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

Confession: I can be very impatient.

They say patience is a virtue, but it’s not a virtue that shares my DNA. Perhaps it went missing with my waistline. And my dowry. And my ability to do long division. I really don’t know.

See, my impatience manifests itself into little voices rattling in my head, as I bite my tongue till it bleeds. (I don’t need medicine! I’m NOT the one with the problem…read on! Read on!)

 If anyone could hear these voices, they might be scared. Sometimes they seep out under my breath and my husband is privy to them—he says I’m “sick”, that I need to calm down. I guess he’s the yin to my yang, or is it the yang to my yin? Either way, he might just save me from myself some day.

Is it wrong that I daydream about slamming people in the grocery store with my honking race car shopping cart (which are ridiculously hard to steer…I would soooo get away with it)? I admit it, I have produce rage.

If I’m standing behind you and you are hemming and hawing for what seems like an eternity over which ears of corn to choose—peeling the corn back, scrutinizing the ears like you’re a mad scientist in a lab—I might just fantasize about picking one up and beating you upside the head with it.

Come on! You’re buying an ear of corn—not choosing a husband, not picking a house (God help those people’s realtors if this is the saga involved in choosing a vegetable. There is not a high enough commission percentage in the world.) I wouldn’t mind, but corn costs like $1.99 for 739 ears. I want to shove $2 at the corn huskers and just shout, “It’s on me—live with reckless abandon and just randomly pick some and GOOOOOO! Be free from the ties that bind….try it, you’ll like it!”

These have to be the same people in the deli line who order five slices of ham. Five slices? What is that about? You can’t round up to the nearest quarter pound even? What are you doing with five slices of ham? Have you calculated that five slices is the right amount for one sandwich? Are you putting said ham in some kind of recipe? If you ordered a third of a pound and you got seven slices, would that rock your world? You don’t know a dog or a teenager you can throw an extra slice of ham at?

I’m certain the people who putt down the center of the grocery aisles going one mile an hour and refuse to move to the side so you can pass, are the exact same culprits going 45 mph in the fast lane on the highway. I’m not a speed racer by any means (Safety first! Meep!), but people like this just cause needless traffic jams. Worse, I’m positive their snail pace causes accidents, and theorize their lane hogging is actually a symptom of being so self centered they don’t care about the other shoppers and drivers. Now that’s just rude and ignorant—which on the scale of not so great qualities, are far worse transgressions than being impatient. Right? Right?

The only caveat with the supermarket lane hog is if the person is elderly. I can’t get annoyed if an older person is in the way at the grocery store, and no one should ever give someone’s granny a hard time—that’s just wrong. (And if I see you doing it, you’re on notice—you will get a size 8 shoe up your butt or I’ll squish you with my muffin top.)

Besides, we’ll all be old someday. Today, we get carded. (When the cashier forgets her glasses.) Tomorrow, we’re short bussing it to the market clutching the sale flyer— and don’t you forget it.

Old people are also the only ones who get a pass for WRITING A CHECK.

Who even writes a check anymore besides 85 year old ladies? The 85 year olds get a pass because God love ‘em for being out shopping and kvetching about banana prices. But frumpy 40 year olds, they should know better than to hold up the line writing a check since the FREAKING debit card came into favor 15 years ago when they were 25, which leads me to deduce they are just annoying and in desperate need of a corn cob slap as a general public service. You’re welcome.

Really, how you conduct yourself in the grocery store speaks volumes about you as a person. Take heed of my rules and we’ll be fine. Otherwise, you just might get hit with an errant banana if the hubs doesn’t keep me in check. (Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not perfect either. Let’s discuss this over some corn….I’ll buy, you fly!)

It’s the early 80s… a little girl with a blonde bob and a ‘tude grips a Shirley temple, standing impatiently next to her parents in a dark bar. The mom is nursing a pink glass of wine and the father, a draft beer (he clearly won the drink lottery in that crew). It’s a busy Friday night, but the girl doesn’t even hear glasses clinking and people laughing. Expressionless, she watches smoke dance in the dim light as the trio wait for a table in the restaurant, too furious to believe her parents put her in this dreadful situation. As she taps a blindingly white Nike Cortez adorned foot, the tension is palpable. Despite wearing her brandy new rainbow legwarmers to complete her look, she can think of only one thing at this moment, and it isn’t grade school fashion.

