Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Friends...you got what I ne-ed, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Retail Therapy, Uncategorized | Posted on 26-09-2012

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A few weeks ago, my iphone unceremoniously met its maker when it slipped through my grasp, splash landing at the bottom of a toilette. I’d stuffed my three wet boys in the ladies bathroom stall at the local health club to get them changed after swim lessons. I swear the family locker room has been ‘under construction’ since you could buy a Big Gulp of Mountain Dew to go with your meth in New York City (Great news! You can still get the meth! No calories and only half the teeth rot. Yay!). See, I figured the nekkid ladies in the locker room didn’t need my boys potentially definitely gawking at them and snickering, “BOOBIES! I see boobies!” Isn’t it enough that I have to field comments like, “Mama has TWO bum bums! One in the front and one in the back!!”


You’re welcome, nekkid gym ladies. You owe me $100 for a new phone!

Uncle Ben and his long grain varietal was no match for the water logged phone, despite me praying to the gods of starch for several days. As my friend pointed out though, it was probably just as well because continuing to use the phone would technically give me, “ass face”! So, for the low, low price of $99 and signing my life away to the mob AT&T for a few more years, my new bestie Siri and I proudly skipped out of the Apple store, ass face no more!

I ordered a new fun iphone case online because the one from my 4 didn’t fit well and let’s face it, no amount of antibacterial cleaner could erase the image of its sad road less travelled.

Ass face.

For five glorious days, Siri and I texted and emailed with reckless abandon. And poor grammar and spelling. Oh Siri, nobody’s perfect. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t enunciate well, clearly. So you called my fave Mexican restaurant, La Carreta, Loch Arreta, and asked my friend how fun it was to fill her new bourbon (‘burban– short for Suburban). Tomato, tomatoe.

You didn’t deserve this. No one deserves this:



Hey kids, don’t drink and text!

What can I say? Boozers are losers. (That’s a quote. I have a hater! Long story.)

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking 3 year old did it. I mean, he did use my wine glasses as cymbals last week.

That little blondie is not taking the rap this time. It was my….older than 3 year old friend not to name names but I will Miss Indeedy. (Also…a blonde. I’m just saying.) Aforementioned adult blonde minutes earlier asked me why I didn’t have a case on my phone. Right before she asked to borrow it, because her hubs had taken hers for the day to exchange it for the shiny! new! not compatible with every plug and case you own! Iphone 5.

I think that’s called foreshadowing?

All I know is I left her, our kids, and my iphone in the driveway playing while I ran inside to tinkle. And get another beer BOOZERSARELOSERS! And then I hear this blood curdling scream that I’m certain reverberated to the Pacific rim followed by….


I pole vaulted my ass off that toilette and leapt out the back door with my drawers around my knees—I kid you not. (Sorry, neighbors! I do not understand why the house next me hasn’t sold yet!)

Pants on the ground! Pants on the ground!

My poor, blonde friend appeared with smashed phone in hand, all apologies.

I gotta say, nothing like thinking a kid got hit by a car or snatched by a band of rabid ice cream truck bandits to put a smashed iphone in perspective. Really. After I retrieved my heart from my gut I told her that. And suggested we have another beer. Inside. With the doors locked. And the kids in our line of sight.


And that’s when 3 year old said he had to go get a bandage for my phone.



He tried to fix my phone with an Angry Birds bandaid. He has a bright future in trouble shooting and a heart bigger than my muffin top. I know!

I am blessed and I am lucky. The phone might have broken but my heart is full. And, I have two bums. Please, jealousy is an ugly thing, people.

Which is what I reminded myself as I put the new phone case on my new new iphone right after I realized in the dark parking lot that I locked my keys in the car!!!!!!

But it was OKAY! Because I was with the blonde and we went for a beer after at Loch Arreta. (The adult blondie! Give me some credit!)




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Friends...you got what I ne-ed, Retail Therapy, Uncategorized | Posted on 09-08-2012

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So last week my fabulous friend and neighbor, Miss Indeedy, and I hit the road to New York City for BlogHer12. (Side note: when you meet someone and they instantly approve of you plotting the road trip around yummy delis and old skool pizza places? It’s time to cue up Mr. James Taylor because you? You’ve got a friend, girl.)


