gas for years at the Stop and Shop right in my town. Never mind the rewards you can rack up, their everyday gas prices are typically the best around. Getting gas there is a no brainer. (And with the scratch I save on gas, I don’t feel one bit guilty dropping into Stop and Shop for some vino!)

With Stop and Shop gas rewards, it’s easy keep more money in your pocket for Hamburger Helper, rocking plaid pants, and other miscellaneous funsies (see above–ahem) —and there are many ways to save. First, while you’re doing your grocery shopping. Stop and Shop has tons of every day items throughout the store that are marked “Gas Rewards”. You can plan ahead by seeing the participating items in the sale flyer each week. Baby items, flowers (they have a kick arse floral department!) and other household items are included in addition to groceries–woot!

Here’s how it works:

  • Save 10¢ per gallon for every 100 points you earn.
  • You earn 1 point for every dollar you spend with your Stop & Shop card.
Points Savings
100 10¢/gallon
200 20¢/gallon
300 30¢/gallon
…up to $2.20/gallon!

Up to $2.20 a gallon! That is crazycakes!

Not sure where your nearest Stop and Shop is located? Find one near you by visiting their website.

To enter to win the gift card, please leave your first name and last initial and tell me if you’ve ever saved on gas at Stop and Shop and what fun thing you might do with your savings. Please enter by Friday, July 4th at 11:59 EST. Winner will be announced on mah blog on July 5th!

Stop and Shop is giving me a $50 gift card to facilitate this review/offer. All thoughts and opinions are my own. As usual. Like it or not. :)

Cheers to summah!!!!!!!!!!




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Uncategorized | Posted on 26-06-2013

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Dear Future Therapist Of My Darling Boys,

First, I want you to know, my intentions were good. Like many who came before me, once upon a time I was an awesome parent. Perfect even.

Before I had kids. And that small yet glorious window where my visit with them was supervised by licensed professionals. The 48 hours after childbirth rule–I would so kick ass at mothering if I had a whole staff. Dugh. Rich people can suck it. (I’m looking at you Kardashians!)

We’re one week into summer vacation. The first morning, the little (what’s the word I’m looking for?) shitz beat me downstairs. Forgive me for not leaping out of bed, but in my advanced age you and I both know that could cause dizziness.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t have stayed up late watching Andy Cohen. (Is Andy Cohen gonna come watch my boys when they rise with the roosters? Um, no. Mazel that Andy–thanks for nuthin’! You too, Mama Manzo!) Whatever. Five minutes. To shake off the cobwebs. And not fall on my bed head. That’s all I wanted!

I came down, intending to make my children a delicious and nutritious hearty breakfast (Cheerios), and there was spilled milk all over the counter and the floor, 4 year old was sitting at the counter wolfing a huge bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that he somehow managed to split in two down the middle. (By the way, I do not know who brought that processed crap pms snack into our house! Naturally we only eat organic, whole grain, flax seed encrustedfortifiedenhancedbedazzled with vitamins and minerals and healthyfullness snacks here!) Six year old sat nearby in a mound of brownie crumbs, while 8 year old wagged his finger, “I had NOTHING to do with this!”

Fast forward an hour later to the dental check ups. I try to look Danica Patrick interested in the Car and Driver magazine after four year old locks himself in the bathroom, conveniently adjacent to the waiting room, and hollers, “Mom! I have to POOOOOOH!” Of course you do. Because Cool Ranch Doritos are the breakfast of champions. Do I know you? I’m just here to get my Car and Driver fix on.

While one reads quietly (thank you Je-sus!) the remaining waiting room occupant who belongs to moi opens and closes the Keurig coffee drawer 43 times, tries out the step lever trash can a half dozen times, asks if the girls’ hat hanging on the coat rack belongs to any number of girls we know, opens an end table and surmises that’s the secret lost and found, moves a chair back and forth, tests out the antibacterial soap three times, asks for a toothbrush, tries to break into the bathroom to converse with Sir Poops A Lot, closes the door to the waiting room, rifles through the toys as a very last resort, but then inexplicably acts angelic during the exam.

While the one who read quietly fidgets and freaks when he gets his fluoride treatment.

Huh? But I miss most of that because after Sir Poops A Lot finishes his biz, and it’s obvious the 12 year old in the waiting room isn’t going to claim him (his parents should really teach him to make eye contact with his elders—rude!) , he waddles to the door and whips it open—pants on the ground! pants on the ground! —and hollers, “DONE POOOPING!” aka come wipe my arse, woman.

So was I wrong to ask the receptionist and hygienist when we left if it was happy hour yet? (It was 11 AM. So sadly, no. I mean, they didn’t expressly say NO, because they aren’t my legal guardians, but I’m fairly certain they might have 911 on speed dial in case of dental emergencies and what not so I gave the hearty yet polite laugh to signal I was mostly kidding.)

I have been dutifully saving for my kids’ college education. Their 529′s are bursting with enough money for used books and dollar drafts. But I have to wonder if I should be setting a little sumpin’ sumpin’ aside for their therapy?

I mean, was I wrong to happily inform my kids there was 61 days left of summer break….and counting?

