Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Suburban Madness, Things that make you go....awwww, Uncategorized, Yo! It's a girl thing! | Posted on 30-01-2013

Tags: , , ,

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’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.


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!)


Who needs ya’ now, Flerida!!!!!!!!!





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, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, Yo! It's a girl thing! | Posted on 20-06-2012

Tags: , , , ,

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!



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!



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…..you’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, Friends...you 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’t.know.her.name. 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 Friends...you 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, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Things that make you go....awwww, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing! | Posted on 12-02-2012

Tags: , , ,

Happy Valentine’s Day my lovelies! It’s that time again….time for the annual Valentine’s Day ode to the hubs. I just can’t help myself again. Don’t you worry–we are still keeping the magic alive on this special day. I have an appointment with my ob-gyn for my annual visit (I hope it’s as special for her as it is for me.) and hubs is probably going to a work thing with his boss and two other dudes. This? Is what girls dream about. I might round out the day with a few loads of laundraaaay. Not sure yet. I like to keep my options open.
What about you? Do you think V-Day is just a cheesy Hallmark holiday or are you waiting with bated breath and outstretched arms for your flowers, candy, and candlelight dinners? However you want to express your lovin’, I hope everyone feels the love on V-Day!
NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOO. Just, NO!!!!!!


Roses are red.
Violets are not.
Bringing me flowers on V Day
Just ain’t that hot.
Lemme sleep in,
Take the kids at witching hour.
Bring me some gin.
But keep yo damn flower!
A sweater, a scarf, even a purse I can do.
Of course, you know me likie shoes, too.
And don’t spend 8 grand on some huge sappy card,
Just say I love you–don’t make it that hard.
Save your cashola to feed the muffin top.
Some seafood or steak?
But please , no lamb chops. (BAA!)
If you show with even one stinking rose,
I swear to God I’m gonna break your nose.
Oy, do you know the mark up on V Day?
And seriously, could it be any more cliche?
If you really want me to swoon?
Bring me a 12 pack some random day in June!
The only “Buds” I wanna see from my man?
Come in a lovely glass bottle or can.
Oh, don’t be afraid–I’m not starting a fight.
You always *mostly* get it just right.
And if you can’t find that perfect gift for me?
I know of one that is perfectly free!
You can *for once* just replace the TP!                                                
It’s already bought and wrapped in clear plastic!
It’s so super soft and perfectly round.
Under the sink is where it is found.
And when you need it, it sure is fantastic.
What? I’m not even being sarcastic!  
I love you, dear.
I love you so much.
You’ve nothing to fear.
Your gifts, always clutch.
If my demands seem mean or even nasty,
You knew when we married
I’d be bringing some sassy!
I must confesss now, I don’t care what you do         
As long as you read this and still love me, too!
 *Props to the very funny wendiaarons.com for teaching me how to make that bitchin’ heart! Check out her site!
Well, ladies? What say you?