There is likely nothing I can say about the horror show at the Boston Marathon yesterday that hasn’t been said already.

I was born in Boston. I grew up not twenty miles outside Boston. Raised by two Bostonians, one of whom was a Boston police detective, who was the son of a Boston Police Captain. I lived in the city as an adult. And so it has been for my family, and for me, our home for generations, even though I have since moved some fifty miles north.

Like so many, I have dear friends who ran the race yesterday. Who worked tirelessly to train for what was supposed to be a joyous event. And who are thankfully alive and well, as are their families.

Like so many, I have children of my own.

And so somehow, this all feels very personal. As it should. We should all take it personally, that someone would assault and terrorize our friends, families, fellow citizens, beloved guests from America and abroad, in our city, state, and country.

I don’t know what will happen in a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, two years, five years, fifty years. And yes, that scares the hell out of me. But I do know this. You do not mess with a city like Boston. Boston is Paul Revere and a midnight ride. It’s six generations Brahmin. Four generation Irish. One generation Cape Verdean. And everything in between and back again. It’s Regina and Santarps– the best pizza in the world. (Sorry, New York.) It is cold tea in Chinatown at 2 AM. It’s college transplants who come, fall in love, and never leave. It’s doctors, cops, bartenders. It’s bad accents we love to hate and hate to love. And Dunkin’ Donuts. On ever corner. (Really.) It’s Filene’s Basement (RIP) and the Pru. Triple deckers and brownstones. Universities and hospitals. Boston is wicked smaht. Just asked Donnie Wahlberg.

Boston doesn’t bow to queens. Or crazies. And definitely not to terrorists.

Boston is grit and determination. Boston is courage. Boston is PRIDE.

Boston is the Marathon. It’s Uta Pippig. Bobby Orr. Larry Bird. Doug Flutie. “Manny Ortiz”. Ted Williams. Boston is The Garden. Fenway. The Red Sox.

It’s the ghosts of yesterday and the promise of today.

Boston was cursed once. It won’t be cursed twice.

That is one thing I do know.

I love that dirty water, don’t you?

PHOTO CREDIT: www.kimworld.com

**On a side note, Erin Gale Williams is the winner of the book pack, I Just Want To Pee Alone and Mommy Mixology: A Cocktail for Every Calamity. Please email me at janet@muffintopmommy.com so I can email you with details. Congrats.

Have you ever heard the words?

Gossip bench.

If that alone doesn’t intrigue you just fuhget it and get off mah lawn now!

A gossip bench, or telephone table, are gems from a time gone by. Basically, it’s a chair attached to a little table. Way, WAY (and by way, way, I’m really not sure how long, lemme be honest) before cordless phones were even a thought in some MIT trained brain and people couldn’t yuk it up in every corner of the house, people had beauties just like this:

ONCE AGAIN, I NEED SOME PHOTOGRAPHY 411 BUT YOU GET THE IDEA. ISN'T SHE GRAND?

Look at this lovely detailing:

THAT'S THE WAY, UH HUH, UH HUH, I LIKE IT, KC AND THE SUNSHINE BAND!

So the rotary phone went on top of the table part, and the phone book went underneath. And the gossipy hausfrau’s arse went on the seat. Amen. I really wish that table could talk. How many incredible conversations might have gone on? I believe this table might be from the 40′s, so my imagination runs wild thinking about it. A GI calling his girlfriend? A mom calling her newlywed daughter to share recipes? Two teenagers talking about what—I don’t even know what?! Two gossipy hausfraus talking about seeing so and so’s daughter at the five and dime with a too short skirt? WHO KNOWS!

All I know is I love this random piece of furniture! And hubs loved me enough to schlep it for me from some guy I found…wait for it….on Craigslist. A man who…let me just say, hubs said after picking up this piece of history, “I don’t want to speak of it again. Sanford and Sons. Without fun Sanford. Or his son.”

Okay then.

For better or worse, people. We took vows!!!

The wood on this table was actually in pretty good shape–you can’t see too well from my iphone trick photography, but it wasn’t the best stain job. All I did was unscrew the seat and slap two coats of miracle Annie Sloan chalk paint in the same Chateau Grey shade I used on my sideboard redo. It took no time at all.

SCALPEL, PLEASE. HA HA. JUST A PHILLIPS HEAD. I FIGURED IT OUT---THIS ISN'T BRAIN SURGERY, KIDS!

I bought some fun, sturdy (yet elegant!), upholstery grade fabric at Hobby (I love you!) Lobby, cut a square, and stapled it. I have skillz. (Not really. Noooo.)

WE MEET AGAIN, RUDOLPH SCISSORS!

