I hope everyone is enjoying winter—especially all of you who live in warmer climes you lucky bastards. No hard feelings! Even 4 year old is over it. He asked me “When can we see the grass again?” on the way to school the other day. What a sad sight—him gazing out the window like he was missing a friend. “I dun like the cold!” That’s mah boy!

I WILL ADMIT *GRUMBLEGRUMBLE* IT CAN BE GORGEOUS. WHEN I'M NOT SKIDDING, FALLING ON MY ARSE, OR FEELING MY EXTREMITIES GO NUMB. I AM SUCH A GLASS HALF FULL PERSON! *PATS SELF ON FLEECE CLAD FREEZING COLD BACK

I’m getting to the point now that after a few weeks of zero-ish temps, and all of us being cooped up inside like mad science experiments, that in addition to buying stranger’s furniture on Craigslist and covering it in Boca Raton-esque fabric, I’ve taken to asking random, warm climate people on social media if they’ll adopt a 39 year old muffin top. That’s not weird right? It’s….social. What? I said I’d bring drinks and party snacks–I’m no free loader. My hubs is apparently not into me running away from home to become a carnie or shack up with internet strangers. Buzzkill. Instead, he had me scouring the internet for cheap flights to Florida. I said, “We didn’t budget for this!” with the faux indignation of an English major, and he said, “Sell your body on the corner!” (I’m kidding! Don’t worry—I am not dropping my Merona drawers—that would clearly get us nowhere.) Btw, is anyone skeered  the English major is the one talking budgets in this joint? I’m just saying, a few misplaced decimal points could have me bagging groceries at Market Bucket when I’m 80. I need to look into that. As soon as I get back from my budget trip to Flerida in April.

I'M A BUDGET HAWK. SEE? STORE CEREAL.

Of course the store cereal was met with hisses and boos this morning. “Where is Tony the Tiger?!” to which I responded, “Shut up, hubs. The $2 I saved is gonna get me a 1/3 of a beer in Flo-rida!”

Damn right.

In a high fallutin twist, I did make a coffee cake  this morning(Pillsbury. FANCCCAAAY!) which thoroughly confused my ingrate kids more than the absence of Tony the tiger.

4 yo: What’s that?
5 yo: Coffee cake.
4 yo: Is it spicy?
5 yo: (With utter disdain…) NO! It’s doesn’t HAVE coffee in it!
4 yo: Well what’s in it then?
5 yo: CAKE! Cake is in it!
4 yo: I dun like it. (Didn’t even try it.)
5 yo, half way through his piece: I don’t like this cake. It’s gross.

Mature Adult aka ME: It is NOT! Eat your fake Frosted Flakes!

But not even old man winter or the biting culinary reviews of preschoolers can cut down the spring in mah boots. Because you see, I’m so loving, I get hawt emails from my hubs. Last night he was putting the kids to bed and shocker! Must have left our tv on (pertinent to the story!) which led him to email me from upstairs. (I know, let that one sink for a while. He emailed me from within the house.) The title said, “HOT BOOTIES” and the inside of the email was blank.

What the? *Blinks* I didn’t know we had THOSE channels!

I emailed back—from all the way downstairs, “I have no idea what to say right now.”

He wrote, “Google them.”

Oh ladies! The romance is ALIVE! Keep your roses on V Day and rock my world with MICROWAVEABLE SLIPPERS!!!!!! and a 30 pack, jack! Every kiss does NOT begin with Kay–it begins with Mama having warm feet!!!!

I present, “Hot Booties!” (What are you waiting for? Prepare to have your mind blown. Click it! Wait. This is not what it looks like. I swear!)

OMG, THEY ARE EVEN ON SALE! SHAZAM!!!

Who needs ya’ now, Flerida!!!!!!!!!

Yesterday I woke up and it felt like Mickey Ward was trying to fight his way right out of my head. A migraine plus sinusy allergy fun relegated me to a heap in my bed until lunchtime. Fist bump to the hubs, because he took all three gremlins to do the weekly food shop, which is truly a fool’s errand. Taking one is easy, two, eh, not so bad, but for some reason just one more makes for menage a market madness.