“How could they do this to me?!”

(Why no, I’m not talking about why an 8 year old was in a windowless bar inhaling stale Parliament smoke. Good guess though.)

No, she can’t believe her parents would force her to go out on the most important television night of the year, and frankly, she’s totally torqued about it. (She knows they would so not be here if it were Superbowl Sunday or the season finale of Alice. The injustice—well, it’s simply appalling.)

 As the minutes crawl on, the writing is on the wall.

All she can think is, “Oh shit, we’re never gonna be home on time for The Wizard of Oz!” (Oh yeah, she thought “shit” not “shoot”. Hey, that’s the price you pay for taking your kid inside the bar. They’re lucky I didn’t say it at mass on Sunday.)

Finally, they’re seated. The waitress, the dinner rolls, the salad, the dinners and OHGODTHANKGOD—her parents aren’t dessert people— finally the check—none of it comes fast enough.

“We’re never going to be home in time for the Wizard of Oz! Can we go? Can we go? Can we go nowwwwwwwww? Please? Please!”

LOOK DOROTHY, I TRIED CLICKING MY LEGWARMERS TO BUST OUTTA THAT JOINT, BUT I GOT NUTHIN'!

There’s desperation in the girl’s voice now. (The parents exchange a knowing look as they finish their cocktails. Perhaps they wish they had just ordered out Chinese, or brought a muzzle. Or maybe, thought to use birth control in their 40s. One can only imagine…)

The car ride is an excruciating seven miles. The girl squeaks from the back seat, “Drive faster dad, drive faster!”

“We’ll be home on time, don’t worry!” her mother offers, trying to placate her. (Read: shut up whinybag, shut up.)

Lies!!! Bloody lies I say!

The girl? Was me. The traumatic memory, all mine. Forever, burned in my brain.

That was the year I missed the first TWENTY minutes of THE Wizard of Oz.

I recalled this night of family fun (Slash borderline child abuse?) yesterday as my four year old and I were watching Bee Movie on DVR at 2 pm. That’s right, 2 pm on a random Monday. With breaks for potty and snacks.

I tried to explain to my son that when mummy was little, certain movies were so special we could only watch them once a year—when they were actually on tv.

His face was painted with pure bewilderment as he struggled to grasp the concept.

And why wouldn’t he be confused? He’s never known a world without dvds, dvr, and on demand cable with its dozens and dozens of high quality kiddie shows. He’s watched movies in the car. In the car! I know, that’s not even a big deal anymore, but can you imagine if someone dropped that bomb on our Strawberry Shortcake world, that some day we could watch Wizard of Oz IN THE CAR? Hot damn, that would have solved my problem that fateful night.

My friend reminded me not only did we only get to watch special shows and movies once a year, but we only got to watch cartoons once a week on Saturday morning. And if for some reason we missed them first thing Saturday morning and turned on the tv too late, we unfortunate children from the Boston area would find men in too tight dress slacks playing candlepin bowling. The horror we children of the 70s and 80s endured.

Yet somehow, we remain unscathed.

And in the process, as we’ve laughed and cackled about kids today and how spoiled they are, and wondered aloud what the future holds for them, the truth is now impossible to ignore.

I? We?

Have turned into our parents.

(You know, minus ripping the butts and taking our kids into bar rooms. I think there are rules about that stuff now.)

Jury duty.

The very words made me cringe with fear that my VIP life would potentially be interrupted for days. The government should have known I was too very important, what with work and socializing, to do my civic duty. Yet, they called me twice back in the 90’s.

First, I was called to a drunk driving case on college break, and was released fairly quickly. They didn’t want me and I didn’t want them. I had pressing social obligations I was not keen to break. (I may or may not have torn out of there sporting a bad perm and Sir Mix-a-Lot blaring on my mix tape. “Baby got back!” Praise the Lord—smart phones and Facebook did not exist in the 90′s! Probably because the guys who invented them were in Pamper’s. I don’t feel old. Or dumb.)

