So remember a few weeks ago when I said I feel like a biggity buzz kill sometimes, but I would not not not inflict my thoughts on my kids? I vowed to let them go and watch them fly.

As it turns out, surprise! My six year old really seems to dig math. I figured this out over the course of the year and his teacher confirmed it. Good for him! So when a form came home asking if we wanted to sign him up for something called “Math Superstars”, which is  just a few sheets of extra math homework per week, I leapt at the chance for him to math it up.

Now, I wasn’t a horrible math student, but I had to work really hard for average grades, and I despised it like Ohio State hates Michigan, like Carol Brady hated kids playing ball in the house, like muffin top hates swimsuits. With the exception of tying for first place in the multiplication table contest with a smartypants in third grade, I was no standout. (Did I mention the prize was a trip out for an ice cream sundae with the teacher? Ladies and gentlemen, meet Pavlov, the accidental mathematician!) 

Yes, yes I do.

Science and I–which sometimes seemed like thinly veiled math—were hardly bff’s either, but at least in science you could blow stuff up and learn to be grateful for the geniuses responsible for me being able to drive over bridges to fun vacation spots without plunging to my death—-go Physics!). Only because I was a motivated student kind of a nerd who went to a free math SAT prep class after school, did I actually manage to get a better score on my math SAT’s than my English. (You’re the man, Mr. Sweeney!) I’m not sure who that probably surprised more—my math teachers or my English teachers. Regardless, besides balancing my checkbook (and by balancing, I mean going online to see what’s what and making sure I didn’t blow the mortgage at Tarjay) and figuring out important math problems in my head (If the shoes are $59.99 and they are 40% off, how much are they? A great fracking deal!) I’ve steered mostly clear of math the past few decades.

I figured my kids’ math homework might stump me eventually, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I’m not going to lie to you. Some of the Math Superstar problems are hurting my head.

Example:

Five scarecrows had a candy corn eating contest.

Ben ate the most candy corns.

Jen ate more than Len.

Jen ate less than Ken.

Zen ate less than Len.

Write the scarecrows’ names in order to show how much candy corn they ate.

My son and I figured it out together but dude, this is why English people shouldn’t do math. My brain was whizzing. Why are scarecrows eating candy corn? They’re fake. Most scarecrows are badly dressed dudes, so what is Jen wearing? Not faded overalls and bad plaid I hope! And Jen ate more crap candy than two dudes–I wonder if she has a scarecrow muffin top? And anyway, who names their scarecrow Zen? Is Zen a Buddhist scarecrow? Isn’t it bad karma for Zen to try to scare away crows, who are gifts of nature, and overeat candy?

Moving on to exhibit B:

There are 3 children and 1 wagon ( I wanted so badly to scratch out the 3 and the 1 and write out three and one instead!). Two children can play at a time. One child can ride and one child can pull. In the table, show all the ways the children can ride and pull. (Then there is one column for child riding and one for child pulling.)

Well, this is a dumbass question. You know damn right well the one kid who doesn’t get a turn is going to be whining/crying/pitching a shit fit screeching, “When is it myyyyyyy turn? Is it myyyyyyyy turn yet?” You know the kid pulling is going to pull the wagon too fast, and you know that wagons were not designed by the smart bridge Physicists/Engineers because the damn things suck at hairpin turns. So you gotta figure the rider is getting dumped out onto the pavement. So that leaves two kids crying, pitching a shit fit, and one kid remaining. The one kid remaining will demand his turn from the whinybags who are crying, but the two cryers won’t want to pull him so he’ll start wailing, too.

Let’s review, mathletes: that leaves three kids crying, after only one turn. So that leaves 5 different turn combinations to go, math geniuses? I don’t think so. I’m calling bullshit on your fuzzy math. Meanwhile, the mom who sent the three to play with the wagon is cursing under her breath and counting the minutes til happy hour–she knew it was a stupid ass idea in the first place.

 You can be all Big Bang Theory Sheldon smart, but you can’t check your common sense at the door, son!

Finally? This one:

Teaka finishes dinner at 6 o’clock. She reads her book for 2 (t-w-o, mathletes, two!) hours. Then she goes to bed. Draw the hour and the minute hands on the clock to show when Teaka goes to bed.