Gogurts, and cookies, and candy! Oh my! 

You do what you gotta do, just to get by!

If you make it out in under one hour

Without knocking down an endcap tower,

Happy hour you do deserve

For you will be on your very last nerve!

I plodded down the stairs when I heard rattling below to find every square inch of countertop and part of the floor covered in bags. Hubs looked up sheepishly.

“I just spent $270. And I have no idea what I bought.”

Needless to say, my headache did not improve.

“I had $9 in coupons!” he beamed.

Oh good, that will pay for my second migraine pill!

THIS IS ONE SIDE. ONE SIDE!

Feeding a family of three boys, a grown man, and a muffin top ain’t cheap, so it wasn’t exactly ridiculous. And really, who can complain with a guy who left me to rest while he went into grocery combat with three little boys on Sunday before a Pat’s game? But I’m not gonna lie. For $270, I hoped maybe there’d be a filet or two in the bag? Some lobster?

There was no fancy protein.

Actually, there was no meat at all.

We are not vegetarians.

Oh Mickey Ward, you rat bastard! Meet me in the ring after Happy Hour you punk!

I’m sorry–I need to clarify–there was no dinner time meat. Technically, there was meat:  cold cuts, pepperoni, and two packs of turkey bacon. (Turkey bacon? That’s not even right.)

Don’t worry, the two pounds of salted butter will offset any arterial improvement from the faux bacon!

And the good news is, with four taco dinner kits, four boxes of rice pilaf, and three boxes of pasta, two loaves of bread, loaf of cinnamon bread, two bags of bagels, rolls, hot dog buns, and hamburger buns,we can carbo load for a marathon! But we won’t. Because we’re lazy. And, we’ll be in a coma after we wash it all down with our sixty beers.

He got booze! Things could be worse right?

Plus? This looks random fun.

I WANNA SAY THE KIDS BEGGED HIM FOR THESE, BUT NO, SORRY NO.

Bad week to start a diet…..Bon Appetit!

WHO NEEDS MEAT? I CAN'T EVEN COOK ANYWAY!

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?)

“IWANNNNNNNERFGUNNNNNN! I WANNNNNNERFGUNNNNNN! I WANNNNNNNNERFGUNNNNNN!”

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!

Credit: SOMEECARDS

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.

OH.MY.GOD.

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?”

“Yup!”

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.

Credit: SOMEECARDS

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!

Last week my seven year old asked if we could get an indoor pool. I tried to give him a quick throwdown in economics that roughly amounted to we’re not rich, famous, rich and famous, richly famous or famously rich. This is the same dude who lost a tooth last month and when I asked him what I thought the tooth fairy might leave him, he responded, “I hope a thousand dollars!” Kid, for a grand, I’ll pull my own tooth and dance a jig by the Cheez Doodles at Walmart. Until then, it’s $5 per tooth and a blow up pool for you, mister!

After Hooked on Econ, I had to teach three year old about hierarchy when he tried to call me out in my own family room. “Why YOU get to drink in here, MA-MAAAA?” I get to drink in here because I pay the mortgage. And I’m an adult and I won’t spill much of it. Maybe I was being more dictator. Tomato, toma-toe. Sue me for wanting to wash down an adult bev during Fresh Beat Band. It gets me in a party mood.

Today? My five year old asked me with a straight face, “Mom, when can we go to Washington D.C. to meet the President?”

Well now you’re talking! Let’s talk democracy! I pretty much told him the prez and all the pols work for us, this is true, but! But! You’d have a better chance of landing a playdate with Suri and Curious George than meeting him.

He looked at me blankly.

“We can’t just roll on up to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. and yell for Barack Obama to come out and play!”

He didn’t seem satisfied.

Credit: Someecards

I love that kids are not cynical. That they really think they can have indoor pools and meet and greets with the President. That they have little concept of money or wealth or power. Or lack of it. That a five year old thinks we can just waltz on up to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. and ring for Barack has to be the very definition of ignorance being bliss.

“Baraaack?? Michelle??? We’re here! Got any juice boxes??? 95 was a bitch and I’mmmmm thirsty! Some stupid motorcade was in our way. Pfft!”

