All right. Back to the funny bidness at muffintopmommy. That last post was cathartic but I’m ready to move on embrace being irreverent!

Oh, p.s., I did my good holy deed this week. Last night we took the kids out to dinner, and three nuns in full habits were sitting at the table across from us. Luckily, the boys brought their A-game.  No one took the lord’s name in vain even me,  although 3 year old did ask me if they were “the ice cream ladies” (I have no clue what he meant by that but I know my grandmother is in heaven clutching her rosary beads pleading, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what went wrong?”)

Hubs sneaky eavesdropper was floored to hear one of nuns say, “This is one of Adam Levine’s songs playing right now. He’s on The Voice and is really interesting!” Oh sister, muffintopmommy fistbump. He’s interesting all right. Is now a bad time to admit he’s on my Pinterest pinboard under the category of, “People I’m allowed to cheat on the hubs with”?

THAT'S RIGHT, SISTER. HE WAS SENT FROM GOD---EVEN IF HE'S PROBABLY NOT CATHOLIC.

So what if he weighs less than I do—many have faced greater challenges. Like infidelity. Which I would potentially totally commit with Adam Levine. But it would be infidelity with an asterisk after. Infidelity*: Hubs telling me to go for it is roughly akin to the time I was 8, huffed to my parents I was running away, packed my pleather rainbow suitcase (We are the world!) full of Ramona Quimby books and stuffed animals….and, they patted me on the head and wished me bon voyage.

Buzz.Kill.

They knew I was rolling in my pleated coolots straight toward THE LAND OF MAKE BELIEVE and would circle right back even though they dressed me in questionable attire with even more questionable travel accessories. I blame Fred Rogers. Lady Elaine ain’t real! (And neither is my quest for faux adultery. Don’t call the priest! Don’t.call.the.priest!)

Anyway, back to the good sisters. One of them forgot her leftovers so I ran out to the parking lot to give them to her. (Who knew when their next yummy meal would be? You know the padres probably get all the good eats. Grr.) The three were walking with their backs to me so I yelled, “Excuse me, sister?” and naturally they all turned around. “I had a feeling you’d all turn around!” I bellowed. (Badum dum dum…I just couldn’t help myself. Kind servants of God, they laughed at my lamo joke. Plus, they could see I had their chicken parmesan. And had been drinking.)

Me, 1. Kindly Nuns with kickass musical taste, 0.

Anyway, I do good deeds. I was practically in a coma, forced to drink draft beer with my dinner on a Monday night in front of the good sisters, because I had chaperoned a field trip to the wilderness. After riding on a plush, pimping yellow bus full of screaming first graders for half an hour, we got to look at frog skeletons, stuffed birds, catch bugs, and troll for creatures in a pond with nets and buckets. The woman who guided our tour is a howl and busted my chops for screeching, “Eeew! Yucky bug!” and guffawing at two bugs mating. Worst chaperone ever.

(Sidenote? Today I woke up with a migraine. Coincidence? Don’t ever, ever, ever, ever complain about teachers having their summers off. They need them to recuperate!)

I tried. But I am clumsy in nature. My idea of being outdoorsy is reading People mag at the beach or playing recreational cookout sports. Wiffleball while balancing a beer? Yes, please! Teetering with a bucket in swampophilia? Um, no!

Another mom and I were chatting with the teacher about camping. She asked if I ever camped and I said, not really, because…. hubs and I are afraid of the woods. And don’t like bugs (who I now know thanks to the field trip are vital to our survival…but sorry, still not a fan!). And , we would scream like a 5 year old girl if we saw a wild animal. Yes! Squirrels are too scary! I would be all about camping if I were with someone who knew what they were doing— provided I had a campfire, running water, a shower, warm bed, smores, cocktails, and faux camped on the perimeter of the woods close to vital amenities like Target and the liquor store. Is that too much to ask?

I have no survival skills. None. I would rather be dumped onto a random city street at 2 AM with just my wits about me than be alone in the woods. Truth. At least you can negotiate with people in the city. You’re bound to find someone to help you. In the woods? Bugs? Would bite me. Food? No one delivers. Animals? Would totally eat me for dinner. They’d be all, “Look at that tasty muffin top!” And it would be game over.

Dumped in the city? No prob. Kind of like the time two of my colleagues and I wandered away on a business trip after hitting some bars in a strange city and found ourselves foraging for food at 2 AM. (Unrelated: none of us became CEO. Or CFO. Or anything with a capital “O” at the end.) Did I panic when we walked into the Domino’s Pizza and it had bullet proof glass? No. I just took it to mean Domino’s was the best damn pizza that city had to offer and that people would of course kill for it (It was the midwest. Sorry midwest. I luvs you long time and you rule at BBQ. But pizza should not be made west of NYC.). So, I gave the kid at the window $10 to sell me the very next pizza that came out of the oven. (You haven’t lived ’til you’ve played pizza roulette….was I getting Pepperoni? Was I getting ham and pineapple? Pepper and Onion? Who knew! I still don’t know! It was Domino’s!)