I’m working as a recruiter five years later, I’m totally uptight about being called for jury duty in Boston, worried about potentially missing work (because the rigorous world of entry level recruiting surely would have ceased to exist had I missed a few days). My hair is remarkably better, but Sir Mix-a-Lot and I are still rocking out together. My colleague from work teased me mercilessly calling me Ally McBeal because I showed up for jury duty in a work suit. (Seriously, the outfit was straight up 90′s work geek—we’re talking skirt suit with gold buttons and a scarf tied around my neck. But hey, just because I didn’t want to be there didn’t mean I shouldn’t take it seriously. Someone’s life was on the line and they deserved my full attention, even if I didn’t feel like giving it. (Go ahead. Just say it. N-E-R-D.)

 In the end, I got bounced from the court in Boston from what looked to be a very interesting murder trial, after being questioned on the stand like a common hoodlum (Yeah, that’s right. Hoodlum!) by the defense because of what they apparently deemed to be bad lineage (Shoulda been because of a fashion police arrest. They could have tried me on the spot, and hung me with my goofy scarf as punishment.).

My grandfather had been a Boston Police captain, my father had retired as a detective after 36 years with the Boston Police and my brother was a state trooper out of state. It seemed they assumed due to my relations, I would not be impartial to the sketchy scoundrel who (very, mostly, clearly, definitely) committed murder, and tossed me right out of there.

 I believe that’s called prejudice. Hmph!

I will add, on my way out of the courtroom, I glared at the accused, and if looks really could kill, they could have just skipped the trial and saved the trouble and expense. Not only was I incensed because I thought the guy looked and sounded like pure evil, having “allegedly” stabbed his girlfriend to death (plus he looked like he had a perm, but now I’m just nitpicking), but I was livid they made me sit there til 3 p.m. before cutting me loose. They could have at least dumped me earlier so I could have met some friends for a liquid lunch in the city. But noooo. Mess with the cop’s kid. Like I didn’t have it tough enough growing up and not being able to get away with anything!

Incidentally, a few weeks later while skimming the newspaper, I stumbled across an article—seems the dirty bird was found GUILTY and sent to the big house. HA! I like to pretend he got a windowless cell, where they played Air Supply songs round the clock! “Making love. Making loooooveeeee, outta nothin’ at all.” Ah, the sweet sounds of justice. Those cons are lucky I’m not the prison warden. I guarantee you repeat crimes would  go down. They would so never be rewarded with the genius that is Sir Mix-a-Lot. Bread. Water. Air Supply. And maybe I’d pipe in the piercing screams of toddlers…oooh! They’d be begging for the chair.

One more thing? If you’re thinking of committing a serious crime, I beg you to reconsider. More importantly, if you have been unjustly accused of something, I recommend you get the best lawyer money can buy, or at least your money can buy. When Uncle Sam promises you a jury of your peers… that should scare you.

Have you ever been to jury duty and gotten a load of what the government is claiming are your peers? Not only were half of these jackwads strolling in late, like they were meeting friends for brunch on Sunday, half of them looked like they were not paying close attention to dental hygiene.

 Hey, I totally admit I went overboard on the Ally McBeal get up, but I swear some of these clownfools did not even wear clean clothes. It was a grim turnout. And, let’s face it, you know the people trying to get jury duty (the ones without really good stories or legit reasons to persuade the judge to get out of it) are just not the people you want in charge of your fate.  For the love of God, you don’t want people with nothing better to do than sit on a jury to actually BE on your jury!

 Unless? It’s a desperate hausfrau in need of a three day, all expenses paid vaca who promises to rise to the task? Preferably a sequester, not too far from home, with yummy meals, a clean hotel with room darkening curtains and free DVD rentals? What do you say Uncle Sam? You know where to find me! Cawl me—I’m in the book!! I’m in the book!!!!!! I promise I brush my teeth, wear clean clothes and don’t have a perm. (Fine. I do still love me some Sir Mix-a-Lot. It’s not a crime you know!)

I don’t know about you, but when I have workers in my house, I feel like I’m on display. It’s not like anything I’m doing around here is scandalous or would even be remotely interesting to them. (Unless they consider me slurping my coffee, while I put someone in time out, while I subsequently bitch about it on the phone to the hubs or one of my girlfriends interesting?)