I’m fairly certain the Secret Service might flatten the muffo de toppo if I hopped the fence to try to make some casual introductions. (What other fun family outings can we plan that will get us on the FBI watch list? I do like to encourage some hands on summer learnin’ so we could start with an introduction to the judicial system—screw those boring childrens’ museums!)

I do like that five year old is aiming high though, I really do. I mean, we live in New Hampshire, where future presidents mingle amongst the masses of asses during primary season, and hey, we did meet a future Senator at the town dump one day! (She looked fabulous and even the eau de dump did not overshadow her brightness. I had on no makeup and a baseball hat. I suppose I should be grateful “Lisa the crappy photographer” was not at the ready this time!)

The questions never cease around here and I try to be prepared but sometimes? I’m caught sans make up with a beat up baseball hat and nothing intelligent to offer. (Please refer to Seth Meyers post.)

So having said that, don’t you want to try your luck? Next Tuesday night, the 31st, I’m having a video book chat to talk Mommy Mixology and other fun biz on Shindig from 8 PM to 9 PM eastern standard time. You can ask me anything you want and I may or may not answer intelligently–won’t it be fun to find out! I should qualify, I will answer almost anything. I will never reveal my pant size. Seven year old knows it because he busted in on me in the bathroom one day (imagine that!) and then shouted it out because the Gap (thanks for nothing!) had to print the size on the waistband of my shorts in like 32 point font. Why God why? In case I went shorts shopping and forgot my Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass??? Bad, Gap, bad. That’s what I get for straying from my bestie Land’s End with their tiny size tags. Anyway, don’t even dream of shaking it out of seven year old. He pinky promised not to tell anyone. He might have visions of grandeur and no concept of money, but he knows a promise is a promise and he knows who keeps him in ice cream and juice.

ON SECOND THOUGHT, MAYBE I CAN'T TRUST HIM. Credit: Someecards

Here are the deets if you want to Shindig it up with me–apparently you need to sign up to join in on the adventure:

http://mommymixology.eventbrite.com/

As an added bonus, Lisa the crappy photographer will be on hand to assist me and wrestle me to the ground if I try to wear my psychadelic Seth Meyers shirt! I am already giddy with delight at how super svelte and wonderful I will look under the glow of my laptop cam! Suhhweeet!!!

So last week I’m cruising along right near my house with two of my boys when I drive by a police officer running a speed trap.

“Ah ha!” I thought to myself as I slurped my Dunks, “Some suckah’s gettin’ bus-ted.”

I knew it wasn’t me because I was not speeding much at all.

Two seconds later, his lights went on right behind me.

Being smug: not working out well for me since 1973!

NO SUCH LUCK. THEY WERE OFF DUTY ASSISTING SOME LADIES AT DISCO KARAOKE NIGHT. SIGH.

I didn’t even have a chance to get nervous about what I did, because all of a sudden from the way back, five year old started hollering as I lowered my window, “OH no! Mom, are you going to go to jail?? Oh no!” No, I am not, son. I’m drinking coffee, not Jack Daniels! Shame on me for forgetting to leave the evening news on that ONE time! 

I grabbed for my stylin’ license of which I’m so proud (and by that I mean, I hope the DMV photographer comes down with a temporary, yet debilitating, disease next time my license is due) and looked in my side view mirror to see the corner of the police officer’s mouth turning into a smile.

He turned out to be a super cool guy, and we both assured 5 year old I was not going to the slammer. That day. (For all I know, the kid was hoping I hit the clink for a while. How do I really know why he was asking? He might have had visions of swinging from the curtain rods and eating cookies in bed for all I know!)  He was kind enough to joke with the boys for a while and told me to get my burnt out taillight fixed–which was my grand transgression. (After he ran my license to make sure I wasn’t the sketchiest person ever to cruise around with two pint sized accomplices in a pink Land’s End nerd herd polo shirt. You never know.)

Had he not been so cool, I was totally prepared to bring my high school debate team (shut up) skillz to the sitch.  Because really, how would I know the light was busted? Why didn’t anyone tell me I had rear end problems? (Here I thought my muffin top middle was my problem area. Badum, dum.)