Okay. But first….what book was Teaka reading? Is Teaka a kid or a grown up? This might help me guess what book. After she puts her book down, does she brush her teeth? Floss? Check her email? Balance her checkbook *cough*? Do some push ups? Write in her diary! Ooh! Check Facebook? Twitter? Pin some shit on Pinterest? Does she really go right to bed? I know you’re thinking the answer is 8 o’clock, but I find that hard to believe, frankly. But with no further information, I was forced to watch 6 year old put 8 on the little clock, but I do not feel good about it. At all. Because again? I have to call bullshit on the math superstars for leaving out pertinent info!

But I will hold my tongue. I will let him go. And I will watch him fly.

This is my brain on math and science.

As my brain explodes. (At what velocity and force, I really don’t know. I was probably talking about 90210 that day in Physics.)

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve never had a sunburn before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “I don’t smell anything!”

I say, “I.SMELL.SMOKE.”

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

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

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

Scary! So grateful we were all okay.

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

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

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

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

Hey, that flame was strong!

My purses used to be fashionable and admittedly, sometimes real and sometimes faux. Now, they’re just honking. They’re just about as stylish as something that needs to haul small cargo can be, that also typically costs, oh, $50 bucks or less.

I swear I’m getting curvature of the spine from carrying my purse. It weighs about 1439 pounds and has so much random stuff in it, I’m pretty sure if I got stranded on a desert island, I’d have enough loot in there to eat for a week, send out SOS signals and if all hope is lost, MacGayver my ass a small boat to sail out of there. But….would I want to? Being temporarily stranded on a random desert island sounds strangely appealing to me—a little bit less so than a jury sequester (Not that I’ve thought much about it. At all.) but all the same, still pretty tempting. I could pretend I was on ”holiday” at an all inclusive resort….sans the delish food, running water and free flowing booze.

Yeah. Um, on second thought, I’ll just stick to my getaway to the grocery store. Frankly, you lost me at no booze.

The best part about lugging around half a ton of ca-rap, is that when I actually need one of the 47 million things in there, I have to root around in the bottomless pit for five minutes to find what it is I’m looking for. I practically have to send a dive team in.

“Okay, stand back— we’re going in for that dented (yet salvageable!) tampon now!”

“Ouch! Oh man, I just got stuck with a random safety pin, what the hell?! But I did find this really cool mini cop car!”

Danger lurks at every turn in the mommy purse.

It’s also super funtastic when I whip my honking bigger than my arse mommy wallet out to pay for something at the drug store and stuff starts to rain down on the floor. (Do I really need to hang onto the grocery receipt from 2008…pretty sure I’m not going to be returning the French’s mustard…but do I have the receipt for the sweater that didn’t fit from last week…..offff course not. Fracking muffin top mania.)

And I know I’m technically an adult and thus, should be able to buy anything I want without fear of embarrassment, but does it ALWAYS have to be the one random teenage boy who can’t look me in the eye (his issue, NOT mine!) when I’m buying the three pack pregnancy test?* I know it should not make me blush since I am A. married and B. old as dirt. But still. Look at me through your bad Bieberbangs, punk, look at me! (Oh.My.God, I’m old enough to be his m-o-t-h-e-r aren’t I?)

Well. Still!

Listen kid, ain’t no shame in this game! Nope, none whatsoever. Even the most pious in society won’t argue, I am OLD enough and MARRIED enough to have sex if I want to punk, and if I get pregnant (gulp) the more the merrier (Insert Howard Dean scream….now!)

* Shut the front door and wash your mouth out with soap! I’m totally kidding about the pregnancy test. Just because I said I could have sex doesn’t mean I actually do!!! Wait, is it a leap year?

This is a variation of a Christmas post I ran on muffintopmommy a few years ago and was published at Parent: Wise Austin. It’s one of my faves. I hope it makes you laugh…and inspires you to shop wisely this Christmas season!  

Peace, love, joy, and rum!

MTM

You know what’s fun?  Getting a “recycled” number from the phone company.  Especially when that recycled number belonged to a toy store that went out of business — just before the holidays.

Ho freaking ho. And don’t forget the bottle of rum.

Even though this is our fourth holiday season in this house, we’re still getting calls for that toy store. Seriously, if you don’t know the joint went out of biz four years ago, clearly you weren’t their most loyal patron. And frankly? Maybe if you had been more loyal, the damn store wouldn’t BE out of business, and I wouldn’t be in this nightmare before Christmas.

The first year I should have been on Kringle’s payroll, or at least honored by the local Chamber of Commerce or something. I got tons of calls that all went down something like this:

“Hello?”