We had mystery topping pizza in hand within seconds and lived to do lots of corporate learnin’/detoxing the next day. ROI! Actionable! Market Driven! Blood alcohol content!

If we were in the woods, I would have kicked it first. No question. If a ginormous animal didn’t make me his Scooby snack, I’d have expired from Diet Coke DT’s or Target withdrawal. Survival of the fittest–I lose!

What about you? Would you rather be plunked in the city or the woods?

Spoiler alert: This is one long ass post. Mea culpa. But I hope you’ll read it. It’s from the heart. And also, I want to know who is possibly going to hell with me some day, so by all means, please feel free to comment! I am hoping for some fun company. I mean I really hope you get past St. Peter if I can’t. NO really.

With the recent demise of my laptop, and my quick junket to Ohio for the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, I haven’t written in a while. I’m literally feeling twitchy and hearing voices in my head and I only hope these words will flow in a way that makes sense.

The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop takes place every other year and draws humor and human interest writers from all over the United States and Canada. There are folks in attendance and/or presenting who are just beginning their writing journey and some who are household names and even Pulitzer prize winners. But they are writers, one and all. These are “my people”.

To be in the presence of Erma’s very gracious family (see photo below) and hundreds of writers is literally an exercise in laughter and tears. Erma Bombeck passed away in 1996. If you’re not familiar with her work, she wrote eight books which are still timely and relevant, and most of all, hilarious. If you want to know what talent and heart is, read her stuff. The fact that she has a legion of admirers who first came to know Erma by picking up her columns and books their moms left lying around, tells you all you need to know. My bf from the conference, Dawn, wrote beautifully about her here. Don’t let the lumberjack shirt throw you off–she’s hilarious and beautiful, too! I learned as much from the presenters at the conference as I did in speaking to other writers in the elevator, over a 73 drinks, and at an event I think was supposed to be, dinner.

Bill Bombeck, moi, and Betsy Bombeck. Thank you to the lumberjack, Dawn @Lighten Up!, for being so bold as to ask for this pic that I was not worthy to be in! Cue up, "That's what friends are foooor...." Keep shining, people.

Being a writer, and also a mom, can often be isolating. I don’t work in an office. My kitchen counter is my desk. My co-workers eat Gogurts and mostly aren’t even adept at wiping their own arses never mind have the ability to give me constructive feedback on my work. And when you write non-fiction, and you blog, it can often feel like a self inflicted set up. You’re really putting yourself out there. When you write fiction, as someone so brilliantly said at Erma Bombeck, your writing is subject to scrutiny and criticism. But when you write non-fiction, your life is subject to scrutiny and criticism. (I’m paraphrasing because I regret to inform you I forget who said it! Was it the booze? Was it my aging brain…I dunno. Just know this brilliance didn’t come out of my mouth. What came out of my mouth was, “What time will you be at the bar?” and “What kind of fish IS this anyway?”)

What she said resonated with me, because I’d been thinking about this whole putting myself out there a lot lately.

Recently, a friend of mine who happens to be religious, told me she passed my blog on to some of her friends because she thought it was hilarious. “Thanks!” I beamed. I always appreciate when people pass it on, and since I don’t get a lot of feedback with this gig, I soaked in the glow of the compliment for a second before she continued, “And some of them loved it but(ugh oh)….. some of my Christian friends said they were shocked I passed it on to them and said, “Namechangedtoprotectmyfriend! She is irreverent!”

*Please note in no way did I want to shoot the messenger. I simply offered her more hummus and a, “Really?” which was a few octaves too high (which is unfortunate because on a good day I sound like Lisa Simpson.).

Irreverent?

I’m not going to say that didn’t sting a little. If someone said, “I think your writing is lacking because of A….” or “You’re kinda not funny, but thanks for trying.” then fine, noted. But irreverent? To me, that means disrespectful. Or lacking a reverence for God. Or mocking religion and by extension those who hold it dear.

I’ve known a lot of people in my life. Some who never sat foot in a church or synagogue except for a wedding or funeral, some like me, who attended mass every Sunday and every holy day from the time or their birth to the time they left their homes for college/the real world/Amsterdam/wherever, and some who I’m pretty sure pray for my imperfect soul today. Regardless of whether you’re super religious or not religious at all, I do not stand in judgment of you. It’s personal. And if I’m going to judge anyone at all, I’m going to judge you on your actions and the way you treat others. Period. That whole love your neighbor thing? I’m loving you til you give me good reason not to. Innocent until proven guilty. If you move next door to me and need to borrow a cup of sugar, a bottle of vodka, my bible, by all means. Just ask.