THIS PART IS ROUGH. PAY ATTENTION. YOU FLIP THE CUSHION OVER, PUT IT OVER THE CHAIR FRAME, AND SCREW IT BACK IN. NEXT WEEK I''M TOTALLY APPLYING TO GRAD SKOOL AT HARVARD.

Before I put the cushion on permanently, I did wax and buff it so it would have a softer, less…well, chalky finish. I did distress it lightly as well.

So here are some pics of the almost finished product:

THIS WAS PRE-WAX AND DISTRESS.

I PUFFY HEART THIS FABRIC.

And…..now my gossip bench is ready for some 21st century action. I have actually renamed it the Chatty Kathy bench or Mommy’s Time Out chair. I love my kids, you love your kids, all of us who have kids LOVE OUR KIDS. But sometimes, they are ginormous PITAS! (Pains in the asses. You’re welcome.) At which point, we need an escape. Well, the French New Hampshire riviera is not always possible. I give you, Mommy’s Time Out Chair:

PEEP, A KINDLE, SOME VINO. YES, I DO BELIEVE THIS IS THE RECIPE FOR SOME MODERN DAY GOSSIP. I FEEL PROUD TO UPHOLD ITS HERITAGE IN A MODERN WAY!

YES, PLEASE.

ONE MORE SHOT. BECAUSE YOU KNOW I DIDN'T GET TO REALLY SIT FOR THAT LONG!

The funny thing is, with all of my recent Craiglisting, and seeing what these go for redone (and even not redone) on Etsy, Ebay, and Craigslist, I planned to sell the Chatty Kathy. But hubs —who wouldda thunk?? Has taken a shine to it and asked me not to sell it. What!? I know.

However, if you are reading this and you have a pocket full of cash burning a hole in your pocket, I will totally cut it free behind hub’s back  (For better or worse, people!) for the right price. Because the French Riviera Disneyworld is calling my name!

Wow, so the title didn’t scare you away, huh?

I love you guys! Happy New Year to all you crazy muffintoppers. I hope 2013 brings you much peace, happiness, and prosperity.

Speaking of prosperity, or a lack of it, ahem, I have some fun stuff to share with you. During the holiday season, I got my DIY on.

Shizz to shine….all on a dime. 

I gots to save mah money…..for new shoes and wine. 

Or somethin’ like that. I also like feeding and clothing my kids. They are so demanding like that!

Quick backstory. When I got married and was all off with my bad self with a double income and no kids, I bought a traditional, pricey cherry dining room set. Which, I have grown to dislike over the past almost 13 years. Practically hate. I know it’s great quality furniture with dovetailed drawers and blabbity blah, but it’s not really my style anymore which is a gut punch because the planner in me thought I’d always like it because it would never go out of style. BURN! When I look at it now all I see is big and brown and… bor-ing. But at the same time, I feel kinda married to it because it cost a lot of money and because the practical part of me knows I can’t sell it for near what I paid for it. So, I decided if I can’t beat it, I’d join it. Or somethin’ like that……..I’mma show you some pics of my DIY but please forgive my craptastic iphone and pocket camera pics….I’m a writer not a photographer (definitely chose the wrong gig!).

I'D SHOW YOU THE TABLE BUT SHE'S CURRENTLY INDISPOSED.....WITH CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS ON TOP OF HER!

So the big Bertha china cabinet inspired this whole DIY kick. Enter Craigslist. I’ve been on enough blogs lately to know if you have an eye, you can score some nice pieces on the cheap and get your magic on. “Pfft! I can do that! I think?” , I huffed inside my head as I perused all the afters on blogs and Pinterest. So I decided I’d look for a sideboard to break up all the brown in the room and paint it a fun color. I also wanted a place to throw some lamps for extra lighting and a place to display some pics and other fun shenanigans.

I sniffed around and then boom, scored a cherry, dovetail, old school, sturdy as my muffin top, sideboard on Craiglist! FOR $25!!!!

TWENNY FIVE DOLLAH?

TWENNY FIVE US DOLLAHS! HO HO HOLLA!!!!!!!!!! MERRY CHRISTMAS TO MEEEEEE!!!!

ONE DAY IN CASA DE LA MUFFIN TOP GARAGE AND ALREADY, CLUNKITY JUNK ALL OVER IT. CAN YOU SEE THE SCRATCHES ON IT? SHE WAS A BANGED UP DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH....

You can see some damage here:

LITTLE SCRATCHY......

AND….

SCRATCHTABULOUS. AND NAKED--NO KNOB!

The top was a tiny bit sketchy:

A LITTLE SKETCHAROO BUT TWENNY FIVE DOLLAH!!!