“Yeah hi, is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“Um, no, I’m sorry it isn’t. They went out of business recently. Their other location is still open. I’d try them. Here’s their phone number.”

“Oh thank you so much!”

“No problem. Have a nice holiday.”

Year two, I was still on my A game. My former career in customer service and sales proved an asset. I thought evil thoughts, but in keeping with the spirit of the holiday season, I did not voice them.

“Hello?”

“Is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“No, sorry. The phone company gave us their old phone number Yeah. Viva Verizon—NOT!”

“HA HA. You must get a lot of calls. I’m sorry to bother you.” You should be. I’m right in the middle of finding out which condo the twenty-something bachelor in Chicago is going to pick on House Hunters! I think he should pick the one with the killer view of the lake, but HE wants to be nearer to the El! If you want to woo the ladies, killer, go with the view and hoof your butt to the train. Don’t come crying to me when you’re cold and alone, dude!

“No problem. Their other location is still open, though. Why don’t you try them?” And look up the damn number yourself. I ain’t on the clock!

Year Three: I finally wised-up and decided to screen my calls.  Any number I didn’t recognize went straight to voicemail. Now, you’d think that, upon hearing a random woman say thanks for calling Casa de Muffin Top, the would-be Kringle’s shoppers would realize this ain’t no toy shop.

WRONG!

People really are scary stupid. I’m not trying to be all uppity, as I’m no master of quantum physics, but really? Connect the freaking dots, people! Toy store? Gone.

Yet the messages would pile up:  “Hi, do you have the jumping monkey? It jumps? Call me.”

NO!

Then…Granny called.

“Hi, um, my name is Gertrude Granmama and I’m looking for some dolls for my granddaughters. I don’t know what they’re called but they’re very realistic looking—the hair and oh! The eyes move and they smile. I thought maybe you—you know, because you’re a small toy shop might have something nice like this instead of, oh, I don’t know, Walllll —what’s that store?— or Toys-R, um, Toys-R — Oh! One of those, you know, boxy stores. Well, if you could just put me on your list, and please call me back when you get this message, that would be great. OK, all righty then, here is my number. Call me back. Bye. Oh and I can send you a deposit for the dolls? Bye! I look forward to hearing from you!”

I really wanted to ignore the message. Truly, I did. But I just felt too awful envisioning this nice little old lady sitting around doing her crossword puzzles or whatever, thinking she was on the creepy doll wait list, hoping for Kringle’s to call back.

So, out of a sense of some kind of suburban mother obligation, I called her back.  When I got her voicemail, I left a nice message stating that she’d reached the wrong number….blah blah blah….sorry for the inconvenience…blah blah blah…Happy Holidays and good bye!
Later on that evening, the phone rings. I hear my husband chatter for a few moments, hang-up, then RUN upstairs, laughing like a madman.

“That was Granny!”

“Yeah, so?”

 “Well, she told me my wife was so lovely to call and tell her we weren’t Kringle’s,” he choked, barely able to breathe.

“What’s funny about that? I AM lovely! I AM!”

“No, no no! I’m telling you, Granny…is…wasted! Totally on the sauce. She DRUNK DIALED us!”

DRUNK GRANDMA? I BOW TO YOUR AWESOMENESS. I AM NOT WORTHY.

Seriously, how do you not love that granny? She rocks. And at least she had an excuse for not knowing about Kringle’s.

Not so everyone else. ’Cause now we’re on to Year Four and already the calls have started. Now that the other Kringle’s location finally went kaput (yeah, after all of my referrals no less! I did everything I could, really), I have nowhere to send the poor saps on the other end of the line.

Unless…

“Hello?”

“Is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“Why yes it is! I just want to let you know we’ve moved to the basement of Casa De Muffin Top and we now specialize in gently used toys. Please come see our vast selection — our prices are very competitive! Please, please, come on down!”

See, I’ve been wanting to purge a bunch of the kids’ toys, anyway. This just might be my chance to save a trip to thrift store AND make some scratch for the holidays!

Bring it, Santa!

Whew!

I’m happy to report I survived Black Friday.

Granted, I was in my snowman pajamas snuggled under the covers sawing wood til the late hour of half past 8, but I am just so grateful my 2 year old didn’t pepper spray me and no one stepped on my face for some Wheaties here at Casa de Muffin Top. I know others did not fare so well.

I was worried. You just never know where danger lurks.

