Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, TMI? Says who!, Uncategorized | Posted on 13-12-2012

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

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.)


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.


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:


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!)


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!


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!!


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…..)







Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, OH &^%$!!, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Things that make you go....awwww, TMI? Says who!, Uncategorized, Yo! It's a girl thing! | Posted on 26-08-2012

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!


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.





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

Tags: , , , ,

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

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



Sooooooo. It’s that time again.

Tell me what’s worse than bathing suit shopping?

That’s what I thought.

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

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


It’s me.

Not them.

It’s time to get serious.

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

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

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



I returned a skirt the other day.

“Reason for the return?” the saleswoman asked.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

“Hey Butch, toss me another Corona!”

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

The sheer audacity of it all.

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

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

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

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




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Things that make you go....awwww, TMI? Says who!, Uncategorized, Yo! It's a girl thing! | Posted on 11-06-2012

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

“Oh no, but I don’t dance.” I protested. “Not unless it’s with my kids in the kitchen for dance party with my ladle as mah microphone. Or, if I’ve had a few cocktails.” (Or revisiting my Solid Gold glory days when I’m alone in the house.)

I said it. I meant it. I walk through life tripping over my own feet.

I was sober. I was over 1000 miles away from my kids. On a break during the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. (Writers! Not dancers!)

But The Bearded Iris? She’s persuasive. I think the might have slipped something into my mystery lunch that day….because she got me to dance.

“Fine!” I relented. “Who’ll see it anyway?”

It’s on video. Which is now on her blog. And on you tube.

Probably no one thousands will see it.

We’ve talked about Bearded Iris before. She’s one of the funniest peeps I know, in writing and in person. And she made the video, which also stars members of her fam including her 5 year old son, Bucket Head, who steals the show at the end of the video (If you don’t laugh at his dancing you have no soul!) as part of a blogging dance challenge called…. #BloggersDance. I think it has something to do with bloggers dancing. I dunno.

My kids have made me play this video 763 times since they first saw it. I’m not kidding. They have been literally crying laughing while watching it every day since Bearded Iris first posted it on her blog last week.

So I’m sharing it. Mainly because I think we all need a laugh I need a fashion intervention please note my subtle cry for help.

Will ya please get a load of my choice of shirt—after last weeks shirt, you can see this is a legit fashion emergency, yes? Seems like the hubs is off the hook for letting me out in my psychadelic frock to meet Seth Meyers last week. The truth is out: I can’t dress myself. Look what I wore in the video? (Even my white undershirt/camisole/whatever it’s called is hanging below my shirt! Because it wasn’t disaster enough on its own!) I’m the one *cries inside* who looks like a realtor from Boca. (“Hi Bitsy, it’s Mitsy. Oh my Gawd, I have a fabbbbulous 3/2 right by the beach. It’s to DIE fowwwah! Cawl me!” )Or a cruise ship passenger from  small town East Asshat, Nowhereville, lettin’ it all hang out somewhere in the Caribbean, thinking, “Wahooie! No one knows me HERE!” after drowning in generic umbrella drinks.

Where are Stacey and Clinton and why haven’t they answered my desperate pleas? I’ve blogged about this here!!! We need a campaign: Dress me up, Muffin Top. I should not be allowed to shop alone or dress myself. The only good news is The Bearded Iris thinks I can seriously make some dough making faces for a living. I’ll see what you guys think about that. I’m thinking the face making biz isn’t too great after about the third grade, but maybe you know a guy who know’s a guy? I’m still waiting to hear from Lorne Michaels after my last blog post about Seth Meyers. I know he’ll reach out any minute now when muffin tops fly.

Also? A round of applause for the other dancers, including the star of the vid, Bearded Iris. And, my blogging sister from another Mister, Dawn from Lighten Up! Dawn and I both love domestic beer in a can (She’s the Miller to my Bud…hey, no one’s perfect. The Laverne to my Shirley. And the Faded Glory to my Merona. If you understand a word of this, you know we get along alllll right. She took the pic of me with the Bombecks and I actually had my eyes open!) You need to check out her hilarious blog. And tell her you’re sorry my fig bat head blocked her cute blonde self out of a lot of the video. Then there’s Suniverse. She is one sassy, saucy, sarcastic mama. She is ALL the best s words rolled into one and she let’s it rip on her blog, Suniverse. You won’t see her face because she’s sooo ripping it up s style that she blogs anonymously. I seriously don’t know her real name. If someone takes me in a dark room and threatens me with bodily harm threatens to take away all my beer forever I swear I.don’ I just know she’s a howl and you can visit her blog here.

You know something? The Bearded Iris was right though. Dancing does make you feel good—because if you dance like me, you laugh so hard you really do cry.  And no smarty pants doctor can prescribe anything better than that!