Did I mention I politely asked made hubs drive an hour and fifteen minutes to east bumbleberg randomville (It’s not every day you get to drive by a nudist park! You’re welcome!) to meet a stranger at a barn to pick this up because I was skeered that this was too good to be true and that someone would stab me with a pitchfork and stuff me in a hayloft instead of selling me this thing of beauty for TWENNY FIVE DOLLAH! (Maybe I should write fiction!) The woman was a doll, turns out. WHOOPS!!! I mean, phew, because that really would have stunk if hubs was stabbed with a pitchfork and stuffed in a hayloft all because of Big Bertha! (I don’t even know what a hayloft is but I’m assuming it’s a loft with hay and a good place to hide a dead Craigslist shopper.)

After hubs got home, he was kind enough to A. wash the sideboard with Murphy Oil Soap because, hi, the kind lady bought it auction and who knows where it was and who had it and what they had in it and……eww and B. he took off all the hardware for me  and then he picked me up some special, magical paint called Annie Sloan chalk paint. (Not to be confused with chalkboard paint.)

Let me tell you something right now. I read about it online and wasn’t sure what to think. The fact that it’s $40 a quart (as in $15 bones more than the piece!) and the nearest place to get it is a cutesy boutique 45 minutes from my house did not help sway me! BUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

They said you could paint something without priming and without sanding. I liked the sound of THAT. They said it adheres to anything. Often with only one coat, but that you should probably wax it afterward because otherwise it would be a very flat, almost chalky texture. It’s known to make distressing easy, if you’re into that. And, they said, one quart goes a long way.

I had to try it—I thought if this beast could become a beauty with this paint, it was worth the price of admission.

So here’s my piece (minus drawers) after two coats of Annie Sloan chalk paint in Chateau Grey—I’d applied them both the night before. I personally thought it was too streaky with only one coat but it covered crazy, crazy well considering the condition and color of the piece and no sanding or priming. I’m a belieber now. Seriously. And after two coats, I still had over a half a can left!

I did distress it lightly with some 140 grit sandpaper–first time ever. It was pretty easy!

I LOVE THIS LITTLE DETAIL AND THOUGHT THE DISTRESSING WOULD HIGHLIGHT IT.

Now here is where things got a little ugly: waxing. It was twenty degrees the morning I hauled this out on the deck to wax it. The Annie Sloan Chalk Paint peeps recommend you buy their wax but I was a. skeptical and b. really skeptical and c. trying to stick to my DIY cheap theme and so I thought, “HA HA! I don’t need no fancy Annie Sloan wax for….twenny five dollah! I can get a sideboard for twenty five dollah! I will buy Minwax at Lowe’s for TEN dollah and save $15 dollah! for beer/shoes/Cheerios.”

Par-tayyy!

Except it wasn’t. I wasn’t sure if it was because it was TWENTY freaking degrees. (Dumbarse couldn’t have gone all DIY in August? I had to start this shizz in December?). The wax was hard, crumbly, not pliable. I thought I’d just “Wax on, wax off!” ala Mr. Miyagi. Apparently, I ain’t no Karate Kid. I knew it had been going too smoothy–and the kicker? It started to SNOW and I could not haul this thing in my house because the wax is SOO STANKY and would have for sure given 7 year old some kind of asthma attack. As an added bonus, I had major bed head, was clad in polka dot pajama pants, and we finally got new next door neighbors and they were moving in just as I was fighting with a yellow wax can, sputtering and yelling at a green sideboard on my deck, which happens to face their house.

“Welcome to the neighborhood!”

I haven’t seen them since.

Anyway, lesson learned on the wax. I threw a hat and legit pants on, screeched to Lowe’s and bought the cheapest buffer they had for $30 bones and went over the piece and it was like silk. But next time I have a rough piece like this, I won’t hesitate to spring for the fancypancy wax.

Anyway, enough of all this! I wanted to take you through the process in case you are on a budget and want something pretty and shiny!

Here she is now:

HERE SHE IS!!! AIN'T SHE GRAND?!!!!!

OH! Here’s a close up of the new bling knobs I got at Hobby Lobby (Hob to the Lob–where have you been all my life?!!)

THEY WERE SERIOUSLY LIKE $3 EACH. OMG!

And check this out:

AFTER I SCHLEPPED THEM HOME, I COULDN'T BELIEVE HOW MUCH THE SHAPE MIMICKED THE SHAPE OF MY FAVE ASPECT OF THE PIECE! I HAVE NO IDEA IF THAT WAS SUBCONSCIOUS OR A HAPPY ACCIDENT!

I think my new beauty will have a long and happy life here.

OOOH, MOOD LIGHTING! THANKS TO THE TARJAY LAMPS I SNATCHED OFF MY DRESSER!

Sorry for the long post, Muffintoppers! I know some of you might not be into DIYing and want to just stick to the funny biz, so I’m thinking of starting a little fun DIY blog on the side. I figure if I can do it, ANYONE can. I have some other projects up my sleeve. I’d love to hear what you guys think. Should I go for it?