I love me some bargains but oooh, the thought of getting out of my toasty roasty bed after hosting T-giving (that’s right…..and opening that can of cranberry sauce was the last straw…it totally did me in…)was too much for any 50% off wafflemaker. Unless Coach Taylor was up for grabs, I was just not ready to do battle with the people of Walmart. I’m klutzy on a good day–half asleep with gravy coursing through my veins–you know I wouldda gotten taken out by one of those scooter people cuz I’d be too slow to pole vault away into a display of Faded Glory madness.

So here I sit. Not one Christmas present purchased. Not.a.one.

And the overacievers on Facebook are stressing me out. (You know who you are, you crazy little elves, you. Bastards!)

You know the ones–they’re putting status updates like this up:

Tree trimmed? Check! Lights up? Check! Christmas quilts on all the beds? Check! Holiday afghans knitted for the senior center? Check! Christmas presents for friends, family, bus driver, teachers, mailman, street sweeper, babysitter, dog walker, newspaper mystery delivery person, check out girl at supermarket, brother’s girlfriend’s stepfather’s sister purchased, wrapped, and under tree? Check, check, and cha-eck! Gifts from toy drive for needy children wrapped and dropped to shelter?  Check. *

Ugh oh. I knew I should have started my shopping in 2010!

I’m a terrible person! The worst! A total procrastinator. I have nothing for my kids! For the needy kids! For the hubs! The teacher! The seniors! The distant almostsortakinda relative! The butcher! The baker! The candlestick maker!

 Think, think, think. I can do this. I’m not stressed. I’m not.

See now that I’m off my pneumonia meds, I can hit the sauce.

Can you have a beer while you shop at Walmart?

NOOOOOOOOOO. (You really should be able to. It might take the sting out of some of the scenery. No really. Seriously.)

UMMMM. I DON'T SEE ANY POURING GOING ON, WALMART LADIES. SO NO DICE!

But I can in my family room. While I’m on my computer. Shopping til I drop in my snowman jammies! I can google for coupon codes with my best pepper spray game face on. GRRRRRRRRRRR. I can throw my muffin top around the family room and pretend to knock down little old ladies for wii games while I’m on toyrus.com! JOY TO THE WORLD! WINNING! It’s the reason for the season, yo!

CRUSHING CYBERSPACE FROM THE COUCH. HUZZAH! PARTY SNACKS AND BEERS INCLUDED. AND MAYBE SOME RHONJ RERUNS. ANYONE KNOW WHERE I CAN GET ME SOME CHINCHILLA??

I can have hot chocolate with fluffed marshmallow vodka while I swoop in and crush some ebay auctions.

Hellz yeah.

Don’t –don’t even try to grab up the last blender at amazon.com or I will cut you. I will. I will find your cyber arse and cut you with my sword mean unChristmasy, un Jimmy Stewart words.

It’s holiday time. It’s on. Good tidings to all and to all a good figh–I mean, night. Night!

*If this was your status update though, let’s be friends! Really! You can help people like me!

Over the past several months, I’ve been hangin’ at my local library a lot to do some writing. Most of the blog posts you read here I write standing at my kitchen counter or sitting on my couch at night. It’s my comfort zone and where most of all the magic happens. (Oh, my world is grand and I cordially invite you in–but, enter at your own peril. I don’t have time for therapy and a girl can only booze so much—so don’t be getting all judgy on me!)

The library is where I’ve gone to search for some quiet to write a book proposal. Fiction books aka novels are written in their entirety and then sold to publishers. Non fiction is what I write (Really? My theory is why even bother to make $hit up when real life is already full of the crazies, the funnies, and best of all, the perfect storm–the crazy funnies!). Works of non fiction sell based on a proposal (which is essentially a justfication of why a publisher should spend $$ to print your words) and includes sample material. The short version, which you may know if we are buds on Facebook, twitter, or you “like” Muffintopmommy on Facebook (You rule!), is that my book proposal SOLD (I’m not shouting. I’m not!) and so now I get to finish writing the book. Which, I am all kinds of PSYCHED about (ok, maybe I’m yelling a little—in a good way) because I loved writing the sample material and so wanted to finish what I started. I can’t wait to share it with you and all your best friends, acquaintances, colleagues, second cousins once removed, neighbors, people on the street you vaguely know, and your arch enemies,  for the low, low price of I don’t know what but worth every penny!

So! Now I need finish this book. By a deadline. That is in a contract. With a publisher. Which I signed. My real name to. (As opposed to those bouncey house waivers where I sign my name as Juan Valdez. Don’t even think about ratting me out.)