Zactly.

It’s just that when I have workers here it can be sort of awkward. Think about it. When you hire a worker or let a repairman in, you pretty much have virtual strangers in your house. You’re told your whole life never to talk to strangers and then you grow up and you’re letting them right in the front door. One minute, you could be passing them in traffic (Hint: mind your manners and don’t be flippling another car the  bird—do you really want them remembering you as they calculate the bill?) and the next minute, they’re using your bathroom and are privy to who and what you’re yakking about.

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LIKE I CARE WHAT YOU'RE CACKLING ABOUT. GET ME OUTTA THIS $HITSHOW!

Some of my friends and family constantly worry workers will come to their homes and steal something. While I realize this could happen, I rarely worry about this. I assume most people are honest and are just trying to do their jobs. And really, unless they are going to figure out a way to sneak my china cabinet and its entire contents out my front door or wheel away with my (Shiny! And New!) washing machine, they’re gonna be sorely disappointed with the slim pickings at Casa de Muffin Top. Most of my money is tied up in Transformers and Matchboxes right now, and I kinda doubt the street value for a pre-owned Decepticon is all that much. 

And my diamond earrings? Yeah, they’re totally faux. (Oh shut up—you knew that!) My diamond engagement ring? Real. But you’re gonna need to put me on three months of Slim-Fast before that sucker’s even coming off my finger before you even think about pilfering it—good luck with that. (I might add though, if you can figure out how to get me back to my wedding weight, I might turn a blind eye while you slink out with that beloved washing machine! Sorry Whirlpool, but you’re not the only one who’s white and boxy….on a washer, divine, on a woman, not so much.)

When new workers get here and we exchange pleasantries, I always wonder, how much small talk do I need to make with this virtual stranger? How many refreshments should I offer them? Or do I? I mean, technically, they’re working for me and are not coming over to my house for a social engagement, but I still think it’s nice to offer them something to eat or drink, let them know where the bathroom is, and just in general be cordial. It’s not a stupid idea to be gracious to the people who are working on your biggest investment. Right? Can it really hurt to throw the guy who is doing wiring in your house a coffee and a doughnut? (That would be…noooo! Guess who stole the show Christmas Eve when he made a surprise appearance here dressed as Santa? Uh huh! That’s right!)

Being a homeowner for almost a decade, and doing a fair share of home improvement projects, I’ve had quite a few workers in my house. Sometimes they’re here so long and I like them so much I’m sorry to see them go. When you have small kids, we all know there are some days an adult convo is a refreshing change.  Talking about whether or not fish have teeth with a four year old for the umpteenth time can get trying. So a real live grown up in my kitchen who wants to talk about the Sox game or who got voted off Idol is a welcome visitor. You wanna whistle while you work? Whatev, especially if you’re whistling my tune. 

Seriously though, a word of caution—sometimes you can really interrupt their work and that’s not such a good thing. I had one small mishap with the cable guy who came the day I was baking cupcakes for my son’s birthday. I offered him one and he accepted (probably wasn’t aware of my reputation in the kitchen…eeek). Five minutes after he drove off, cupcake in hand, I got a call from him on his cell.

Oh God, did I poison the cable guy? I better not be getting a call from James Sokolove and Affiliates next! Would a wrongful cupcake lawsuit be covered on my homeowners? Must remember to up coverage.         

“Hi, um, this is the Rob, the cable guy. Um, I was supposed to get the serial number from the new cable box but I got distracted by the cupcake and forgot! Can you read it off to me?” Well at least SOMEONE appreciates my baking!

 I don’t want to be getting these guys in trouble with their bosses. That ain’t right! Especially after the cable guy hooked me up with cable in the kitchen so I can stay abreast of the very important comings and goings in the world…of  Salem, USA.  (And these are the Days of Our Lives….Will Sami get back with E.J? Will E.J. figure out Sami is the mother of Sydney, not that tart Nicole? And will Dr. Dan and Chloe finally get together when, and if, she awakes from her coma?) I now know thanks to my handy kitchen tv. A cupcake is the least I can do for the man responsible for making it all happen, my cable guy, my hero.