Update:

Wait! A reader told me I forgot to tally what I spent on the whole shebang;

sideboard: $25

gas to get sideboard: I dunno. I stink at keeping track of stuff like that.

hubs not getting stabbed in a hayloft: Free. That makes the trip to get sideboard, and finding out where the nudist park is, a free joyride.

paint: $40

wax: $10 (but I can use it again–when hell freezes over or my new neighbors work up the courage to speak to me!)

buffer machine thingy: $30 (But I can use it again! To get hubs ready for the nudist park! Too much? I’m kidding, people!)

Hobby Lobby bling knobs: $6

So let’s see….25 plus free plus 40 plus 10 plus 30 plus 6 carry the 1 = $111? Yup. $111. Dude, you can’t get furniture at Tarjay for that! I’ll take it!

Oh Groupon, you shouldn’t have. I would so LOVE a talking, illuminated scale right in time for Christmas.

What! The farfignugen! Is that? All a-bout? Surely I’m not the only one eating and drinking like I’m on death row or partying like it’s….12/21/12?

Tis the season to be a fat-ty, fa la la la la……

A talking scale? How timely! Say! Tomorrow, please post a deal offering me a spectacularly dull Swiss Army knife for 69% off so I can gouge my eyes out! And a 47% off cubic zirconia encrusted blowhorn so I can deafen myself to the “soothing neutrality” of your scale’s Frankenvoice!

I have to admit, I do enjoy myself a Groupon here and there. And I’m equal opportunity Living Social. How do you pass up a statement necklace?

OOOOHLALA! Image: Ily Couture

Or, um, red solo cup koozies? (Shut up.)

RED SOLO CUP? YOU'RE MY....FRIEND. Image: FunSlurp.com

Who knew I even wanted needed such things?  And I have to admit. I have a secret wish to write copy for Groupon. These writers have skillz that are unmatched—for a word nerd like myself, their prose sings to me.

Usually.

But come on, Groupon. It’s holiday time. And if diamonds are a girl’s best friend, surely you know a scale is her most maligned frienemy. (Friends only when losing the LB’s—which, context clues would suggest, is NOT holiday time!) Must I spell everything out? For the love of muffin tops!

Justly horrified readers, let me tell you about the “fine print”….the deal is for your choice of two different scales. Groupon includes the features and benefits (???) of each scale. My words are in parenthesis and caps, just so you can crawl into my head for a sec:

GNC Digital Scales (GNC? HERE’S YOUR FIRST HINT CHUBBIES AIN’T GONNA LIKE THIS…)

Not only does the GNC (MUSCLEHEAD/NO BODY FAT/I LIFTTHINGSUPANDPUTTHEMDOWWWWN) AccuWeight Plus bathroom scale display your weight on a large (LARGE! YOU’RE ALREADY STARTING WITH ME AND MY FRAGILE EGO!) 1.3-inch screen, it also says it aloud (ALOUD = OUT LOUD = THAT IS JUST NOT CALLED FOR!) with a soothing sense of neutrality (THAT IS SOME GOOD CREATIVE WRITING RIGHT THERE. BONUS POINTS!) you won’t find in most wrestling coaches. (CHEAP SHOT, GROUPON. I LIKE IT! THOSE WRESTLERS CAN YO YO DIET BETTER THAN KATE MOSS!) The scale’s tempered safety glass exterior sustains up to 330 pounds (TEMPERED SAFETY GLASS?! THAT’S A RELIEF FOR THOSE OF US WHO PLAN TO REALLY GET OUR EGG NOG ON!), which is almost impressive as the AccuIndex scale, which holds up to 400 pounds. (GOOD TO KNOW.) The AccuIndex, though it doesn’t talk (WELL EFF THAT THEN! IF YOU WON’T SOOTHINGLY SHOUT OUT MY WEIGHT, I AM TAKING MY FAT ASS ELSEWHERE!), improves upon the AccuWeight Plus by disclosing your levels of body fat, water hydration, and bone and muscle mass in addition to your body weight. (YAY! MORE WAYS TO TELL US WHY OUR PANTS ARE TOO TIGHT!)

I CAN'T HEAR YOU. SHOUT LOUDER SO THE NEIGHBORS CAN HEAR! Image: Photobucket

P.S. I am not overweight. I have a water hydration problem. Finally! Mystery solved. 

P.P.S. Groupon wants you to know, the first scale is available in black—that makes ALL the difference! Black is totally slimming!  That will help as it’s shouting out my weight! Way better than some other unflattering color scale!

SEE? THE BLACK REALLY IS MORE FLATTERING, ISN'T IT? Image: Groupon.