As the name implies, BlogHer is a huge blogging network that started with three women in their kitchen in 2005 and ballooned into a gigantic community of bloggers who write about anything and everything you could possibly imagine. The conference is a fantastic opportunity to learn more about the latest technologies, to connect with awesome people from all over the world–and those who live in your back yard–who knew, and… to scope out everyone’s outfits, hair, and shoes. Did I mention it was almost 5,000 women? (Can I get a woot, woot for ES-TRO-GEN!) What else would I be looking at besides shoes and clothes? Okay, maybe the swag.

There were tons and tons of sponsors talking up their services and giving out product samples. Everything from Lysol to Wholly Guacamole to Go Bowling! to…em, ergh, choke, cough, look down at mah banged up knee, seexxxxxay toys. There. I said it. There is no proof I visited that booth. At all. Ever. And if you happen to think you see a picture of someone who sort of looks like ME at that booth, Bearded Iris is full of shizizy and, I happen to know, is down with Photoshop. Bless her heart.

I actually contemplated rocking some sensational journalism and titling this post, “I WENT TO BLOGHER12 AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY VIBRATOR!” as a JOKE, people, a JOKE, but what if, God forbid, my 79 year old mother actually buys a computer and reads this shit!!!

Kidding aside, the week leading up to BlogHer coincided with the print release of my book—naturally! In between trying to prepare for my online book promo and actually getting to hold a copy of Mommy Mixology: A Cocktail For Every Calamity (Now available wherever books are sold—meep!) in hand hours before I left (whee!), coupled with falling down trying on shoes (when is it NOT about the shoes???) and making a mad dash for clothes that didn’t scream “carpool line”, things got kinda crizazy up in this frat house!

If you missed the update on my Muffintopmommy page on Facebook, just know the knee thing might have been the lowpoint of the week:

“Remember when I said I would fall on my head if I wore heels? Well, tonight, I kinda did! Yes, trying on some wedge thingys at Off Broadway, I lost my footing on my bad foot, shrieked like Bieber, fell in a drunken looking downward dog and slammed down on my knee. My knee looks like I’m 10 and got banged up racing on my Huffy Sweet Thunder–bloody, raw, etc. But the worst part was I had to do all this–even though the store is the size of Fenway freaking Park, in front of this 20ish couple, and the boy-man, was all, “Are you okay, ma’am?” Which was a sweet/horrifying/humiliating taco to swallow! SIng with me now, “I’m sexay and I know it!” VIVA LA FLIP FLOP!!! Viva.la.flip.flop!!!!!”

Actually, the low point was in the update, in my 97 mph haste, I typed “heals” instead of “heels”. That misspelling? As of my fun grammar friends who knows me well pointed out, well, it hurt more than my banged up knee. I know there are larger crimes against humanity so I dusted myself off and hobbled off with my dignity intact. I am a good person and people like me!!! (And if you don’t, respect my love for grammar. Respect.the.love!)

All this to say? This is why I schlumped along at BlogHer in sensible shoes. The end.

Okay, not really. There was way more to the BlogHer12 trip than just shoes. Though with a conference full of females, shoes were integral, talked about often, and noticed by moi. One of the absolute highlights of BlogHer for me was getting to visit the glorious 6pm.com booth — one of my fave places to shop for shoes (And purses! And clothes! Oh my!). I’ve blogged and tweeted about them before because the deals are crazy. They are the sister site to Zappos. (You get it now. My work here is done.)

Some other things I learned about my whirlwind, four day trip to New York City for BlogHer:

1. When two different people in one day tell you you look 26 and 28, you should just go home. It ain’t gonna get any better than that. Never you mind it was in a dimly lit ballroom. Never! You! Mind! (Chubby cheeks are starting to grow on me. Wrinkle hiders! Wrinkle hiders!)

2. When you and your friend, Miss Indeedy, are told by another blogger, “Wow, you ladies are really chic…..for New Hampshire!” turn and laugh, because the woman actually…seemed nice and sincere. Living a whole fifty miles north of Boston, we have running water here! And electricity! And a Banana Republic!