I can’t let that man get busted at work.

The vast majority of workers we have encountered have been great, a few have been slightly scary, and a few really need to go back to charm school. One of my personal faves was the guy who was the sub on a job we thought we hired someone else to do. (Love that. I hire the guy that looks like Bob Newhart and he sends someone who looks like Charles Manson. I wasn’t scared.)  

And why is my husband always at work while I am alone holding the bag when some of these characters show up, most of whom HE hires. Truly, some of them are right out of central casting. Charles Manson, though seemingly harmless, appeared in my kitchen shirtless one day at lunch time and asked to borrow some silverware. A little disarming in the middle of my turkey and cheese. Was I cynical for even fleetingly wondering if he might try to stab me with a fork if I didn’t have the mustard he preferred?

“Are you fricking kiddin’ me! No GREY POUPON!!!”

Seriously, a shirtless Charles Manson lookalike in your home is just not right. Not a good look—I did not need to see that man in that state. The image is burned into my brain for life. (Make it stop! Make it stop!) And btw, why can’t the shirtless contractor ever look like one of the hot firefighters from Rescue Me? Instead, I get the old, wrinkly skinny guy who looks like he’s on death row. Is that karma? I want to know. What exactly did I do in my past life and how can I repent? (To be fair though, he could have been hoping for Gabby from Desperate Housewives and instead he got the plus size hausfrau with sensible shoes….well those are the breaks, Chuckie!)

GOT ANY WORK FOR ME, MUFFINTOPMOMMY? I WORK CHEAP!!

There was the quirky hardwood floor guy who looked just like Weird Al Yankovic. Nice guy. Kind of awkward though when I was perusing his folder of previous jobs with him. See, the hubs and I had decided to go with oak to match the rest of the hardwoods in the house. This guy loved Brazilian cherry and truly, I can’t argue, it’s a gorgeous wood, and as I reiterated after his passionate sales pitch, one I would have chosen had I not already had two rooms of oak. So enamored of this Brazilian cherry was he though, that he blurted out, “Oh man, you gotta see this wood. It’s hotter than sex!”

Really? What’s the proper response to a statement like that? It’s not often I’m rendered speechless, but this was one of those times. First the Grand Canyon, one of the biggest wonders of the world…..then randy Weird Al the floor man.

What could I have said?

“Oh really? Hotter than sex? Wow. I’m no professional, but me thinks you must have some ca-razy hot sex life if a piece of wood is more enticing!”

Someone get that guy’s wife on the horn. Something ain’t right on the homefront!

And really, I don’t care how gorgeous a wood is…..how does sex come up in an innocuous conversation about flooring options? Is that part of the routine sales schtick? The Weird Al ringer was certainly enthusiastic about his craft, I’ll give him that. And while I’ll never be able to look at another scrap of Brazilian cherry as long as I live without thinking about that stunningly random comment, he was actually one of my more favorite workers.

The least favorite, oh those were the “camels.” They were here for a week working on a project. Despite making them coffee and lunch every day, and telling them repeatedly to feel free to use the bathroom whenever they wanted, they never once used it. I asked my husband, “Do you think they are walking out the basement door and going outside? That’s just charming since our kids play back there. Manners aside, I don’t get how can you seriously go all day and not use a bathroom?”

That’s just not normal. Honestly, I can’t go an hour without having to go. Granted, I have the world’s smallest bladder, but who can go all day without a potty break?

 But here’s the thing with these guys….the one day I have to leave for twenty minutes to pick my son up at preschool, no joke, I get home and the bathroom light and fan is on and the door is shut and they were back in the basement working away (Or pretending to work away, as the case may be. Grrr.) In this situation, it was easy to do the math…..I put one and one together on what went down in my absence and it really did equal two.

EEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I called my husband to unleash my contractor rage about the clandestine bathroom activity.

“Yuck, yuck, yuck! These guys didn’t have to so much as TINKLE all week and then the ONE time I shoot out for a few minutes they go numero dos?!”

They will NOT be invited back for coffee and cupcakes! I wish they had just taken my faux earrings and hit the bricks instead!