You’re sold on this, aren’t you? I can tell.  FYI though, you’re only allowed to buy three of these shitacular scales—one for you and two for a gift, per the ad. Oh the possibilities! Your mother in law? The blowhard in the office Secret Santa? The passive aggressive second cousin who always calls you Joe when your name is Moe?  The neighbor who always brags about his second home on Lake Fancypants?

Forget the lovely poinsettia. Russell Stover candies? No way. Old Spice/Dope on a Rope. Hell no.  Why go there when you can say it best with your shouty, large, unbreakable, black scale? “PUT THE PIE DOWN, UNLESS YOU WANT TO USE THAT GIFT CARD FROM AUNT MARTHA ON MORE SPANX!”

That is love in a box!

I dunno though. I kinda like to give gifts to people and then have them still speak to me, but thanks, Groupon! See, I’m thinking I’ll skip the fatabulous Groupon scale in favor of something else I think will be far more useful: the bullshit button!!

OH IT'S REAL AND IT'S SPECTACULAR! Image: Amazon.

The bullshit button is prettier, funnier, cheaper, and kicks the scary talking scale’s ass! It is fun for the whole family! Fun for a girl and a boy! Fun for a CEO! Fun for a homeless person! Fun for skinny people! Fun for chubby people! Fun for gay Republicans! Fun for straight artists! Fun for stereotypists! (Is that a word?) Fun for people who need a thesaurus! Fun for people who drive a Taurus! Fun for me! Fun for you! Fun for the kindergartner who licks glue! Even the old woman who lives in a shoe!

Your kids say they can’t eat their vegetables because they aren’t hungry? EHHH…..BULLSHIT.

Your boss says, “We can’t afford to give you a raise this year.” and then tears off in his new BMW? BAM! BULLSHIT!

Wifey says she has a ‘headache’. BULL-SHIT!

Hubs says you’re more beautiful than the day he met you. BULLSHIT–please refer to headache!

Friend says your new, do it yourself, highlights don’t make you look like Pepe Le Pew. BULLSHIT! (Sorry, but bullshit.)

Scale shouts out that you weigh 399 pounds after Christmas? BULLSHIT! You are 398 if you are a LB! Shove your BMI sass up your tempered glass ass, Groupon!

And have yourself a Merry little Christmas.

(If you need me I’ll be with my red solo cup koozie and my bullshit button…..)

After weeks of a revolving door of sickness around here coupled with our uninvited furry house guests, I was rocking a funk pretty hard. I’d had grand plans to start back up exercising after a foot injury and drinks on the deck derailed me over summer, only to have a hacking Marlboro red cough hang on for well over a month. Co-pays upon co-pays and costly critter craziness (triple c–beware!) helped suck the fun out of fall. And ohGoddearGod the incessant political ads and phone calls are enough to drive me to drink.

More. And earlier.

I usually try not to be rude to the callers because honestly, it’s a person just trying to do their job in a rough economy, which must not be easy, especially now that we’re all battle torn. But calling me at 9:45 and asking me to complete a survey? When hubs and I had finally planted ourselves to watch our DVR’d Modern Family, commercial free and in peace?

No, homie, no.

SERIOUSLY? NO. Photo credit: Photobucket

I scowl at hubs and snatch the phone in disgust.

Me to hubs: Are you kidding me? It’s 9-naughty word-45.

Him: BLANK LOOK. What ring? Ooh, look at Sophia Vergara.

Me: I KNOW! THIS IS A BIT MUCH! I’m answering it before they wake the kids!

Hubs: BLANK LOOK. I just want to see more of Sophia Vergara.

Me answering phone: DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS? (Suddenly, and without warning, I’ve morphed into my late father, who when pressed, would go ape on people—0 to 60 in a matter of seconds. Usually his ire was reserved for the door to door Jehovah Witnesses who would always seem to try to prosthelytize during nail biter Red Sox games. I’m pretty sure the soul of my dad is prayed for even today in J Dub circles.)

Friendly survey caller: Yes! I do, it’s 6:45!

PSYCHO JANET: NOOOOO, it’s 9:45 in my world!

Friendly survey caller: Oh, I’m sorry, would you have time for a quick surv….

PSYCHO JANET: Are? Are you kidding me right now?

Friendly survey caller: So, when would be a better time to ca….

PSYCHO JANET: When would be a better time to call? Um, never, how about never!

Friendly/dumb survey caller: So, could I call you….

PSYCHO JANET: Ne-never call me. Never! Please. Never! Seriously? Never!

They broke me. They did. I didn’t want to be rude. I didn’t mean to be rude. But a girl can only take so much. (All this for FOUR electoral votes! FOUR. 1,2,3,4!)

Photo credit: Photobucket.

And then…it came. The guilt.