3. The best conversations and connections always happen in the ladies room. Fact.

4. No matter where I go in the world, my arse will always find its way to a bar stool at an Irish bar, and at that Irish bar, its success or failure will be judged on the temperature of the beer and the friendliness of the bartender. (Upstairs. McGee’s. 240 W. 55th. Go! Upstairs is where the hilarious female bartender from Chicago works the wood.) (Chicago=Good People. Another fact. So fun to find one in NY.)

5. I still don’t know how to fold a god dang fitted sheet! Lemme ‘splain. One of the lunchtime speakers was none other than Martha Stewart. By the time Miss Indeedy and I got to lunch, it looked like a communist bread line. I’m not kidding! Due to my arse being planted on the aforementioned bar stool too late the night before, I was getting a little hangry (Hungry+ Angry= Hangry) while in line and wanted to run away. But Mommy, I mean, Missy, wouldn’t let me. I don’t get hangry often because, let’s face it, if my muffin top was against the wall, I could live off my fat for three days, easily. But I was legit tired and slightly hanging and headaching so I maybe pouted in my espadrilles a bit. I admit it! Anyway, by the time we got our tuna on pumpernickel there were no seats left at the grand ballroom and I was SOL on hearing Martha. And worse, my dream to charge the stage demanding a sheet folding tutorial, died. Just like that. And now? My fitted sheets remain balled up in my linen closet. Le sigh.

6. The lunchtime speaker the next day was Katie Couric. Yes, she looks fabulous. Yes, she had on fab shoes that I would surely plunge to my death in. Yes, she is so engaging, but also, hilarious—really quick with the one liners and that is the way to my heart. Truly. Can’t wait for her new afternoon show (wait for it…it’s called, Katie..) to start in a matter of weeks. It will be the perfect format for her. She’s targeting smart women–even those of us who can’t even fold fitted sheets– so be sure to check it out! (After you read my book. What? Too much?)

7. BlogHer is so GINORMOUS that even an extroverted muffin top like ME can get overwhelmed (Hence: sniffing out the Irish bar!) and also? Be totally bummed that I didn’t get to connect with everyone I wanted to see and hang with. BOO!

8. Finally? Because I think I hear the music cueing me to exit stage left….Stopping at the famous Halal food cart….at 3PM….with your Irish belly full of adult beverages? No. When the dude asks you if you want hot sauce on your food? MIDDLE EASTERN HOT SAUCE, YO. This ain’t no NH Taco Bell! You say: NO. Thank you. Not, “Sure, let it rip!”


You should know, now that my taste buds and body have recuperated, that Halala! is my new go to word instead of Holla! I was over Holla anyway. I think I should talk to the Halal guys about my catchy new slogan. Maybe next time????

**Thank you to the lovely Amber Strocel for the wonderful interview/podcast she did with me about my book. Listen here if you’d like. (Yes, I do sound 12. Good thing I only look *twennyyyysix*!!! )(Ok, ok, I’m going now. Jeez.)




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Retail Therapy, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, Uncategorized | Posted on 01-08-2012

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I need something to blame. My brain, well, it’s not functioning properly. Lack of sleep? Eh, that’s not new. Adult beverages? No. I survived college with brain cells intact so that ain’t it. I’m thinking this is just my brain…on summer?

I’m not sure if it’s the lack of routine that comes with summer, but ever since school got out I’m being kind of…a dummy? It’s gotta be too many unstructured days making me forget bills, pantry staples that need replacing, and other mundane tasks that seem to get taken care of seamlessly during the year. The good news is I haven’t lost any of my kids (Or my sanity–yet) when we’re out and about and so barring that, nothing I’ve done or not done really matters at the end of the day. BUT! When I talk to my friends who do things like….run businesses AND households simultaneously, it’s enough to crush a muffin top’s psyche! I need a consult with the tin man, stat.

It always starts out innocently enough. Yesterday, I had to run a few errands with the three gremlins in tow. Trying to run into TJMaxx to grab a small purse with three boys might be a fool’s errand, but I went for it anyway. The lure of the purse beckoned me, even as my brain got all shouty inside, “Look awaaaaay! How badly do you REALLY need this?”