So, I’m driving home from the grocery store one Friday night (My life really is that exciting. And if you must know, I relish my solo grocery store trips as the glorious taste of freedom that they are.) busting out with some old school Billy Joel. “A bottle of red…a bottle of white…” I croak til…

“DUDE!!!”

There’s a car in front of me driving like 7 miles an hour. It’s weaving from the white line, back to the yellow line, and taking all kinds of crazy wide turns. At first I think I’m seeing things, so I keep following til I realize something’s way wrong and this person is blasted off her a*& (Turns out dude’s a she—so sorry for profiling) or she has to be in the midst of some kind of serious medical emergency.

“Crap.” I think. “I’m gonna have to be a narc and call 911.”

It was so bad I couldn’t not call.  I had visions of her taking out a small family.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi, um, well I’m behind someone who has to be super drunk or having some kind of medical emergency.” Or she’s on crack, legally blind, or sexting her Representative while driving. But I’m no expert.

I tell the woman where I am and give her the license plate number. I’m thinking, okay, bye bye, good luck with it, I’m off to take my groceries home and pick up my fun Friday night take out.

Not so fast.

“Okay, I’m going to need to take down all your contact information and I need you to keep following her. The officer is on his way and he will be looking for you guys. Don’t follow too closely—you need to stay safe!”

“‘Scuse me?”

Hey, I’m not a professional, lady. I’m in my mom car with the three car seats and all my juice boxes and grapes and boneless chicken and popsicles in the way back. Now I’m in hot pursuit of a scofflaw!? I so did not sign up for this!

But the police lady’s got me now. She’s got all my information. SHIT!

Are they going to tell the busted chick who I am? What if she gets sent to the clink and she and her drunken posse come for me? What will I do? I will have to hope I can squish her with my ginormous muffin top and then smash her with my son’s plastic lacrosse stick!

“Hi-ya! Oh don’t you take one more step there drunkylosergirl! I’ve got a Nerf football too and I’m NOT afraid to use it! And see this Transformer? It’s more than meets the eye, so watch it beeeatttch! I will shank your ass with this plastic Power Ranger I fashioned into a knife!”

 I get to an intersection, and instead of going right or left, she pulls straight ahead down this long drive that leads to a school. It’s the only way in or out. She’s a trapped rat now.

Busted!

“Okay, so, she just drove into the school, but I am NOT following her in there—I think she knows I’m following her (hot pursuit, muffin top style) and I don’t want a confrontation!” Come on lady, I’m not getting paid for this and I don’t even have my plastic junior lacrosse stick for protection. Uh ugh! And I just got these fun new Burberry glasses with my eye insurance at Lenscrafters and I am SO not getting them smashed in some suburban scuffle—I simply cannot afford to rebuy them for retail. I wanna be a good Samaritan, but not THAT good.

I tell the dispatcher that I parked in the lot next to the school driveway.

“Okay, wait there for the officer and make sure she doesn’t try to pull out of the school. The officer will be right there.” OMG, what am I going to do if she tries to get away, take out my 1 Adam 12 light from my glove box and put it on top of my SUV? Hey you! Pull over—citizen’s arrest! Ignore the pink lobster flip flops (pink lobster flips=intimidation) and Lands’ End fleece…you’re going DOWNTOWN! Sipowicz and Magnum are meeting me here so no funny stuff.

I'M GONNA BUST YOU UP IN THESE!

Just then the fuzz pulls up. OMG, I think, is this kid even old enough to be a cop? He’s adorable, but he looks like someone I might have baby sat. As I’m pondering if he could get into a bar, he asks me if the woman is still back there and I’m like, yeah dude, I would have totally apprehended her if she tried to split.

Okay, really I said, “Yes.”

So he tells me to sit tight and wait for him. This puzzled me. Am I in trouble? Is this one of those things where if this chick isn’t totally off her rocker, I’m in some hot agua for wasting taxpayer resources? I know I said I longed for quiet time but sitting in the parking lot of a soccer field by a school on a Friday night doing a suburban sting isn’t totally what I had in mind. (This from someone who acts like trolling for produce is a tropical vaca. I know!)

OH YOU ARE SOOO BUSTED!!!

I call the hubs.