Certainly, if I make fun of anyone in this space, it’s usually me.

Yet, I briefly contemplated, “What am I even doing here?” I am making people laugh, sometimes, I think? But am I giving the mistaken impression that I’m irreverent? Or if that’s what they truly think, then AM I irreverent? And ultimately, I have to say, I’m comfortable with who I am. If you land on my blog and it’s not for you, no big. Move on. There’s plenty of other stuff to read that might suit you better. But deep down I had to wonder, if someone thinks I’m irreverent, will they, if they know me in real life, judge my kids? Who are…innocent until proven guilty?!

Enter Erma, and “my people”.

There’s Iris. My blogging friend. I forget how we “met” online but if she’s not one of the funniest bloggers out there I don’t know who is. I sat next to her during a session at Erma, and she told me about a recent post she’d written, which I missed due to computerfromhell,where she’d contemplated hanging it up. “Tell me more!” I pressed, when she showed me a mind blowing comment she received from a reader whose husband was undergoing cancer treatment and how Iris’ blog helped her. Please read about it here.

And Julie. A dear, funny, funny friend from the Erma 2010, who expressed similar thoughts on her blog, here.

Then I met a new, fun friend at Erma who blogs at MomoFali. (It was my important job at Erma to rescue her from her hotel room should the sausage heads at the bar try any pyro tricks…but that’s not relevant here. We lived. Yay!) She wrote a moving post here about how the people at Erma get it…that regardless of what anyone is going through, it is okay to laugh through the pain. A to the men. We all have a right to laugh our way through anything.

I said to Iris at the conference, “Don’t quit. The risk you take putting yourself out there is a risk not everyone will understand, or even appreciate. But that comment right there is why you can’t quit. You have a gift and it would be wrong not to share it.” I said to Julie after the conference, “Don’t quit. You have a book in you. I know it.”

And I would say to Momo Fali, never stop laughing. And, I live 1000 miles away from you so you’re on your own with the fire in the middle of the night shizz from now on.

All of these women, these wonderful writers, they get it.

I thought back to my own life. The times I know for sure I provided much needed comedic relief and the times I know I needed it. My sister was killed in a car accident when I was 15. I don’t remember all of the details from that time period, I just remember the house was dark, both in mood and physically. I was the only one living at home with my parents. I think at that point my parents didn’t have the energy to muster to lift a shade. And I can’t say I blame them. I remember my mother taking me out for lunch a month after my sister died for my 16th birthday, and bumping into a priest and a nun from our church. “It’s Janet’s birthday!” my mother tried. And I don’t remember what they said, I only remember they looked at me with such sadness I wanted to tell them to stop. I just wanted to crawl away. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. The truth was, I probably had enough of my own to face.

And the thing I turned to was my faith, that better times had to be ahead, and to writing. Most of what I wrote no one ever saw, but it helped me. I don’t think it was funny back then. I only wish I had had something funny to read. I only wish the internet existed. That there was someone out there who spoke to me, like an Iris, and made me laugh, and forget, if only for a few moments. I always thought life is exactly what you make of it, and I knew my sister lost her chance to forge ahead and so I had no choice but to try.

I thought back to a little over a year ago. (Are you seeing the thinking theme? Do you know how long it takes to get from Ohio to NH these days? I might have well ridden home on the freaking chuck wagon…way too much time to think. Look what happens when you call me irreverent…you go from dead fish to dead loved ones in one fell swoop!) My dad had passed away. He was 83 and had beaten back several illnesses over the course of a decade and finally, had a serious stroke. My family stood guard at his bedside and watched him slip away over the course of a few days, but before he lost consciousness and ultimately passed on, he joked with us, and with the nurses.  He asked them all about themselves–with slurred speech no less. I left the room at one point to call home to check on my kids. I came back and my sister said, “Just so you know, dad is now referring to you as ‘the muffin top’. He just asked, ‘Where’d the muffin top go?’ I laughed then and I laugh now thinking about it. My father faced his mortality head on and with a sense of humor. To me, there is dignity in that.

I learned what I know about humor first from my family. If you weren’t quick on your feet you’d get annihilated at dinner. When my dentist gently asked me yesterday, “Janet, please turn your chin for me.” and I answered, “Which one?” I just couldn’t help myself. The hygienest roared laughing, told me I was terrible –but asked if she could use the line. The ultimate compliment. I laughed, and said, dryly, “Sure, it’s not copyrighted.” Maybe she’ll repeat it and it will give someone who’s having a rough day a laugh.