Exactly. So! Soon, we were inside mama’s playland, 3 year old parading around balancing six different purses, 5 year old knocking down four pairs of sunglasses while simultaneously picking out ginormous, floppy hats for me, and 7 year old enjoying his fill of making funny faces in the mirror (he lost two teeth this week and is really having a fun time with his changing smile—but if he keeps this up Imma have to puree all his food AND take out a tooth fairy bank loan!). After everyone had their fun at the expense of the lovely TJMaxx merchandise, we made our way to the registers.

Oh TJMaxx, I know just what you and your sly marketing people are doing, forcing us to snake past the myriad of impulse purchases in the new feeder line to the registers. Soaps and cute gift bags and cushy socks, oh my! I could resist the pretty soaps and explain away the squeaky dog toys to 3 year old, I really could, but just as I thought we were in the clear, on the last shelf–right at the critical 3 foot eye level— the Nerf guns? Last straw! Soon I had a three year old convulsing on the not that clean floor. (Ok, it was probably cleaner than my floors. Your point?)


Really TJMaxx? Really? You’re on my shit list. Top. In bold. And italics for good measure. If you think you had me at a $16.99 faux croc black clutch, you be sorely mistaken! (Hangs head—I still bought it.)

I would say you had to be there, but you probably heard him, his cries and stomps and screams reverberating around planet earth…and then back again. I mean, when the other shorties start covering their ears, you know it ain’t good. I did my best to stand tall and walk calmly to the register and by ignoring him, he eventually understood it was game over. Bless the kind cashier’s heart–she kept grinning and gave me the sister soldier head nod, saying, “I have three grown boys. I know. I’m not laughing at you–this just brings me back and I totally get it.”

Why does the underpaid, overworked cashier get it and not you mean corporate suits, TJ Maxx! You’re all up in your climate controlled offices plotting how to sell me more $hit and the poor cashiers and moms are left holding the bag at the checkout. Not coo!

Rant aside, I know these crap-tastrophes happen to all of us–and they always seem to get us when we’re doing that one quick errand. But isn’t it so nice when you’re down and out to get the person who gives you the look, the smile, the few sentences that say, “I totally get it—no big?” instead of the “other” looks—from the holier than thou-ers, the crabby abbys who apparently live charmed lives in glass houses where clean clothes are folded and put away right out of the dryer instead of lying in a wrinkled heap while you burn the dinner!

So for that, I am thankful. And 3 year old, as he always does with his impish grin and squishy hugs and doe eyes, redeemed himself shortly after. I was cruising out of the parking lot after a spin through Tarjay (imagine that!) and he starts squawking from the back, “Mooommm! The bears!” I didn’t think much of it and he persisted, “Mooom! The bears! You forgot the bears!” I said, “Bears? What bears? Huh?” And then I asked his brothers, “Wait, does he mean beers?” And it clicked. I drove back to the shopping cart I’d used, and sure enough, the 12 pack of Diet Cokes were still underneath!


I have NO idea why 3 year old would assume all cans have beer in them!  I was really proud of what a little sharpie he was to notice I’d forgotten my beloved Diet Cokes. But the fact that my 3 year old has a better attention to detail is not lost on me. This morning I was driving the kids to the playground and there was a motorcycle policeman behind me. All I’m thinking is, “I’m not speeding and my tail light is fixed! I am soooo not getting pulled over like last month!” Sure enough, after trailing me for like two miles, he pulls me over.


5 year old starts squealing, “Mama’s getting pulled over A-GAIN!”

So the officer comes to the window and asks me for my license and reg and I grab the reg out of the box, look at it, look at him, look at it and go, “OMG. It’s August, isn’t it?”


So, Smarty McForgettypants had 31 days in July to renew her reg and totally spaced on getting it done. (If you must know I was clearly too busy at TJMaxx!)

After the grandma of one of 5 year old’s friends drove by (Hi!) and I sat wondering how much a ticket might be, the kindly cop gave me a break and I told him I’d go take care of it right away—which I did, before I could forget. Again.


And when I drove away, 5 year old exclaimed with the authority of a passenger who has, in his words, “Been pulled over two times by the police”……”I knew you were going to get pulled over when I saw that policeman. You were driving WAY too fast!”