“Um, I’m in a bit of a situation, hon. Well, I’m sort of kind of being detained by the police, but I haven’t done anything, I swear!”

“What!”

“Yeah, um, long story but probably won’t have time to get that take out tonight. Kind of tattled on a drunk or sick driver here, and the police are just pulling her over now by the school and he told me to wait for him.”

“Oh my God! What! You will probably have to testify in court!”

Hmmm, I think…..a field trip to court….good news. A potential day of freedom with other grownups, albeit some potentially shady ones—but let’s not split hairs now. But also bad news…this gal might come beat me for narc-ing out on her. I start twisting in my seat, because bottom line? I’m ascared.

I’m having flashbacks to the rough bar I ambled stumbled into after college in a turtleneck sweater, khakis and loafers. It was full of guys in cut off tees, ripping butts and doing shots (fun!), and scantily clad women in tight jeans and huge ass hair that even hurricane gale force winds couldn’t have dented (not fun!). A hideously frightening gum snapping chick busted me gasping for air and gawking a second too long at her spraying her iron clad helmet o’ hair in the bathroom and snarled, “Whaddyah think yah f*&^%n’ lookin’ at blowndie?!” (I know, glass houses. Like my fake ass hair was really blonde!)

I start to sweat at the very memory.

“Oh yeah, no, I’m sure it will be fine. Heh, I’m sure they have to ask everyone for their info so people can’t call making stuff up. Just wanted to fill you in so you weren’t worried wondering why I was taking so long. Listen, I gotta go in case he comes back.”

So I wait. And wait. And wait. I’m thinking this chick is SOO busted because now at least 10 minutes have gone by and I can’t see what’s going down but I can see the flashing lights through the trees. At 15 minutes, I call my husband back.

“I’m still here!”

“What! Can’t you leave?”

“NO! The cop told me to wait. How can I leave? I don’t want to get in trouble!” Nerd til the end.

“Call 911 back and tell them you have kids and you need to get home!”

“Right. Father of the year, it’s like 9 o’clock and our kids are in bed. I’m not tying up the emergency line to say I’m tired of waiting for the 5-0 to bust the drunk and I need to get home with my groceries so we can order our Friday night take out! “ Can’t he see I’m involved with something really big here?! This is way bigger than my grilled chicken Caesar. McGruff is my homie; I’m taking a bite out of crime, not out of salad.

So five more minutes go by, and I see the perp pull out, and the cop is behind her! WHAT! He flashes a big bright light at me and I take it to mean I can leave. They drive away, and I’m thinking, that’s it? Is that any way to treat your back up? I don’t even get the 411 on what went down? I gave up my takeout and half my groceries are melting and there’s no bust and I don’t even get cred for a citizen’s arrest!? No props, no nothing?

My mind is whizzing, and just then my cell rings.

Number withheld.

 It’s the cop!

“Hi ma’am (ugh ma’am again), I’m sorry you waited so long. I didn’t know you were going to wait!” Seriously? You TOLD me to wait—hello! I don’t defy the law. I’m a geek. If you told me to stand on one leg I probably would have—even if you do look 12! Men! I hope he doesn’t send mixed messages like that to his wife or girlfriend.

He thanked me for calling and said I did the right thing. Apparently, there was some top secret (read: you can’t know) medical type issue and he was following her to the police station where a friend was going to meet her and drive her home. (I could have freaking driven her home in the time it took for me to wait for the cop to be done with her—hello, save tax money!) But I’m glad to think she got home safely, maybe because of my foray into narc-hood.

I did miss my fun take out, but no good deed goes unpunished—my muffin top was spared the worthless fat and calories—at least for another day!

If I’m being brutally honest, or brutal, or just honest, the muffin top came long before the three boys in four years. If God didn’t bless me with a fast metabolism, he did bless me with three beautiful, healthy boys, who should be justly exonerated right now from being blamed for my cellulite.  What I can blame them for is turning me grey and driving me to drink. I have proof and I’m not afraid to show it.

Okay, even that’s not totally honest. I mean, I was known to enjoy the drink long before they came around. (There are too many firsthand eyewitnesses to deny it anyway.) Really, the bouncer at the Last Drop in Brighton, Mass did not have to tell me during my hay day (22-24…the wonder years) that I could pick up my mail at the bar. THAT was uncalled for (if true). Where are you now, big bouncer? Huh? Huh? Cuz now I’m a productive member of society most some days!