I thought about the days after my dad passed away. I was away from my kids for three days while he was in the hospital and while we made funeral arrangements. The ninety minute car ride home seemed like an eternity as I wondered how I would tell three kids six and under that their grandfather was gone. I got off the highway and handed the toll worker a $20. He scowled at me for giving him a big bill for the fifty cent toll, huffed theatrically as he counted out my change. “You have a great day, too!” I beamed, all the while thinking, “Hey jackass, I have no change because I spent it all at the vending machine at the hospital!” I could have used a laugh right then.

Later that weekend, my 2 year old would crash his head on into the coffee table at bedtime when I could no longer see straight, and my hubs and friend would drive off with him to the ER for stitches, bleeding, as I fought back tears. The next day I had to face reality—-my father’s wake and my four year old’s birthday—same day. I felt sorry for my family and for myself—if that toll worker had only known what I was going through! But in time and with distance I’ve thought about him, and wondered, who knows what was going on in his life. Maybe his wife left him. He couldn’t pay the mortgage. His son just died. Or, maybe he was just a big douchewaffle. WHO KNOWS!

All I know is if irreverent is the worst they can say, I’m okay with that. This is my space. To say what I want. If I make you laugh, all the better. My blog, and this life, is exactly what I make of it. And if you want to come along, I am so happy to have you. And if you don’t, I truly hope you find what you’re looking for. No one can be all things to all people, and no one, if they’re being honest and true to themselves, should try. But, just know:

I’m working on the grand assumption that God has a sense of humor. He made me, didn’t he?

And if not, I’m just going to grab St. Peter by the shoulders on judgment day and say, “But I know people!” and hope he has mercy on my sometimes irreverent, imperfect soul.

And I will hope I was a sliver of what Erma Bombeck was.  She said, “When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me.’”

Use it up, people, use it up. Whatever your talent may be.

I’m baaa-aaack.

I thought about running away in my flip flops for reals this time, but let’s face it, we all know I ain’t that fast.

The fam and I finally took the plunge and did the Disney trip over school vaca. I have to say, I was a bit of a cynic about the materialistic Disney machine prior to my trip and sort of looked at it like I was checking the box for the kids, but I had soooo much fun. Really. I feel really lucky we got to go even though we might not be able to send the boys to college now. (That mouse is like a B movie mafia guy….smiling at you while he picks your pocket all week!)

GIMME ALL YOUR MONEY WHILE I STAND HERE LOOKING INNOCENT AND DEMURE. ALL OF IT. YES, EVEN THE BEER MONEY. NOW, HAND IT OVER!

Naturally, the most fun was seeing it through my kids’ eyes and getting a sunburn in February. My three year old mauled Handy Manny like a tween at a Bieber concert. Turns out my four year old who’s afraid to go downstairs alone, rocked out on Tower of “Tennis” (aka Terror…he didn’t even say it right the first time which is what made it even funnier), the scariest ride I’ve ever seen —I wouldn’t even get on it. (Bawk-bawk!) The hubs stumbled off it like the walking wounded shouting, “Never again!” like Costanza. And oldest, feeling loud and proud for turning seven the night before the big trip, handled the rides like a pro and told me, “Don’t worry, mom. I’ll hold your hand on the rides because we all know you’re chicken.”

Aww. The shaking must have given it away. Damn.

I’ll spare you all the deets of my trip/Disney education and share just one of the many funny things that happened. I’m in Epcot at Canada buying a beer (eh?) and seven year old is standing right next to me. I’m chatting with my friendly neighbor to the north as I shell out ten smackers for the fun maple leaf souvenir cup (Yes, I am a 12 year old deep down), and I look over and seven year old is sitting on a split rail fence, teetering, and about to fall backwards. I exclaim, “Hey! Get down before you fall!” I could picture the headline in the paper, “7 year old plunges off fence at Epcot while drunken soccer mommy swills Labatt’s Blue nearby”.

It would have been a two foot drop into some Canadian hedges. And I was not drunk! But still. You know how other writers twist things!

But the funniest part was the Canadian bar keep quipping, “Oh don’t worry—-if you fall and get hurt in Canada we have free healthcare!”

Excellent point! I felt better. I needed that $50 urgent care co-pay for my draft beers!

Now who wants to loan me $10 bucks for a box of wine? Because while there truly is no place like home like Dorothy said,  re-entry? Well, it’s difficult in a foot of snow in flip flops. (Now I remember why I usually spend school vaca week at Tarjay!)

So remember a few weeks ago when I said I feel like a biggity buzz kill sometimes, but I would not not not inflict my thoughts on my kids? I vowed to let them go and watch them fly.

As it turns out, surprise! My six year old really seems to dig math. I figured this out over the course of the year and his teacher confirmed it. Good for him! So when a form came home asking if we wanted to sign him up for something called “Math Superstars”, which is  just a few sheets of extra math homework per week, I leapt at the chance for him to math it up.