I’ll totally cop to a summer bout of muffintopforgetfuldumbassitis, but driving too fast with kids in the car, um no!




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Retail Therapy, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing! | Posted on 13-06-2012

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Here we I go again.  Next to shopping for the elusive pair of perfect jeans, it’s swimsuits for the win on the hell-o-meter. One of these years I’m gonna be prepared to rock the bathing suit. This is not my year. If it’s your year, no hard feelings—I’ll still share my cocktails with you on the beach. I will. I really will.

This post bears repeating for all those who suffer in silence with my muffin top and me. Good luck? And may the best woman (with the highest credit card and patience limit) win!



Sooooooo. It’s that time again.

Tell me what’s worse than bathing suit shopping?

That’s what I thought.

I’m going away on family vacation/relocation in a few weeks. (We know it ain’t a true vacation with three little kids in tow. I’ll be lucky if I get to read a cereal box never mind a trashy mag–but Imma dance a jig and be grateful because it’s a change of scenery near the beach and the kids love it. If I every play win the lottery, you’ll know where to find me–some beach. I might get off my beach chair if I find out one of my sons becomes President or there’s a 50% shoe sale. Other than that, nice knowing you! My muffin top be planted til I kick it!)

Anyway, since I’m not a lottery winner and have to share the beach with tons of other stanking in shape Tony Horton disciples,  I’ve already hit the panic button, and ordered and returned THREE swimsuits from Lands’ End. Clearly, Lands’ End cannot be wrong THREE times. It’s painfully obvious I am the one who has the WRONG size, WRONG shape, WRONG mirror!!! (Or…. Lands’ End is in a vicious plot with perfectly nice buff strangers jerks in an attempt to undermine my healthy self esteem???????)


It’s me.

Not them.

It’s time to get serious.

Alert, Alert: Break out the plastic—we’re in crisis mode.

I know what you’re going to say….why didn’t I just go to a store and try suits on in the first place?

Um hello—why would I want to go pillaging through picked over swimsuit racks (because, if you must know, I already put this super fun shopping excursion off til now because I was waiting to….hold your laughter….lose ten pounds) looking for mama suits and then have to try them on under the harsh glare of fluorescent scrutiny in a dressing room the size of my left butt cheek? This is to speak nothing of….THE SKINNY MIRROR. You know all those stores have mirrors that distort your shape for the better. How many times do I buy something and then get it home, and it never looks as good on at home as it did in the store. Scammers! Oh they know it, too.



I returned a skirt the other day.

“Reason for the return?” the saleswoman asked.

“Your secret skinny mirror got me. When I got it home, it didn’t look half as good on!”

She silently nodded as she handed me back my thirty bones. Woman knew damn right well what I was talking about.

I’m all alone. Sniff. The whole sitch is just a wrongity, wrong, mess of wrongness.

So now I’m in the 23rd hour. I have to throw myself on the mercy of the racks, and hope something will pan out, a miracle will transpire, that some uber geeks in some lab really did manufacture a material that will suck in my muffin top while still affording me the ability to breathe unassisted. And for this, I will pay the princely sum of whatever the hell the price tag says—probably what my first semester of college cost. Oh, and doesn’t that nerd herd know it, the rat bastards. (Look I’m sorry you got stuffed in your locker in high school, really I am, but like the chubby gals had anything to do with it. Take it up with the cheerleaders over in size 2, Urkel. I was nice to everyone!) Bottom line, pocket protector pals, you make-ie, I buy-ie. Save the sob story for group therapy. I’ve got my own problem here.

On bathing suit shopping day, all budgeting goes out the window. I will buy a different brand of something at the supermarket to save a buck these days, but on bathing suit shopping day, MONEY DON’T MATTER YO!!!


“Oh kids sorry…..you’ll need to eat mac and cheese every day this month…mommy got her miracle.”

Pri-or-i-ties. It’s good to teach the children young.

But let’s face it, for all my best efforts at gut cammo, the bathing suit trauma is just not fair. You go to any beach, lake or pool in America, and I lifetime guarantee it you will see many grown men who have no problem letting it all hang out. Pot bellies, moobs (moobs=man boobs…don’t say there’s no learnin’ going on here), hairy butt crack peeking out of saggy shorts—oh the guiltiest among them plod along without a second thought. A generic pair of swim trunks and presto—they are ready to rumble and get their swim on. And not a ONE of them has even given birth.