I’m not stressed about my deadline. Honest! But while I love my kitchen counter and my arse loves some BJ’s Wholesale Club leather couch (I’m fancy!), the frat house, though rich in material,  isn’t always the quietest place to work. And while I love my work, it is still work and I want to do my best work while I work at my fun work. That I love. Even though it’s work.

Hi ho, hi ho, off to the ‘brary I go!

So the ‘brary. Growing up, I enjoyed going to the library not only because I’ve always loved me some book learnin’  and entertainment, but the library in my town felt so grand with wide open spaces and super high ceilings. The space seemed almost church like in it’s size and in the way people carried themselves, speaking in hushed tones, almost reverentially.  Sometimes I’d go with friends after school to do school work and you did not want to be hushed by one of the librarians! (Really quiet people scare me. There, I said it.)

So when I sat down at one of the tables in my current library (though lovely and cozy, much newer and less grand than childhood ‘brary), I was happy to see the following sign:

NOT A HUGE FAN OF THE MULTICOLORS---BUT AMEN TO THE MESSAGE!

DOROTHY, WE ARE A LONG WAY FROM HOME!

I interrupt this program ‘cuz I gotta tell you, this has been A WEEK. Because I truly dig my faithful MTM readers, I shall spare you the deets. (Do ya really wanna know anyway?) 4 out of 5 random muffintoppers polled agree: somethin’ in the air stanks this week! (And the 5th one was stumblin’ drunk and just didn’t care!) In conclusion, I’ve done the muffin top wrong this week in response. If next week is like this week, my muffin top will have a muffin top. But the good news? I have a pulse, tomorrow is Friday, my pants still fit barely and I dug up one of my fave old posts. If it made grumpity to the umpity laugh today (that would be moi) I thought it might bring you some funnies. Later ‘toppers!

Who knew?

Muffintopmommy is a sexpot.

Stop squinting.

For the love of God, what don’t you get?

 S-E-X-P-O-T.

El potto de sexo.

Oh don’t you let the short hair, Lands’ End cardigans, and Tretorns fool you. I think it’s fairly obvious if you read between the lines on this blog, my intentions are clear . If you saw me at Tarjay with the 7 pack of Hanes Her Way grannie panties in my cart with the generic Tostitos, well, that’s my cover. See, I’m bringing sexy back.

All along, I’ve been trolling for a three way. If you don’t believe me, just read the following email I received at my email addy, janet@muffintopmommy.com. (My comments are in CAPS.)

Hello,

My name is Mike Pervity Perv (Name changed in case his poor mom ever sees this blog!), I represent the adult dating sites SexDatePersonals.com and http://www.thehornymatches.com. WHOA DUDE, YOU REALLY ARE ALL ABOUT CUTTING TO THE CHASE JUST LIKE YOUR DATING SITE. TIME’S A WASTING! MATCH.COM AND EHARMONY? WHO HAS TIME TO FIND OUT IF SOMEONE LIKES PINA COLADAS AND GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN? BTW MIKE? I DO HAVE HALF A BRAIN. I’M A LEO. MY FAVORITE COLOR IS PINK. AND I LOVE THE SMELL OF FRESH CUT GRASS. I DON’T LIKE ROSES ON VALENTINE’S DAY. IT’S CALLED SMALL TALK. TRY IT.

We took a look at your site (http://muffintopmommy.com/) recently (YOU DID? EEEH…I FEEL LIKE I NEED TO WASH MY BLOG IN BLEACH NOW…), and we are interested in a link exchange. (Editor’s note: Ok, first of all, Editor is me! Ahem, anyway, a link exchange is when you list other blogs you like to read on your blog…it’s called a blogroll. If you look on the right hand side of muffintopmommy under blogroll, you will see some funny ass blogs I love love to read. You should check them out…now! Ok, not now now, after you finish this post now!)