(Because I’m remedial techno tornado, no clue how to get the you tube video to show up in a box. Just click the text link below and it will take you there and not to your Nigerian lottery winnings, I swear!)






Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing! | Posted on 17-05-2012

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

A few weeks ago, I won an award. No, not a certificate of sucktasticness, which I proudly won a few years ago. Meeeemories!

I was nominated for a blogging award on my friend’s blog, Nurse Mommy Laughs. (The funny thing is–I can’t find it now–it vanished. Really. But I’m still a winner. I swear. I knew it as early as 7th grade, when I guessed the weight of a ginormous pumpkin at a fair, and won a free Rolls Royce ride around town. I have skillz–don’t want to brag but that was NOT easy. And, I have to say, ginger ale in a plastic wine glass has never tasted better. I’m sure that driver was so cranked to pick up a tinsel toothed 7th grade girl in neon pants and Barracuda jacket and her mom. Two thumbs up on your raffle investment, Rolls company!)

Anyyyway, I have a proven track record of winning. Clearly. And I hope you check Stacey’s blog out. Stacey is a mom who spent many years as a pediatric RN. Especially when you have kids of your own, you realize it takes a very special person to have the strength to work with sick children. I thank God there are caring people like Stacey who can do it because those kids deserve the very best, and I would be bawling in the corner. Guessing that would not be helpful. I tip my Bud Light to Stacey and all the health care providers who work tirelessly on behalf of children everywhere.

Nurse Stacey’s award came with rules. I don’t like rules per se, but since  I’m A. a nerd herd rule follower and B. Stacey is good peeps who knows how to wield needles, I’m going to do exactly what she says. So no one gets hurt. She said I’m to share 7 things with you all that you don’t know about me. Let’s try to get through this without horrifying anyone. Ready? GO!

1. I’m a LEO. (That probably splains a lot.)

2. I loooove to throw parties. And I’m a total “more the merrier–grab a red Solo cup and come on by” type person….how-e-ver, this has been hampered somewhat in recent years by children sucking me dry and their activities, but I hope to get my Martha Stewart Animal House on more now that the kids are getting older.

3. I am 74 years old.

*Please note my fashion and cooking prowess. I know. You’re wondering how I juggle it all. Many do.

4. I once got carjacked around the corner from Fenway Park in broad daylight. (Please visit the Boston Tourism Board to book your next, fun getaway! “The spirit of Massachusetts is the spirit of America!”) (Bet you didn’t see that one coming!) The funny thing is, it happened before car jacking was even in vogue. (I’m a trendsetter.) And, I was only 12. Nothing like being held at gunpoint to make a bucked tooth, Barracuda jacket wearing girl scream! I screamed so loud that I think the glass on the car windows shattered, the dude told me I could go, and I jumped out as he was pulling away. I have skillz again! I can wield off gun toting bandits with just my voice! (Shut up.) No need to carry pepper spray or a weapon. Armed and dangerous, right here. Step off, bad people! I will send you running. RAR!!!

5. I know. It’s hard to top 4. Ask my mom. Let’s see….I was born in Boston and lived in the same house from the time I was born until I left for college. I went to college in Ohio–completely random choice based on a brochure (really)–and loved it. I went home with one of my bf’s one weekend to Cleveland and asked her, “Why can’t I see the other side of the lake?” True story. She was like, “Um….because it’s in Canada, dummy!” Growing up outside Boston, we always went to the ocean and any lakes I saw were small–I had seen great lakes on map but didn’t understand the magnitude until I really saw one. Who knew they looked just like the ocean! (I’m worldy, I know.) I was also informed by my midwest friends that my plan to “run through cornfields because it looked fun” would cut me and hurt like hell. Who knew!!! So I just stuck to Coppertoning at the lake.

6. I once gave my scarf to a fun girl in a bar in Blarney, Ireland in the spirit of fostering international relations. Meaning….we bonded over Irish cider, she liked it, it was from Tarjay and I knew I could get a new one when I went home! Plus, I felt I owed something to the good people of Ireland for letting me kiss their cold, wet, germy, grey stone.