Getting a taillight fixed is kind of more annoying than you’d think, by the way. I thought it would be bad form to call the police officer back and tell him that. But there was no way I was bringing the brood with me–so I knew it had to wait a few days. I waited to go when the hubs got home from work one night–while I chanced a second encounter with Officer Friendly that I can only imagine wouldn’t have gone so well if he caught me schlumping about town with ass trouble still.

I tried to be good citizen and patronize a local gas station. But when I called and politely asked when they could take me/how long it would take, I got hollered at in half English/half another language I am not well versed in from school or PBS Kids. “You comah in and it fazukababa take sumpagowlaboo how long it take, la-deeeee! Growl! Exclamation/growly mystery language!”

“Ummmm? I’ll be right down as soon as you…”  DIAL TONE. Oh shoot, I disconnected our call. My bad.

I only wanted to know because the grubby, independent gas station front for mean old men who want to yell at innocent tail light victims has no waiting room and I would’ve been standing on a curb inhaling stale butt smoke and gasoline while they fixed my tail light shotgunned motor oil. I mean, I’m not opposed to a little second hand fumes in the name of supporting the little guy, but I didn’t want to be mistaken for a middle aged chubby hausfrau street walker. That’s all. So, I chose to take my biz to the conglomerate dealership with the coffee and comfy chairs, and I watched Ellen in blissful, fume free silence while I waited for my car. They smiled, called me ma’am (which I used to hate, but let’s face it, it’s a big step up from la-deeeee!), and I was in and out of the place for $20 in half an hour.

On second thought, maybe I should write the officer a thank you note. Most peaceful half hour I’ve had in a while!

1. Make sure you bathe that day. (I did!) Add 1 point.

2. Wear shoes that you’ve mastered walking in. (I did!) Avoid wedges that may cause you to tumble head first into said celeb. (Shockingly, I did not! Tumbling face first into traffic in New Haven, CT  really teaches a middle aged hausfrau a lesson! Stop, drop, and roll kids!) Add 2 points.

3. Scramble through your mom-drobe full of khaki shorts and solid color tee shirts, with at least one child hanging on you screeching for a juice box, and pluck the loudest, flowy-est, trippi-est, guaranteed to make those around you feel like they toked it upp-ist when they look at you–shirt you can find in your closet. (I did!) Minus 537 points.

4. When your husband arrives home from a long, arduous workday on the links, ask him if he likes your loud, flowy, trippy shirt. When he remarks, “I love it!” in between waxing poetic about his (Birdie? Pars? Whatever, Phil Mickelson.), do.not.believe.him. He’s not a chick. He’s not listening–he’s on a golf glow. He wants to get laid sometime again in this lifetime. He clearly can’t be trusted. How dumb am I? Rookie mistake. (Minus 47 points.) (P.S. to the hubs: Guess what book I’m ordering? 50 Shades of Nuthin‘!)

5. Make sure you consume a solid dinner of 1.5 potato skins and ?? glasses of chardonnay, take a two hour break, then drink two draft beers at a Mexican restaurant that probably hasn’t cleaned their taps since Christ was a child (chardonnay and draft beer–two great tastes that taste great together nooooo) so you’ll be at your most clever and bright stunningly rambly later in the night! (Eh, minus 5 points. Even celebs do that. I’m not ready for Promises to Keep just yet.)

6. Have the picture taken under the glow of a screaming neon light (photographers should totally use neon lights more) so as best to enhance your worn off makeup/bright red “I’ve had a few drinks/Irish potato skin” face. Have your friend take it with your kick ass Target camera that’s probably out of focus and has been dropped 52 times by the pint sized terrorists you live with–the same ones indirectly responsible for your hasty shirt choice. (Minus 10 points.) (Lisa Wallace, you are not responsible for the catastrophe that is moi!)

7. Close your eyes during the picture so you can show the world that you are so excited to meet the celeb you fell asleep mid sentence! (Add 5 points)

8. Make sure you cock your head to the side, with your eyes closed, at such an angle that it both enhances and highlights all four of your chins and makes it appear you’re trying to snuggle on the celeb’s shoulder. (Minus 5 billion points.)