Now, I wasn’t a horrible math student, but I had to work really hard for average grades, and I despised it like Ohio State hates Michigan, like Carol Brady hated kids playing ball in the house, like muffin top hates swimsuits. With the exception of tying for first place in the multiplication table contest with a smartypants in third grade, I was no standout. (Did I mention the prize was a trip out for an ice cream sundae with the teacher? Ladies and gentlemen, meet Pavlov, the accidental mathematician!) 

Yes, yes I do.

Science and I–which sometimes seemed like thinly veiled math—were hardly bff’s either, but at least in science you could blow stuff up and learn to be grateful for the geniuses responsible for me being able to drive over bridges to fun vacation spots without plunging to my death—-go Physics!). Only because I was a motivated student kind of a nerd who went to a free math SAT prep class after school, did I actually manage to get a better score on my math SAT’s than my English. (You’re the man, Mr. Sweeney!) I’m not sure who that probably surprised more—my math teachers or my English teachers. Regardless, besides balancing my checkbook (and by balancing, I mean going online to see what’s what and making sure I didn’t blow the mortgage at Tarjay) and figuring out important math problems in my head (If the shoes are $59.99 and they are 40% off, how much are they? A great fracking deal!) I’ve steered mostly clear of math the past few decades.

I figured my kids’ math homework might stump me eventually, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I’m not going to lie to you. Some of the Math Superstar problems are hurting my head.

Example:

Five scarecrows had a candy corn eating contest.

Ben ate the most candy corns.

Jen ate more than Len.

Jen ate less than Ken.

Zen ate less than Len.

Write the scarecrows’ names in order to show how much candy corn they ate.

My son and I figured it out together but dude, this is why English people shouldn’t do math. My brain was whizzing. Why are scarecrows eating candy corn? They’re fake. Most scarecrows are badly dressed dudes, so what is Jen wearing? Not faded overalls and bad plaid I hope! And Jen ate more crap candy than two dudes–I wonder if she has a scarecrow muffin top? And anyway, who names their scarecrow Zen? Is Zen a Buddhist scarecrow? Isn’t it bad karma for Zen to try to scare away crows, who are gifts of nature, and overeat candy?

Moving on to exhibit B:

There are 3 children and 1 wagon ( I wanted so badly to scratch out the 3 and the 1 and write out three and one instead!). Two children can play at a time. One child can ride and one child can pull. In the table, show all the ways the children can ride and pull. (Then there is one column for child riding and one for child pulling.)

Well, this is a dumbass question. You know damn right well the one kid who doesn’t get a turn is going to be whining/crying/pitching a shit fit screeching, “When is it myyyyyyy turn? Is it myyyyyyyy turn yet?” You know the kid pulling is going to pull the wagon too fast, and you know that wagons were not designed by the smart bridge Physicists/Engineers because the damn things suck at hairpin turns. So you gotta figure the rider is getting dumped out onto the pavement. So that leaves two kids crying, pitching a shit fit, and one kid remaining. The one kid remaining will demand his turn from the whinybags who are crying, but the two cryers won’t want to pull him so he’ll start wailing, too.

Let’s review, mathletes: that leaves three kids crying, after only one turn. So that leaves 5 different turn combinations to go, math geniuses? I don’t think so. I’m calling bullshit on your fuzzy math. Meanwhile, the mom who sent the three to play with the wagon is cursing under her breath and counting the minutes til happy hour–she knew it was a stupid ass idea in the first place.

 You can be all Big Bang Theory Sheldon smart, but you can’t check your common sense at the door, son!

Finally? This one:

Teaka finishes dinner at 6 o’clock. She reads her book for 2 (t-w-o, mathletes, two!) hours. Then she goes to bed. Draw the hour and the minute hands on the clock to show when Teaka goes to bed.

Okay. But first….what book was Teaka reading? Is Teaka a kid or a grown up? This might help me guess what book. After she puts her book down, does she brush her teeth? Floss? Check her email? Balance her checkbook *cough*? Do some push ups? Write in her diary! Ooh! Check Facebook? Twitter? Pin some shit on Pinterest? Does she really go right to bed? I know you’re thinking the answer is 8 o’clock, but I find that hard to believe, frankly. But with no further information, I was forced to watch 6 year old put 8 on the little clock, but I do not feel good about it. At all. Because again? I have to call bullshit on the math superstars for leaving out pertinent info!

But I will hold my tongue. I will let him go. And I will watch him fly.

This is my brain on math and science.

As my brain explodes. (At what velocity and force, I really don’t know. I was probably talking about 90210 that day in Physics.)