See, the thing about bitching about your Marlboro red cough and your kid’s asthma flaring up and your medical bills and being stalked for your miniscule fraction of your four electoral votes, and, and, and, and …the other crappity crap that’s befallen you is…..it’s called life. You gotta do it in context. Because the minute you finish decorating your big fat whiny cake for the pity party you realize, “Schmuck, there are kids who are REALLY sick. And moms who are REALLY sick. Moms who wish their worst health problem was fitting into a smaller size or lowering their cholesterol.” You know I could go from here to the moon and back on sad scenarios.

And that’s when you take your STFU sammie and sit down and shut up. Or as my bf and I like to snark, “Oh, s down and s up!” It’s crabbier and edgier and honestly, it instantly puts things in perspective.

But sometimes, it takes a kid to tell you what you’ve been missing.

I NEVER REALIZED I HAD A HOME WITH A VIEW, UNTIL MY 5 YEAR OLD TOLD ME TO LOOK UP.

Gorgeous, right? 3 year old, 5 year old, and I were playing in the back yard yesterday afternoon. I was going through the motions, kicking a ball and pushing them on the swings, but my mind was a million miles away. The critter people were due in a half hour to see if they “caught” anything. Gag. What was I going to make for dinner? Gag again. Oh, crap, scanning the yard and realizing I (and by I, I mean, hubs!) has to fix the fence/finish painting the shed/put the patio furniture away before the Frankenstorm hits. GAGGAGGAG.

Woh, woh, woh. Debbie Downer? Check please!

Also, it was my sister’s birthday. The one who passed away over two decades ago—more than half my life ago. And yet, all these many years later, the date rightly dances through my thoughts. Though I think of her all the time, this date will always be THE.YEARLY.REMINDER. of a life cut short. And every fabulous, and horrible, and yes, even mundane moment, like bitching that your favorite show was interrupted by a political survey, that we know we all take for granted— is magnified.

It weighs on me.

And just like that, my 5 year old fights to interrupt my subconscious, as if he knows damn right well I am present. But not really present.

“Mom?”

“MOMMY?”

“Mom, look!”

“What, honey?” I ask and absentmindedly glance around.

“Up there. UP THERE!” He points, emphatically.

To that sky. That gorgeous, perfect scene that loomed above the whole time, but I hadn’t noticed. Not even for a second. I was too busy looking down. And around. At all the “stuff” that had to get done. Probably, if I’m being honest, feeling a little sorry for myself.

And why? Would I and should I? How could I feel sorry for myself? When gifts are all around me. I have a life—a great, fortunate, wonderful, if not perfect, life.

I was reminded of a quote I read on Pinterest recently, “Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.” The source is unknown. But the sentiment, is perfect.

I have a thoughtful husband and beautiful kids who love me unconditionally…..a house with A VIEW! Every day I get to live and breathe and have bad luck and good luck and no luck, really is a gift. Sometimes, I need a kick in the pants–which might be tight—but nevertheless! From a five year old.

I’m reminded that children live in the moment. Their world is black and white. They love unconditionally and without rules. And when we say or do the wrong thing or fall short of who they deserve us to be, they forgive and they pull us back. We adults, with our preoccupations and our propensity to kvetch and sulk and take things personally, we lug our baggage. It’s heavy. We get tired. I…got tired. Maybe he sensed it.

These kids are unbridled enthusiasm and glee, for the sun on their faces and the sky full of puffy clouds that may or may not look like a bear, or a firefighter, depending on who you ask. Or maybe a wink or a nod or a smile from heaven. Who knows?

Like everything in life, it’s all in the eye of the beholder.

Here’s a fun fact:

Squirrels. They can fly.

FLY.

OH YEAH, I CAN FLY MOTHERCLUCKERS!!!!!!!! Photo courtesy of Photobucket.

All this time you thought they were hanging in a tree, just trying to scavenge for some nuts?

No. They’ve been flying the friendly skies. IN.MY.HOUSE. Possibly in your house, too.

3, 2, 1……and….

SCREAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know. Let it out. It’s ok.

I’m not going to lie. I feel a little bitter. See, I used to kind of like squirrels. Even swerved my rig to avoid hitting them. Slammed my size 8 clearance rack ballet flats—DSW! I love me a sale! Wait, what were we talking about again? OH YEAH— slammed mah fun shoes, wasted valuable tire tread, to spare these creatures a most nasty fate.

And yet. YET! Who knew these little rat bastards would take up residence in my humble abode? Trespassing squatters! Squatting trespassers! You owe me a rent check you fuzzy little shits! Listen up peeps, if one night you’re minding your own biz watching the talent on The Voice (AdamLevineAdamLevineAdamLevineAdamLevinecallmeAdamLevineAdamLevineAdamLevine) and it sounds like there are 300 pound men having a drunken bar brawl in your ceiling, that’s the first clue.  It would be one thing if they were quiet about it—we could all just hug a tree and pretend that I didn’t know that they didn’t know that I know they know they are there. But no. I do know. Because you loud ass mothahtruckers woke my kids. You moron rodentia!

