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.)

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!

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

“DUDE!!!”

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

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

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

“911, what’s your emergency?”

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

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

Not so fast.

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

“‘Scuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Busted!

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

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

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

I'M GONNA BUST YOU UP IN THESE!

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

Okay, really I said, “Yes.”

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

OH YOU ARE SOOO BUSTED!!!

I call the hubs.

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

“What!”

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

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

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

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

I start to sweat at the very memory.

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

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

“I’m still here!”

“What! Can’t you leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

Number withheld.

 It’s the cop!

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

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

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

Greetings Muffintoppers!

This post bears repeating from a year ago….because here I am again, putting off the super funtacular swimsuit shopping extravaganza debacle. I hope you’ll join me for a laugh–or cry–whichever the case may be.

Have a wonderful summer, to both the flabulicious and the abtastic muffintoppers. See you at the sale rack….ready, set , GO!

In spandex,

MTM

######################################

So, it’s that time again.

I dare you. Tell me what’s worse than bathing suit shopping?

That’s what I thought.

I’m going away on my vacation/relocation in three weeks. (Come on. It ain’t a true vacation with three kids 4 and under in tow! I’ll be lucky if I get to read a cereal box never mind a trashy mag.)  I’ve already 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 the wii Fit beatch in an attempt to undermine my healthy self esteem???????)

Nah.

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 July 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.) Listen up 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!!!

THE SUIT COSTS HOW MUCH?????

“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…look it up), 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

either.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t even say it.

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

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

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

Heard it.

Tried it.

NO. 

No, homies, no!

WHATEVER!

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

Chub rub.

What? You might have known my thighs rub together!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bunch of bull$hit! Playas.

The GRANDE shorts should say this:

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

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

It took me until I already had two boys and one on the way to figure it out:

There comes a point in every parent’s life when they are backed into such a corner, they are rendered speechless.

For me, it happened in the bathroom at Costco.

There I was, all high on the thrill of buying in bulk (753 rolls of toilet paper and a 25 pound ham? Yes, please!), when my son, then all of three and newly potty trained, announces he has to go. Pregnant, I tell my husband, I’ll take him because I have to go, too. (I have the world’s smallest bladder. Look it up on Wikipedia, you’ll see.)

So he goes to the bathroom, and then I go and I’m pretty much squatting because while Costco sells lovely things in funtasticly large packages, mummy doesn’t sit on no public toilet.

TMI alert: Since I’m pregnant it’s more like I’m standing with my butt protruding back, praying I don’t topple over since my center of gravity is off, and tinkle down my leg. This fear is totally justified as I’m the klutziest person ever to roam planet earth. (Smallest bladder. Klutziest. You can admit it:  Right now you’re so wondering what’s up with my husband. I have other fine qualities. I do!) 

I JUST WANT TO TINKLE. IS THAT SO WRONG?

Anyway, my son is standing there, just watching. Suddenly he pipes up:  “Mummy, you stand to pee?”

 “Um, well, I guess so…”

“So you have a peanut?”

 “No, buddy, Mummy doesn’t have a penis.”

  “Well, what do you have then?”

Crickets.

 “Mummy, what DO you have then?”

Oy! Is this the world’s smallest cross examiner or what? I guess I’ll have to save for law school and they’ll be no money left for retirement. Forget the fancy assisted living with the bar and the bus trips to the casino. I’ll be bagging groceries and living in his basement when I’m 90—if I’m lucky. Oh please, marry someone kind and compassionate, son!

 “Mummy doesn’t have a penis, buddy,” I repeat.

 “You have a bum bum…?”

 “Yes, I have a bum bum.”  (Oh yeah, mummy got back!)

Giggles in the next stall, no doubt from a mother of girls. Yeah? I’ll get the last laugh, honey, when your daughter is 13 and wants to pierce her navel. HA!

 “Oh! You go pee pee from your bum bum!”

He’s got me.

But of course,  it didn’t end there. It never does.

A few days later, at home (mercifully!) he broaches the subject again.

 “Mummy, it’s OK you don’t have a peanut.”

Phew. I had been missing that peanut my whole life. How have I come this far in life without one?

 “Yeah, it’s OK, bud.”

 “Hey—I know! We can go get you one at the peanut store!”

Hmmm. Should I be worried that my three year old thinks a penis can be purchased, like a Transformer or bubbles or diapers, at the store? What does that say about our materialistic culture, that he thinks anything can be bought on plastic at the local Target? How in the world (cough) did I give him that impression?

 “Buddy, it’s OK. Really, I don’t need a penis.”

 “Oh…you have something else then?” Lighten up with the cross examination, Gloria Allred! This is above my pay grade!

Crickets.

 “What DO you have mummy?”

 “Hey Honey,” I call to my husband. “Your son has a question for you!”

Back up, that’s what I’ve got, Buddy.
 
 

**A variation of this essay was originally published in Parent: Wise Austin, April 2011. Great mag–check it out!