So I’m walking to the bus stop yesterday to pick up my first grader (in the balmy 50 degree New Hampshire freak weather–BOOM!), and I glance over at four year old who’s skipping along and ask, “Hey, how do you like your new shoes?”

“They’re TELLIBLE! They make me really slow!”

I THOUGHT THEY WERE PRETTY SNAZZY MYSELF.

“Oh, pumpkin, no.” I think to myself. “It’s not the shoes. It’s the DNA. There’s a reason why mama was never picked first seventh in gym class.” (Thank God for my sparkling personality. Which has gotten me nowhere far in life. Well, I did score that extra slice of cheese for 3 year old at the deli. A win for the chatty!)

I think it, but I don’t say it. Who am I to be a four year old dream crusher? Perception is reality, people.

“I don’t think you’re slow. Show me whacha got…go, run, go!”

Sure enough, he blasted off, stopped, turned around and beamed, “Oh… actually they make me really fast!” before leaping over a man hole cover at the bus stop for good measure.

“Awesome! You are SO fast!”

Being a parent is a buzz kill sometimes, don’t you think? By that I mean,  so many times during the day I find myself saying, “NO!”. No, you can’t climb the shelves of the pantry, three year old. No, you can’t eat fruit roll ups for lunch, four year old. No, you can’t play your new DS until you do your math homework, six year old.

You can’t talk with your mouth full. You can’t “fly” off your brother’s loft bed. You can’t use my floor lamp as a fireman pole. You can’t wear your Mario shirt to church. You can’t sit in the clothes dryer! (Definitely NO!) You can’t play ball in the house… right Carol Brady?

No. Nahnonono. NO!

Sigh.

UM, YEAH, I HAVE NO IDEA WHO "GIMP DADDY" IS....BUT THANKS ,PHOTOBUCKET AND GIMP DADDY, BECAUSE THIS BUZZ KILL PIC SAYS IT ALL!

Buzz.kill. Buzzzzzy buzzz buzzz. Buzz.

I decided I’m going to try to say yes as much as I can, when I can. Saying no as a parent is obviously necessary sometimes.  We can’t have the inmates running the asylum. And in a household of climbing, adventure seeking boys, no is literally a safety precaution. But would Cheez-It’s for breakfast once in a while kill them? Would tossing a football in the hallway really rock my world? If a lamp breaks, is it priceless anyway?

There is a gigundo grey area between prison warden and total anarchy, right? And our kids….are not us. They might look like us, they might even act like us (frightening?), but they’re not us. They are their own little selves. Fast or slow, good at math or stuck after school for extra help, fantastic singers or glass breakers, star scorers or bench warmers, they are their own unique selves. If I’m a slow runner, that doesn’t make my kid one.

Our kids are a clean slate. A beginning to a wonderful story that is still unfolding. It’s theirs to write with our help and guidance.

I saw this quote on (cough) Pinterest–it’s attributed to Albert Einstein. I have my doubts about if he really said it, but it doesn’t matter, as the quote is meaningful nonetheless:

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

Sometimes I think it’s best to keep our thoughts to ourselves, let our kids go, and watch them fly.

If we tell them they can’t enough, they just might believe us.

If we tell them they can enough, they just might believe us.

And I just checked the box. Cheez-It’s are made with 100% real cheese (only the best for mah babies!), making them a really not good breakfast indeed!

A few months ago, a friend sent me an invitation to something called, “Pinterest”. Have you heard of it? I didn’t know what it was at first so I did what I always do when I don’t know what something is….nothing. (I put the I in initiative.) Then I got another invitation so I took the next step, set up an account under my alias, Muffintopmommy, and promptly forgot all about it. Til one day a few weeks ago when a funtastic muffintopper pointed me to a recipe blog called skinnytaste (nom, nom, low fat goodness!) whose glorious recipe pictures led me back to……Pinterest.

People? 2012 is the year I met my personal crack cocaine.

It was a circuitous route, but like all addicts, I perservered. And once I got there? It was the point of no return—I was ALL in. So now what? Naturally, Iwanna do like most good junkies do…. give others a taste and suck you all down my wayward path. That’s right. After being asked several times last week by friends what Pinterest is, I feel it is now my obligation to spread the good word. (I’m not going door to door. That’s just silly. It’s January in New Hampshire and this territory is owned by Girl Scouts right now. Have you ever tried to cross a sash clad, ponytailed, four foot tall ninja carrying an order form for the holy grail of minty cookies? Don’t. Just don’t. Just smile and give them all your money.)

Wanna come along? Consider this Pinterest 101. Right here. Right now. Time to woman up. This isn’ t for sissies. And it can be confusing. After one friend emailed me asking me to explain it and why it was so addictive, I sent her an email that I thought made sense, to which she responded:

“Ok, I think I kind of get it.  I can pin things to my board and they will stay there if I want to go back to them?  Do you share stuff with others?  I take it back…I don’t think I get it at all.”