Was I wrong when I barked at them yesterday in the 97 degree 3 h’s (heat, humidity, haze) after busting around my backyard like a sweathog setting up our klassy blow up water slide, patching holes, hammering stakes, and putting together lawn games for a playdate when I asked them to simply turn the hose on and they answered, one after the other, um, I don’t really wanna.


I’m on an online moms group and I happen to know other kids their age make their beds, sweep the floor, set the table, and run Fortune 500 companies.

The extent of my kids’ chores that they fulfill without argument is running down to the basement to get me a beer out of the fridge. I even pour it into my own mug! Shouldn’t THEY be doing that? Oh, I told those moms that, too.

They thought I was kidding.

Those kids know I like the slim can and they better not come back with the Silver Bullets—I don’t even care if the mountains are blue or not. No thanks. A girl has her preferences, am I right?


I had dreams. I had visions. My parents raised me with manners. They did! So I planned a treat today on a rainy day–we met daddy for lunch. YAAAAY. So as I sat at the finest kids eat free restaurant with my handsome brood assembled, napkin on my lap, elbows off the table, mouth closed as I chomped complimentary popcorn, we colored with the unwashable crayons (that damn well better not have been smuggled into my home!). We played tic tac toe, and I let 6 year old win one game to bolster his confidence but beat him in the second match because dude, no one likes a 6 year old bragger. All of a sudden, spontaneously, 6 year old spun the hanging light that teetered over our table while the mini Jonas brothers burst into song.

“I’m naked and I know it!”




Thankfully, they weren’t naked. Bonus! And we were in the corner. (They know us! And remember us! Isn’t great customer service the best?!)

Should I have interjected and said, “Actually, the song goes, ‘I’m sexaaay and I know it.’”

I didn’t. Because I’m really working on being positive. Positive reinforcement! Because someone told me when you make one negative remark toward a kid, you need to make eleventycajillion positive ones to make up for it.

So I just smiled and clapped. “Great singing boys, great singing! I love you MORE than these french fries which, undoubtedly, were fried in unsaturated oil for your good health and mine!”

And then I sipped my Diet Coke. And looked at my watch.

59 days left of summer vaca. But only 4 1/2 hours til happy hour.



That Mom





Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Friends...you got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Uncategorized | Posted on 11-03-2013

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So, hubs found out last week that he needs to have surgery this week. Don’t bust out your rosary beads or your Buddha or call your Rabbi–it’s totally minor. (Which is why he’s feeling his pulse and pacing. But you need to know this IS the guy who turned ashen and shrieked, “What’s gonna happen to meeeee!?” when he realized I’d inadvertently given him a tuna sammie on a roll that had one TEENY, TINY, TEENY bit of mold on it. What? It wasn’t on purpose! Go to Burger King if you want it your way! I ain’t no Mrs. Patmore.)


I know what you’re thinking. You. And You. AND you. What’s a little day surgery when he’s lived through almost 13 years of my culinary catastrophes. What’s a little day surgery when he’s survived at least a dozen common colds and three near misses with self diagnosed terminal Web-MD illnesses?


He’ll be fiiiine. I would be breaking HIPPA laws and probably marital ones too if I told you what he’s in for. Rhymes with kerplernia. 

Because I love him, I fully planned to see him through this. For better or worse. For poorer or poorer. In sickness breaking a collar bone racing a Razor scooter on Mother’s Day, blowing out a knee pretending to be a Solid Gold dancer at high school reunion, no hard feelings and in health. I have been there. I am there. I will be there. Like Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything. Only more. And better. (No offense, Peter Gabriel. This isn’t about you.) Instead of a boom box, I’ll have People mag. Trash tv. Ginger ale. I’ll make sure his TMZ app is working (Yes he has it. Would I EVEN make that up?!!) AND I’ll be keeping the kids from jumping on his recuperating kerplernia-ness. I won’t try to take advantage of him in his fragile state. (Just so we’re clear, slurred consent for me buying bling will hold up in court, yes? Any barristers in da house??)


But seriously. I was all, “I got this!”

Then? He said something along the lines of—it’s all kind of hazy now—”By the way, I won’t be able to shower for like five days after the surgery. And, you’re going to need to change my dressings.”


Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat. Willis! Hubs! Soon to be Stinkyass! Whatever your name is!? What!?

I don’t remember much after that. I think I called my shrink. Oh wait, I don’t have a shrink. I mean, I opened my beer. And I said –to him–not the beer, “Now you are really taking this for better or worse chit a little too far lately. I am not yet 40–I have my whole half my life ahead of me! Can’t we save the Nurse Ratchet bit for Bingo time? If you want a dressing change, please, I am totally willing to go Italian to blue cheese–boom–just ask! I am here for you!” When I brought out the box of Elmo bandaids to be helpful, I do have to wonder—and I’m just throwing it out there—if he fleetingly wondered if maybe bringing English major flowers on a random Tuesday miiiight have helped my outlook?

I’m kidding.


But dude.

Five days of not showering? Changing dressings? While he’s laid up in bed surfing the net convinced he’s having kerplernia after shock complications that could cause blindness/ketosis/cirrhosis/deafness/impotence/male pattern baldness/typhoid/scarletfever/measles/sepsis/fungalungameningialcarpaltunnelness.

Who. Who’s busting me outta this joint?!!!