HOMIE, IT DIDN'T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY. THIS AIN'T MOTEL 6---I DID NOT LEAVE THE LIGHT ON! Photo courtesy of Photobucket.

It is ON!

So, because we are generally inept and cowardly, we made the call no one wants to make. We called the pest po-po. Who were more than happy to take care of this shitshow for us. For the low, low price of ELEVEN HUNDRED UNITED STATES DOLLARS.

What.

The.

*&^%.

I might swerve TO hit a squirrel on the road. Oh yes I might. You rat bastards are on notice. Notice! You are not safe. None of you. Go gargle with an acorn! Or an empty beer can tab I might accidentally on purpose leave on my deck steps. By accident. Take a dirt nap by my 3/4 painted shed? Be.my.unguestliest.guest.

Listen here, the Catholic Church has a just war theory.

HALLPASS! 

Muffintopmommy, 1. Rodentia, ZERO!!!!!!!!!

For ELEVEN HUNDRED US DOLLARS I now know there are a gazillion small openings at our roof line –we might as well have hung up a “Welcome Loud Ass Furry Douchewaffles” sign. (Why thank you high quality tract home builder! I do SO love my home built of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue. So do the mofo rodentia in my zip code!)

The better news is, the flying squirrels have some mouse buddies who’ve come to party in my casa, too.

Seriously.

More rodentia. More noise beyond the drywall. More just war.

REALLY? IT WASN'T ENOUGH YOU ROBBED ME BLIND IN FLORIDA LAST YEAR? WIPE THAT FAUX INCREDULOUS LOOK OFF YOUR FACE, OR I'LL MAKE SURE LINDSAY LOHAN COMES BACK TO HAUNT YOUR DREAMS, MOUSEY! Photo courtesy of Photobucket.

It didn’t have to be this way. I broke for squirrels–and they took advantage of my peace lovin’ nature.

So now I am sitting here. Letting the cold, hard reality marinate…..there have been multiple critters in the eaves of my attic. Scratching the walls and taunting my kids my delicate flower of a hubs. Poised to rage and ready to do damage.

Hit the road, Jackwads!

TAKE A HINT FURBALL: RODENTIA NON GRATA!

So I suppose, then, I should feel happy that Amazon.com was kind enough to email me today to suggest I might like to buy…my own book, Mommy Mixology.  (Now available on Amazon.com for the low low price of $10 and change. You can buy approximately 110 copies of my book for the SAME price of eradicating rodentia from your attic. Don’t you just LOVE a bargain?!!) A for effort Amazon for knowing your audience. You titan of industry, you. Of  course I would LOVE to buy my own book but I’m a little short this week maybe I can save up for it. Or perhaps they just sensed….I was having a bad, bad, no good, horrible, sucktasticly fracktastic $1100 day and might be in the market for a cocktail. Who knows!

Rodents happen.

You heard it here first.

And for that calamity, you can bet your ass there’s a cocktail!

(If you see me drinking a 40 in a paper bag, you’ll know the rodents won. Until then, charging ON with my high fallutin’ 12 ounce domestic beer in a can.)

Shut up. There is TOO a difference.

OOH LOOK! FREE ICE! YOU CAN'T BEAT ME SQUIRRELS! YOU CAN'T BEAT MEEEEEEE!!!!!

The other day in the car, I eavesdropped on my 5 year old and 7 year old sons chatting in the way back. I gotta be honest. It’s the end of  a long summer and lately? I’ve been kinda tuning them out at times. There are only so many convos like this I can listen to:

“That’s MY Lego guy! Give it!”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes IT IS, you big poo poo head!”

I know this is where I should say I always pull the rig over and speak to them about sharing and not hurtling potty talk insults at loved ones, but I’m not into lying, sooooo, no. Sometimes they just need to hash it out…. and sometimes mama needs to get to Tarjay in a timely fashion! If it borders on assault and battery, well that’s another thing.

Part mother, part taxi driver, part bar bouncer. I really need to update my resume. (Head hunters: call me!) Big money, big money, no whammies!

CRAP. I GUESS IT IS TIME TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL. Credit: Photobucket

Ahem. So, 5 year old is starting kindergarten in a matter of days. And unlike my 7 year old, who, even if his body language screams, “I AM NERVOUS!” won’t articulate it, 5 year old has been asking a lot of questions, usually at bed time.

“What if you forget to pick me up, mama?”