Do you think they wake up in a cold sweat at the very notion of putting something form fitting over their chubby, middle aged, hairy ass Gorilla bodies? No! They don’t even put anything on the top half of their bodies period, and though they’ll never be mistaken for anything close to David Hasselhoff in Baywatch, they preen like they own the joint.

“Hey Butch, toss me another Corona!”

“Here you go, buddy! Volleyball game at 2!” Oh dear God! NO!

The sheer audacity of it all.

A guy can walk into any store and buy a swimsuit off the rack, for a reasonable price, not even try it on, and just like that—they’re in biz.

So let’s review, shall we? Chubby mummy pored through two catalogs, tromped through bathing suit departments reminiscent of war torn Beirut in four stores, ordered and returned (and paid for postage and handling on) three bathing suits over a span of roughly four weeks and ultimately ended up with two bathing suits that cost WAY more than my first car but…Schlumpy O’Hairycrack is on the beach, in less than five minutes, for $14.99 or less shaking his floobie moobs and sucking back his Corona—–party.time. the.end.

WHAT! And we say there’s equality in this country? Oh, I don’t think so!

(And we didn’t even broach the delicate subject of waxing and shaving. I KNOW. I can’t EVEN bear to go there




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Friends...you got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, Random Rage, Retail Therapy | Posted on 05-01-2012

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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?




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Retail Therapy, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Uncategorized | Posted on 28-11-2011

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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.)


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!




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!



Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Retail Therapy, Uncategorized | Posted on 18-10-2011

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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:



I gotta say, I think adult library goers should know to shut the hell up at the library without the multicolored-print-and-italics loving librarians having to point that out. But this is the world we live in–where people yammer on about their personal biz, loudly and proudly, in bathroom stalls, by frozen peas, and at their kids’ tee ball games. (Do I wanna hear about your colonoscopy? Not so much. The deets of your sister’s juicy divorce? Um, maybe! Moral: If you’re gonna be breaking the unwritten rules of cell phone decorum, you better make it good, sister, that’s all I’m sayin’.) I am all for chatting. I live for the gab. And I’m not gonna say I haven’t gotten my Irish whisper on where I shouldn’t have and then realized seconds minutes too late I’m being kind of a a shouty asshat.
And wow, some things about 2011 in the library world rock. I’m allowed to bring my Dunks coffee in. This is a benefit to all around me. I’s so happy when I’m cradling a medium, and really like that my local library trusts I won’t go all Pig Pen and spill it everywhere. (They know not what they do. Yay!) Also, I can use my raggity laptop whose battery is shot, and have access to an outlet. Score and score. My tax dollars at work. I don’t need no fancy battery.
The biggest impediment to my writing at the ‘brary is not the Irish whisperers or the cell phone yammerers, but the science tutors. I am not trying to single out the science set. Just because I was all about English and writing in school, does not mean I didn’t think it was “fun to find out” about science. Do you know what makes an ocean wave wave? I DO! Thanks to The Boston Museum of Science –which is still my fave museum. But I wanna hear about sciencey things I wanna hear about! If you weren’t a child of the 70′s in the Boston area, behold this awesomeness, will you?
If you’re tutoring someone three feet from me in your outside voice about something other than the difference between a meteor and a comet or what makes an ocean wave wave, it is very hard for me to concentrate on the serious business of my super serious writing! But mostly, you’re traumatizing me by bringing me back to a world I’d rather forget, namely, 10th grade Chemistry. And if you don’t get a room next time, I’m totally blowing your cover wide open and telling your innocent tutoree (?) they will never need to learn chemistry unless they want to pursue a career in science (Yay! Cure cancer, young sciencey whippersnapper! But you probably ain’t the kid gettin’ tutored?) or plan to run a meth lab (Boo! Stay in school, kid! And just say no to drugs! But if you won’t say no, learn Chemistry so you don’t blow up your neighbors–thanks!)
So tutors, puhleease, get a room! I beg you! No one wants to read a book I wrote about balancing equations!