MIKIE THREE WAY (MAY I CALL YOU MIKIE THREE WAY? IT KINDA HAS A RING TO IT. KINDA MAKES YOU SOUND GANGSTA COOL WITH A SIDE OF DIRTY BIRD)….I NEED TO KNOW WHICH POST CONVINCED YOU MTM HAS ANYTHING IN COMMON WITH, “THE HORNY MATCHES”? THINK, THINK, THINK…OH! WAS IT THE ONE WHERE I BEG READERS TO TALK ME DOWN FROM THE LEDGE AFTER SWIMSUIT SHOPPING? OH! I KNOW….IT MUST BE THE ONE WHERE I COMPARE MY ARSE TO A GRIZZLY BEAR. WAIT. IT MUSTA BEEN THE HAWT PICTURE I POSTED OF MYSELF IN THAT SMOKING BUTTON DOWN  HOLDING THE BEER THE SIZE OF MY GIGUNDO HEAD ON VACA? MIKE, SERIOUSLY, I NEED TO KNOW FOR MARKET RESEARCH BECAUSE RIGHT NOW MY HUSBAND JUST PEED HIMSELF LAUGHING. HE WON’T BE LAUGHING WHEN HE’S CRYING FOR A TWO WAY NEVER MIND A THREE WAY. OH YES WAY!

Our offer is actually quite interesting , a 3 way (ENOUGH WITH THE THREE WAYS! LET’S REVIEW: SMALL TALK. DO I NEED TO SPELL IT OUT? SHOULD I GET DR. RUTH ON THE HORN?) link as opposed to a reciprocal link. You link to http://www.thehornymatches.com and we link to you on SexDatePersonals.com. We offer the best type of link exchange. Also, SexDatePersonals.com has a very nice directory (A VERY NICE DIRECTORY? LEMME GUESS WHO’S ON THAT HIT LIST…. DAVID DUCHOVNY, TIGER WOODS, JESSE JAMES AND THAT RANDOM DUDE WHO WAS MARRIED TO HALLE BERRY ….YEAH…..NO. I’M ON TEAM ELIN.)  that we have been building so you are sure to find a category there for your site (DON’T BET THE PENTHOUSE IN VEGAS ON THAT, BOYFRIEND). If not, please just make your suggestion to us. (I SUGGEST YOU CALL YOUR MAMA RIGHT AFTER YOU SCRUB WITH CLOROX. ACK!)

Here is our link info: BLABBITY BLAH PERVITY PERV LINK BLAH BLAH.

Have a great week (YOU OFFER ME A THREE WAY AND THEN THE BEST CLOSE YOU CAN MUSTER IS THE UBER GENERIC…HAVE A GREAT WEEK??? FOR REAL? SEE. I COULD DEAL WITH YOU BEING A PERV. I MEAN, WHATEVER FLOATS YOUR…UM, NEVER MIND. I’M JUST SAYING. FREE COUNTRY AND ALL THAT JAZZ. BUT YOU’RE NOT EVEN ORIGINAL. YOU’RE GIVING ME NOTHING TO WORK WITH HERE! I MEAN, AFTER YOU HAVE YOUR HOT THREESOMES DO YOU REALLY CHIRP, ”THAT WAS FUN GUYS! HAVE A GREAT WEEK! MEEP!”

DUDE, YOU’VE GOT NO GAME. NONE. AND THIS IS COMING FROM A MARRIED HAUSFRAU WITH A MUFFIN TOP.  I do hope that we can do business with you in the very near future. (ARE YOU PROPOSITIONING ME? DO BUSINESS WITH ME? I THINK I’LL SIGN OFF NOW BEFORE THE NH STATE POLICE SHOW UP AT MY DOOR AND THROW ME IN THE CLINK FOR SOLICITING. OR THROW YOU IN THE CLINK FOR SOLICITING AND ME IN THE CLINK FOR BEING A….SOLICITEE….WHATEVER. EITHER WAY, STEP OFF MY BLOG, PERV. NOBODY BREAKS UP MY CURRENT THREESOME…THAT’S RIGHT….I HAVE THREESOMES ALL THE TIME…ALL THE TIME!!! ME, THE HUBS, AND THAT CLICKER HE CRADLES EVERY NIGHT. SO SUCK IT! TAKE YOUR THREE WAY STFU SAMMIE AND SCRAM BEFORE I BEAT YOU WITH MY 3 IRON (THAT’S 3 IRON NOT 3 WOOD…. DAMN,  YOU REALLY ARE A DEPRAVED DOCTOR OF DEBAUCHERY!!)

Regards. (UM, NOT TO BE NITPICKY, BUT THAT SHOULD BE A COMMA, NOT A PERIOD AFTER ‘REGARDS’. BUT I IMAGINE YOU MIGHT HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS, SO, UM…HAVE A GREAT WEEK AND ENJOY YOUR STFU SAMMIE!)

Mike PERVITY PERV PERV

SEO Analyst (AND CHIEF PERV )
http://www.thehornymatches.com
sexdatepersonals.com