9. When you open your mouth to speak, don’t. Just don’t. Have your friend carry duct tape just in case you can’t be trusted to mutter a generic, “So lovely to meet you! I’m a big fan of your work!” Especially….if you’re at risk of speaking in one loud, run on sentence about writing, your blog, your book, and are prone to make recommendations to the celebrity about trading in his matching towels for a kid, then both nonsensically yet enthusiastically remark, “Tell the prez I said hi!” Just stfu and keep on moving. Even if your eyes are closed and your shoes are wrong, and you might walk off a cliff. (You might be doing the world a favor!)  (I might have done some all of this. *Hangs head in shame.* Minus higher than English major can count, points.) Instead, pretend you’re on one of those moving airport sidewalk thingys…smile, wave, shake hands, stop for one second, and keep on keeping on…back away slowly, while smiling brightly with your eyes wide open!

10. If you don’t think you can be trusted to adhere to steps 1-9, and are possibly not fit for human interaction, just stay home in your favorite pink snowman pj’s. (Zero points. Come onnnn, don’t hate the playah, just hate the game. You gotta try! Celebs are just people, too. They trip over their own feet too sometimes. I just know it. Probably most do. Everyone but Seth Meyers. He’s a smooth criminal and his mama raised him right.)

SORRY SETH MEYERS! IT'S ALL CHARDONNAY/THE LIGHTING/MY INABILITY TO SPEAK IN CONCISE SENTENCES/THE HUB'S FAULT.

Soooooooooo. Yeah. I went a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I tried to explain to the hubs that me meeting a famous writer who’s living the dream is like a high school hockey player meeting Tim Thomas. Or a suburban golfer meeting Tiger Woods (if Tiger Woods were worth meeting..the piggy wiggy!) But, I have to tell you, my tens of readers, all kidding aside? Seth Meyers is a mensch. Yes, he is. His mama really did raise him right. Not only was he gracious in listening to me ramble and posing for a picture (Sorry! Sorry! Sorry to the lovely, Kelly, who set the pic up for me! Sorry! I hope Seth is still speaking to you!) , more importantly, he was in my town (his hometown) to perform a show at our high school to benefit our education foundation not to be stalked by a muffin top. His mom, known affectionately around town by her students as “Madame Meyers”, retired after 28 years of teaching French in our school system. 28 years, people! With shorties in middle school (Also known as the most sucktasticly difficult age group ever–oh come, on..we all know it! Think about how YOU were then!). 28 years! I wouldn’t last 28 minutes.

As a tribute to her, he put on one hell of a hilarious show and raised over $40,000 to fund special programs for teachers. And, established a $25,000 endowment for language arts in his mom’s name. I know!

I’m the mom of three boys and my mom taught second grade for a number of years. So naturally I have a soft spot for sons who honor their mamas and for the too often thankless job teachers do. A few months ago, there was a huge vote in our town about teacher raises. I wrote a letter to the editor of the local paper imploring people to vote and in it I said, “Our teachers spend well over thirty hours per week with our kids. They educate our kids. They nurture our kids in our absence. And yes, they inspire our kids to challenge themselves and help instill confidence in them. We can have the most wonderful facilities, books, and technology available, but without our teachers those buildings are just a pile of bricks and mortar. The teachers make all the difference. I would challenge everyone to think back to a teacher who made a difference in their lives–and I’d be surprised if you only thought of one or even two.”

It’s true. Teachers really help shape who we are and what we become. I hope Seth Meyers reminded people of that the other night. And while most of us won’t grow up to be a Seth Meyers or come close to enjoying his success or influence, we should all be grateful to the teachers who’ve made a difference in our lives and do what we can do, however small, to help support them as they support our kids–our biggest investments.

(Side bar? And please with the “Wah, wah, teachers get their summers off!” Hell yeah, and they need them…to recuperate from the kids and crizazy parents who stalk them—now on email and in person. Do you want me to go into detail about the parent who cornered my mama by the frozen peas and made me late for the season finale of Miami Vice? Sorry Tubbs! Would you corner your accountant in the bakery and start showing him your receipts? I dare you. I really do.) Seriously. I chaperoned a field trip a few weeks ago and you know what happened…I got a migraine and was forced to drink beers in front of some nuns.  It’s not pretty what these teachers go through. (Don’t get me started about the lesson planning, paper grading, after “They get out at 3!” on nights and weekends, and buying all kinds of shizzy with their own money due to cheaptastic budgets.)