7. Once in college I went white water rafting with some high school friends in East Bumbleebee Ass Crack, Maine. We faux camped/shivered (Seriously. Northern Maine I think has like one day of summer. All the other days are fifty degrees or below.), cooked out, and drank beer to keep warm. All fun until the next morning, when I had to put on a tomato red wetsuit fatsuit (And seriously. Tomato red. Who looks good in that color? I want names.) Really regretted not taking the chilled out canoe trip–might have cursed my friend who planned it lured me with grilled meats and beer. We actually got in a raft where a 95 pound raft guide assured my girlfriends and I that if any of us fell out, she would pluck us to safety. Ok, crackhead, smoke some more dope in the woods, crunchola bar. Guess who dumped out first, went skkying down the river, sans paddle, with just my wits about me for a few miles? ME. Big Red. Let’s just say that now I know how my towels feel during the spin cycle and that a hung over muffin top is no match for the wilds of Maine! Eventually, after I said my mental good byes in my head to my family and the cast of The Outsiders (“Stay gold, Ponyboy! I’ll see you on the other side!”), forgave the carjacker, and pondered briefly who would be bequeathed my bitching mix tape collection, I rounded the corner, the choir of angels Van Morrison sang to me, and a raft full of hot guys on a bachelor party plucked my tomato ass to safety. As I choked and sputtered like a wrinkled, red, sexy beast. GAH! “Hey guys, look what I caught!” They were actually very nice guys. But now you know why me being outdoorsy is playing wiffle ball while I sip my beer!

That is all, muffintoppers. For verifcation purposes, my church going, 79 year old mother is on stand by to swear this list is almost 100% factual. (Fine. I’m actually 75.)



Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Suburban Madness, TMI? Says who! | Posted on 21-03-2012

Tags: , , ,

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!”


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.   


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.
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!




Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, STFU Friday, TMI? Says who! | Posted on 07-03-2012

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Ever since I returned home from Florida, I’ve been plotting in my mind about how I can get back there. I’m not having vacation withdrawal, I’m having weather withdrawal. I know, it’s ridiculous. I’m not saying it’s like I’m up here on the chain gang or something—I love my life here—the people, my house, the gig I’ve got going. It’s unarguably one of the prettiest areas in the country. It’s just that I am telling you, even though I was born and raised right outside Boston and now live in New Hampshire, I swear, this is not where I’m meant to be. Someone in my ancestry took a way wrong turn! So me going somewhere warm for a week is like giving a junkie a crack hit and then taking it all awayyyyy. (That ‘splains why I’m all shaky and shivery and shouty and stabby right now.)

See, I h.a.t.e. the cold. And the older I get, the more I hate it. Being cooped up inside while I *know*  (warm weather people reading my blog–please forgive my tone as I’m relatively sure it’s temporary insanity) other people (me-ow!) are drinking in the aroma of  fresh cut grass while they swim outside makes me ca-rabby. Booooooo.  So….I might have bought a lottery ticket this week. Or three. I know. I know. That’ s a game plan, right? Stay tuned to watch me get struck by lightning!

But I’ve been thinking. It’s probably better this way, that I live in the land of Vitamin D deficiency. If I moved south of the Mason-Dixon line, think about all the bad things that could happen:

1. Melanoma would surely ensue, because let’s review, I vacillate between the color of sugar and flour. And hell, living in the cold is surely better than swimming with the fishes. Maybe it’s for my own good I’m locked up half the year?

2. If I wanted to ensure I ward off melanoma, I’d probably A. bankrupt myself buying Coppertone and B. blind the neighbors with my doughgirl Irish skin…I’d have to provide them with those eclipse glasses. They’d probably throw garlic at me and no one would talk to me at block parties as I stand in the corner drinking my beer out of my Canadian souvenir cup. They’d be all, “Tacky tourist!” and start singing, “One of these things is not like the o-ther!”

3. If I encountered someone rude or surly down south while buying my case of Coppertone, I’d likely blurt out, “Awww, you’re just pissed we won the war!” and stomp off like I did in Pensacola once. And that’s not how a lady should act! (Hey, she started with ME!)

4. I think I’d have night terrors about the bugs. Dude. The bugs. They need their own zip code down there. I saw a bug on the ground at Epcot and it was so stinking big it attracted a crowd. Ok, a crowd of little boys but still. (Seriously. You pay Walt through the nose to get in to go on rides created by literal geniuses, and there are all these boys staring at this…..thing….When the bug is the wow factor at Epcot, that bug ain’t right.) I can only say it was so honkingly huge, I told the boys I thought we could fly home on it. EEEEH.

5. Let’s not underestimate what a challenge it would be to live in a climate where there would be virtually little to no chance of masking the muffin top with a toasty, roasty cable Lands’ End nerd herd sweater or fleece? I’m down with down, yo! Wearing that shizz down there would probably create an international incident when the feds started tailing me thinking I’m all up to no good hiding contraband in my coat on a hot day. “Sorry, officer, no! Please don’t take me away! I don’t have ANY weapons under here—just my muffin top! I love my fami-leee….Noooo! How will I Facebook from the clink?????”

On the other hand…hmm…prison time. Three squares, no worrying about what to cook, no one recoiling at my cooking. Lots of time to pump iron and bond with other chicks—far cry from the frat house. And I’m sure in no time I could get an online MBA, master license plate making, or become an internet reverend! Mama would be proud!

On second thought, maybe I should go turn the heat up and go check those lottery numbers………..