She seemed down, so I emailed her back, “You is smart. You is kind. You is important.” Thank you, Pinterest, for reminding me of that phenomenal quote from The Help! I love you Aibileen, I love you!

People who are smart, kind, and important still often can’t grasp the concept of Pinterest because you see, it’s one of those things that’s harder to explain than it is to actually do. I know that sounds weird, but my best recommendation is to jump in with both feet and try it. You do need an invitation from someone who’s already on Pinterest. I know, it’s super exclusive. That’s why I am surprised I got an invite. (But really…if you need an invite, email me and I’ll send you one.)

So here’s my best stab at ‘splaining it. Pinterest is a virtual pinboard. Did you ever cut out pictures from a magazine of things you liked… a fun outfit? A wedding dress? A cool looking kitchen? A yummy recipe? And pin them to an actual corkboard? (Yeah, me neither, but I kinda wish I did.) I hear people who aren’t like me (read:organized) do, or they carefully file these clippings away for future reference/inspiration.

Well now, even disorganized dopes with no initiative can display everything we love! The really crack coke part of it is, you can follow what others display too, and “repin” what they have displayed on your corkboards. And you can have dozens and dozens of corkboards showcasing anything and everything your muffin top desires! For example, I have categories like, “The Yummies” for recipes, “The funny” for hilarious sayings, “Shoes and clothes and shoes, oh my!” for houses (Der, clothes and shoes! Just making sure you’re paying attention–this is so not important!) ,  and “Let’s Get Physical” for exercise tips. I even have a board called, “People I Want To Have A Beer With” and “People I’m Allowed To Cheat On The Hubs With”! Calm down! Stop calling me Newt. It’s just for funnies and let’s face it, Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights isn’t into me hasn’t returned any of my  calls, text messages, or emails.

And who doesn’t love a trip down memory lane? Someone’s pin totally brought me back and led me to the greatness of this 70′s commercial:

Time for Timer!

Makes me teary. And inspiration? Is at your fingertips, my friends!

Can you even guess where I found this fat-tastic weight loss inspiration? Who needs to pay for Weight Watchers! Pfft!

 So pin those yummy recipes, Julia! Showcase the most fashionable outfits you’ll never fit into or be able to buy, Gisele! Pine away for that perfect porch to have a cocktail on, Martha! Be inspired to conquer your muffin top, um, Muffintopmommy!

See, Pinterest is almost like the life we wish we had or everything we aspire to be: in shape, well dressed, well spoken, well intentioned, grammatically correct, repurposing, funny, inspirational, selves……..who drive fantastic cars, cook like famous chefs, sip gorgeous cocktails on sweeping verandas whilst taking time to smell the perfectly pruned hydrangeas.

Mama can dream. Mama.can.dream. Don’t we all deserve a break, if only virtual, from cars covered in winter’s salt, shirts we bought because they were on clearance at Target, and humdrum dinners we could assemble in our sleep?

But hey, just don’t blame me if you’re soon writing status updates on your Facebook page like I did last week:

Dear Pinterest, thanks for making me hungry, hate my clothes, and want a new baby. I would complain, but your inspirational messages prevent me from not appreciating the wonderful kids I have, the (mediocre) food I cook, and (nerd herd) clothes I wear! Well played, Pinterest, well played.

Don’t hate the playah, just hate the game.

**You can even pin blogs! But apparently putting a pinterest button on my blog so you can follow me or pin my blog….is above my pay grade. I tried. And failed. On Pinterest, I’m much more talented…..so if you’re looking for me? Try there. And if anyone finds a blog post giving the 411 on that, pin it baby, pin it!

Hubs and I got married waaay back when no one knew what a hanging chad was. We were lucky enough to go to the Greek Islands for our honeymoon. (Pre-Euro= cheap ouzo. Opa!) It was an amazing trip and we swore we’d go back for our 10th anniversary. Crazy kids. (That was two years ago….I think we got as far as Carrabba’s.)

UM, SADLY NO, GREECE FOR 10 DAYS. COLD ASS COW HAMPSHAH 4-EVER.

Anyway, while we were vacationing near the equator, hubs teased me because I was slathering myself in buckets of sunblock….I literally massaged Coppertone all the way into my hairline. (It takes work to be this sexy. It really does. If he was hoping annulment at that point his face didn’t show it. )  I interrupted his teasing to remind him of my 100% proud Irish potato heritage. (I vacillate throughout the year between the color of flour, sugar, and pizza dough. I am? Job security for the field of dermatology. And beer distributors.) So I offer him some sunblock and he replies, “Um, no thanks…” (eyeroll) “I’m Italian!”