So yeah, I admire Seth Meyers for being a talented writing force, enough to stalk him like a crazed, tripped out muffin top, but what I love more is that he hasn’t forgotten where he came from—and that he recognizes the foundation for his success started at home, here in this place.

Soooo, in light of all that, no hard feelings that Seth did not answer my tweet from earlier in the day where I invited him to tailgate under the bleachers before the show. I told him I had a 12 pack and I wasn’t afraid to share it. Perhaps he thought I needed it more. Maybe he was hanging out with his awesome teacher mama. Or my shirt scared him off. Either way, I totally understand.

Thank you, Seth Meyers, and merci (that’s all I got!), Madame Meyers, for your generosity to this town–the town my hubs and I love, where we’ve chosen to raise and educate our kids. You both have had such an important role to play here. To teach, to remind, to make people laugh? Is truly divine, isn’t it?

One more thing? (See? I told you concise sentences…not my thing! Now you know why I talked too long to Seth!)

I HIGHLY RECOMMEND GETTING YOUR PICTURE TAKEN SOBER, WITH FRESH MAKEUP, IN A SOLID COLOR, WITH PROPER LIGHTING, TAKEN WITH A FANCY CAMERA BY A PROFESSIONAL! THANK YOU DEBBIE ELLIS PHOTOGRAPHY!

I wonder if I could photo shop Seth into that picture? Hmm….My apologies if you had to bleach your eyes from that last photo. Btw, this photo will be in MAH book, Mommy Mixology: A Cocktail for Every Calamity! Now available on Amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com for pre-order. MEEP!! (If you forget the title, just ask *cough* Seth.) Okay, I’m backing away slowly now…..I really am. No, I am.

Won’t you be my neighbor?

I promise I won’t spy over your hedges, park a rusty car in my yard, and will always lend you a cup of sugar. Or beer. 

The house next door has been on the market for several months. And every time there’s a showing, the kids get all excited and shriek, “Maybe those are our new neighbors!” “Maybe!” I reply cheerfully, but inside, my heart races at the prospect of the unknown! Will they be friendly/unfriendly/TOOfriendly? Will they have noisy parties with lots of booze and debauchery? Will they have noisy parties with lots of booze and debauchery and not invite me? Will they run a Pilates boot camp in their back yard and INvite me?

Oh gawd, oh gawd, who will it be? Seriously. Having a new neighbor wouldn’t terrify me so much, except the neighbor’s kitchen window looks clear out into my back yard. And our last neighbor was an older man who totally kept to himself. I’m a hundred bazillion percent certain he wouldn’t have noticed, or given a rat’s arse,  if I were running around back there dancing like the Situation, kicking a can yelling, “Victory will be MINNNNNE!”

WANTED: FUN NEW NEIGHBORS. THOSE WITH 20/20 VISION NEED NOT APPLY.

I was JUST thinking maybe I should take matters into my own hands and start actively soliciting some new fun neighbors (Where you going? Come back!) when I received an email from our friend and neighbor busting my chops. We’ll call said neighbor, “Badam”. Badam tried to trick me by starting the email in a complimentary fashion, but I knew better–this ain’t my first street fight.  The hammer dropped in paragraph two:

If I may, though, I’ll offer another economic tidbit that might be helpful to another of our neighbors, you, and the muffintop hubs.   Supply and demand works in a funny way.  Driving around the ‘hood you will notice a number of homes for sale.  That’s the supply part.  On the demand side, there is much that consumers look for.  A common axiom related to the purchase of real estate, which I am sure that you have heard, is “location, location, location.”  What this means is that when consumers can choose from a variety of available properties, they are likely to choose the one that has all that they desire and more – especially if it is in a good spot (i.e. location).  This probably will include their perceptions about the residents adjacent to their potential purchase.  What is my point you ask?  Simply this – that perhaps living next to a shed that is only painted on three sides says something to the potential homebuyer about the existing neighbors.   