I do have to pick him up because there’s only a bus one way in kindergarten because it’s only a half day on the kind cheapo taxpayers’ dime. I know! Instead of spending the 5 large it costs for the optional other half, I plan to make up for it by  ”homeschooling” him myself for the other half of the day. I think the third hour of Today, lunch, then Days of Our Lives will provide excellent learning opportunities. Every kindergartner deserves to learn how to dress right for his body type. And figuring out how to ward off crime lords who’ve died and come back to life seven times is clearly a vital skill for the playground. Let’s just see who knows what’s what come first grade, okay? My money is on school of hard knocks/fashion plate boy.

Another valid concern he has: “What if you’re late to pick me up, mama?” Well, I do my best, but you never know. I’m one Facebook status away from being late sometimes. And if I get caught behind Artie the one man 89 year old party cruising to Bingo in his Crown Vic, we know Imma have to ‘splain myself when I’m last in line.

Really, we’ve tried to reassure him that everything will be fine, that I could never forget him, and that the awesome kindergarten teachers would NEVER kick him to the curb in the rare event I might run late. We’ve tried to pump him up for the bus ride in the morning with his brother and the fun neighbor kids.

He hasn’t been satisfied. So I wasn’t totally surprised when I heard the boys talking in the car. The maturity and the rational q and a that went down is what threw me.

5 year old asked 7 year old, “There are seat belts on the bus, right?”

“Actually, no there aren’t.”

“What!? That’s not safe at all! That doesn’t make sense!”

“I know it sounds strange, but you get used to it. It’s okay.”

“Well that isn’t safe. I command them to put seat belts on the bus!”

How can I argue with that logic? That it makes no sense to a five year old who knows darn right well we don’t drive three feet without putting on our seat belts is telling. Of course this is the kid who shouts from the back, “That kid has no helmet on, mommy!” when he sees a kid riding a bike without one–and chided me today, “I’m ready for my bike ride. Make sure you get your helmet on, Mama, and forget those flip flops. You need shoes!” And he’s also the kid who’s scolded me for waving my hands in the air and dancing while driving (If you saw me dance you’d know that really is a crime). “Both hands on the wheel, moooom, both hands on the wheel!”

(I know what you’re thinking. You can say it. He’s hall monitor material.)

I wasn’t sure what to say to him in the car. As a parent, it’s kind of our job to know what to say and when to say it. But how could I tell him it was fine for him to sky around town on a gigantic bus without a seatbelt, when I myself wrote in Mommy Mixology, “I pictured people blasting around town texting/sexting/chomping Whoppers, and not seeing (until it was too late) a bus filled with little kids sans seat belts.” after I saw my oldest son off to kindergarten?

I’ve had no choice but to train these two sons to assess some risk at a very young age. Mostly, out of necessity. They both have life threatening peanut and tree nut allergies. It’s been drilled into their heads since they were 2 that they never take food, even from a well intentioned family member or friend, without first asking, “Did you read the label? Is it safe for me?” as peanuts and nuts can lurk in some surprising places.

And so for reasons beyond the bus, I’m always holding my breath a little at the beginning of the school year. I’m relying on young children to heed my warning not to take food from anyone. I’m trusting teachers to help them navigate the unexpected unsafe foods that unfortunately can wind up in classrooms, so they don’t have to shoulder worry and can focus on learning. And I’m hoping against hope he and all the other kids will get to school safely on a big yellow monstrosity with no seat belts.

I know I can’t keep my kids in a bubble. We have a fantastic bus driver. I know it will probably be fine. That’s what I continually tell myself. The perpetual worrier. The “what if” person that I am. Buses transport kids safely every day, after all. I’m not 100% sure it’s safe though, this is fact. But I’m not 100% sure life is safe. That walking is safe. That hanging from a monkey bar is safe. That walking home from the bus stop is safe. That taking a waiter’s word that the dinner is peanut free, is safe. OMG, that anything is safe!

I realize, it’s not that it’s too hard to articulate to him exactly how safe the bus is. It’s not that I can’t find the words. I realized it’s this: he doesn’t need to know. He shouldn’t know. It’s my job to assess risk. To worry. Not his. It’s his job to be a kid, to feel the thrill of making a new friend on the bus, on the playground, in the lunch line. To fly through the air on a see saw, with me not peering around a corner. To feel the pride when another adult, a teacher who isn’t his parent, tells him what a great job he’s done or how proud they are of his work.

So I say nothing, and keep driving.

On the first day of school I will remind him to always do his best. To be kind to all the kids. To be a good student and a good friend. And when the bus fades away down the street with he and his brother on it, I will probably blink back tears, mostly of joy, knowing he’ll be full of every hope and dream his 5 year old heart can hold, all the while hoping I’m doing the right thing for him. And that he will be safe, always safe.