Those days are long gone, but the last vestige of wanting a cocktail at dinner still lingers sometimes. It is not my fault if my coping skills are poor when I see my son trying to imitate Kung Fu Panda, while another teeters on top of the couch on one leg while yet another tries to climb the fridge—I am from a long line of neurotic worriers and I have done my level best to fight heredity but it just ain’t that easy.

Don’t even try to tell me Jimmy Buffet didn’t have moms in mind when he recorded the song, “It’s five o’clock somewhere!”  I mean, is booze a good coping mechanism? Of course not. Yes.  But, a little can go a long way at 5 o’clock, and if you don’t believe it then you just haven’t tried it. Or admitted it. Liars!

WARNING: SOCIAL SERVICES MAY FIND 4PM A BIT EARLY.

Yes, I know there are folks with very real drinking problems, so this is not for you—the last thing I want to do is drag someone down. (I have a conscience. I do!) You will need to grab a Twix or a pack of butts instead. (Oh crap, there’s that cancer thing again. Better skip the butts.) As for the Twix, I know, I know, obesity epidemic. 

For the love of God, is there anything fun left?

Don’t even say it.

If you’re in fantastic shape you’re going to say try running, aren’t you?

Do you know how many well meaning friends have tried to take me to the dark side?

“Running, running, it releases endorphins, yada yada, you’ll feel awesome! Try it, you’ll be hooked!”

Heard it.

Tried it.

NO. 

No, homies, no!

WHATEVER!

Know what running releases in me? Pain. Whimpering. Wheezing. Anger. Despair. And yeah, I will mention the unmentionable.

Chub rub.

What? You might have known my thighs rub together!

Frankly, the only place I want to run is a shoe sale. And even then? It better be a damn good one. Because I always have Targ to fall back on.

What else can I say? If running makes you go boom, do it! And do it again! And do it loud! And do it proud!

I am NOT hysterical. It’s just THIS is about ME not YOU.

I tried, okay? Again. I bought a new pair of running shorts to whimper in at the gym. I thought cute shorts would put a spring in my step. Marketing a&^holes got me again. I’m cutting the tags off my rocking shorts, and notice this lovely diddy:

“You make time to run because it’s what makes you feel alive. Routinely blowing off sit-down lunches and after-work drinks for 40 minutes of fresh air on the roads, trails, or through the park. Catching some much needed “me” time or up on the latest with your faithful running buddies. For you, your apparel needs to fit your body, your run and your life.”

Back the hell up, Reebok. Let’s get something straight. The shorts are a size GRANDE. When your shorts are the size of a big Starbucks drink and you’re rocking the flab in the abs, you ain’t blowing off nuthin’ for running. Fresh air? I’ll take mine at the beach with my cocktail. A chance for a sit down lunch? Where and when, mein freunde! With a frosty beer, please.  And I’ll catch up with my peeps online or for a few pops at Ladies’s Night out—if I got together with them for a run how in the hell would you expect me to speak about pressing issues of today? Will Brangelina finally tie the knot and will that tartlet Lohan will stay clear of rehab? I won’t know if I’m running!

Bunch of bull$hit! Playas.

The GRANDE shorts should say this:

“Hey chubs, you’re trying again? That’s good! Back away from the beer…come on….you can do it. Good. Now avert your eyes from the cookies. Still with me? You know the junk in your trunk ain’t going away if you stand here looking at your shoes, right? It’s time to walk outside now. You can do it–step away from the madness. Walk for a bit, then work into a jog. Now, go. Try it for five minutes. If you’re not dead by then, congratulations! And if you’re jogging and an 80 year old laps you, so what? You’ll lap his saggy ass in no time never. Just remember, a beer is not a good post workout beverage. Come back tomorrow if you can still walk. You’re supposed to do this over and over–that’s how this $hit works, you big dummy. Now get your fit bag arse moving already! Jeez!”

Marketing schmucks. Didn’t their mamas ever tell them honesty is the best policy?