I reply, “Yeahhhh, you’re HALF Italian, you’re from Boston, and we’re near the equator, but it’s your party, dude!” Smarty McOliveGarden!

Fast forward to that night. My Good Fella is limping through the streets of Mykonos, fried yet shivering, whimpering in all his half Italian glory.

“I’ve never had a sunburn before.”

Welcome to my world, Homie. Welcome to my world.

I look at him, his demure bride of 4 days, my sun kissed pizza dough face glowing, and snicker, “E-qua-tor.” (Ok, it’s technically not even that close. At all. But in my defense Widipedia wasn’t even invented yet so how was I supposed to know? So maybe I took some creative license to make my point!)And, I might have added something about how he should probably listen to his smartypants wife in the future. He was too weak to reply. But I took his silence as his tacit agreement.

There have been a few million other times in our marriage that I’ve nagged. And a few times when he’s been astounded at my profound lack of common sense, mostly around cooking utensils. It’s worked, this thing we’ve got going. So fast forward 12 years, three kids, and two houses later. It’s our youngest’s three year old birthday. (Sobs!) I’m feeling sad he’s not a baby any longer, as evidenced by him managing to convince me to bake him a fire truck cake. The boy is seriously obsessed with all things firefighter. He was a firefighter for Halloween, watches Fireman Sam daily, and knocked my floor lamp down the other day shrieking, “This is my fire pole, mama!” 

 So….I didn’t want to attempt any Martha shenanigans with the cake, but I spent two and a half hours doing just that because he looked at me with those big brown eyes. (Mamas, you know the look!)I wanted to buy one, but I can’t because all the bakery ones say “may contain peanuts/tree nuts” and my boys are allergic. So I was left to my own nut free devices. By the time I finished it, I was sweating. It was kinda stressful! It took patience (I have none!), skillz (No, none!) and a steady hand (And…no.). When the thing was done, I was happy it kind of resembled the photo provided and swore to high heaven I’d never use the pan again.

 It was a crisp zero degrees in beautiful Southern New Hampshire on my boy’s birthday, and one of our small pipes wound up freezing in our basement playroom. So Hubs cut a hole, propped up my industrial strength, professional hair dryer (I know people) and retreated back upstairs. I said, “Hmm, I don’t know if that hair dryer thing is such a great idea, hun.” He mumbled something about being Italian insulating the pipe for next time, at which point I went on to attend to other pressing matters. (Food Network. Cheese and crackers. Adult beverage.)

A few minutes later we fix dinner for the kids and we’re all chatting about going bowling the next day (I kick ass with the bumpers up!) when I turn to him and say, “I smell smoke!”

He says, “I don’t smell anything!”

I say, “I.SMELL.SMOKE.”

(I am a lot of things. Some good, some not so good. But dude, my Karl Malden nose rocks. Scents give me massive headaches. I have smell radar. The police should fire Fido and hire me for their sniffing assignments. I can even walk on two legs. Not to get all braggy.)

Hubs looks at me, blasts downstairs, yells, “Whoa! Fire! Dial 911!” By now the smoke is wafting up the stairs and it’s rancid. I push the fire button on our burglar alarm pad, throw coats on the kids, and we bolt outside. They are shoeless and it is zero, but the alternative is clearly worse and I’m worried about my oldest’s asthma to boot.

Hubs runs out a few minutes later and tells me he put the fire out—it was small— and gives me the key to his car and the kids and I pile in. Within a few minutes, my street is filled with cop cars, fire cars, and two firetrucks. The firefighters go in to see what’s what. They use a machine to make sure there are no embers in the walls that could have caused another fire later. My husband ap0logizes up and down for his hair dryer experiment and he said the firefighters tried to make him not feel like a dummy by relaying other, dumber things people have attempted. (So nice!) They said he did the right thing unplugging the hair dryer, throwing it out in the snow, and dousing the fire and that if he hadn’t done that, our house would have been up in flames by the time they got there.

Scary! So grateful we were all okay.

All the awesome firefighters stopped to say Happy Birthday (including a super cool woman—girl power!) to my little buddy and remarked on the irony of this happening on his big firefighter birthday. I said the theme was a little too played out for my taste! They let the boys go on the fire truck and invited us to stop by the station for a tour. Love them and I’m sure no one will ever forget this birthday! I told the fam I will make the fire truck cake ONE more time for the kind firefighters and we’d drop it off next weekend. 

HOPEFULLY THE FIREFIGHTERS WILL JUST LOOK AT IT AND NOT TRY IT. YEAH!

Hubs wound up apologizing to the boys and me for the hair dryer stunt and I actually felt sorry for him because he felt so sorry. (We all make mistakes even me.)

But not sorry enough to stop from asking him, “Are you burnt? Do you need any sunblock?”

Hey, that flame was strong!