 BAdam 

P.S. – This is sent only as a wise-ass comment, and is not related in any way with my ARB responsibilities.  And if anyone asks, if the by-laws are read with a strict constructionist’s eye there is nothing in there specifically prohibiting a ¾ painted shed. <——-    (Good to know, Badam, shanks!)

Side note: The ARB to which Mr. HallMonitorNarcBadassBadam refers to is the “architectural review board”. You’re supposed to contact them when you make any changes to your property, which I find rather puzzling since I reside in a neighborhood of suburban tract homes that, while lovely in their ImaytrytoenteryourhomebecauseohwowyouhavetheexactsamehouseasmebutyourdoorcolorisdifferentbutIforgotmyglassesandohimsortatipsyway, 

and I’m relatively certain might be made from popsicle sticks and glue, but hey, who am I to fight the MAN?

Since I’m old fashioned, anything outside is all on my hubs. (Unless I want him to cook dinner/mop the floor/make a bed. Then I’m not old fashioned. This is how you do it, June!)  And some intel on the shed: It was installed in my backyard last year on the promise from the hubs that it would be painted, flowers would be planted in the cutesy little flower box, and shrubs would flank it—in short, it was supposed to look better than my real house! (I might have had visions of stashing myself in there with my crack Pinterest, sipping a cocktail! I’m not above partying with power tools for some alone time.)

So I forwarded the email to my MAN. I said, “Nice going, dude. Badam’s challenging your manly skillz and Imma holding the bag. If you’re looking for me Saturday, I’ll be loitering at Lowe’s hoping Yard Crashers from HGTV finds me!”

He took immediate and decisive action by responding promptly to Badam, throwing me–the woman who bore his three children, one with an epidural I KNOW was fake–under the bus, “I can’t take that much credit, only ½ of it is painted.  If I haven’t painted the back side, facing the neighbor’s house, why would the side facing the “swamp” be painted?  Come on, I only have a few hours during a day to get stuff done until my wife wants to play “kill the cooler”.”

That was uncalled for. And utterly not really false!

I felt inclined to set the record straight.

“Now…BAdam. Surely you know I’m much more savvy than you realize. The 1/2 to 3/4 painted shed is all part of my master plan. You see, the kitchen window in the adjacent property overlooks my deck and my backyard. This is unfortunate for a few reasons. If I may?

Scene one: New neighbors glance out the window to see Muffintopmommy guzzling domestic beer out of a can at 4 PM while her minor children play “Ninjago” with discarded paint brushes and snack on bags of potting soil hubs has yet to put to use on aforementioned shed.

 Scene two: New neighbors glance out the window to see Muffintopmommy frolicking in her wt blow up pool in her Miracle (but not miraculous enough–a hundred bucks, a wish and a prayer only gets you so far, Badam! You’re just lucky your wife does triathalons, mkay?) bathing suit with her screaming white Irish skin, in the shadows of a gorgeous 1/2 painted shed. 
 
Scene three: New neighbors glance out the window to see Muffintopmommy frolicking in wt blow up pool in her Miracle suit with her screaming white Irish skin guzzling domestic beer out of a can while her kids screech, “Mama, I thirsty toooooo!” in the shadows of a gorgeous 1/2 painted shed.”

I don’t need upstanding people moving in next door spying on my Clampett lifestyle, getting all up in my biz, calling social services and slipping Weight Watcher and Supertan brochures under my door. Do.not.need.it.
 
So? The shed? Well, it’s genius is what it is. That shed screams to potential buyers, “Keep on walking, Jack. Ain’t nothing to see here!”

Because we all know the best neighbors, besides fences, are NO neighbors.

By the way, what are you doing Friday night? Wanna come over and play kick the can while hubs paints the shed? Come on over if you’re not too busy with the nerd herd Hall Monitor convention!”

Now if you’ll pardon me, muffintoppers/potential neighbors,I’m off to enjoy my remaining wt solitude while the getting’s good—since hubs has promised to paint the rest of the shed soon, time’s a ticking!