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!

Here we I go again.  Next to shopping for the elusive pair of perfect jeans, 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  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???????)

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 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.

SEE! SEE! EVEN THIS LITTLE GIRL GETS IT. THE MIRROR LIES! IT LIES I SAY!

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!!!

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…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

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!

READY OR NOT, HERE WE COME....

A friend of mine posted something on Facebook yesterday, and I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this: This past year was really fantastic for my family and me, for which I am grateful,  but it really kicked some of my dear friends in the ass, so see you later 2010—I’m over you.

Word.

I thought it was a brilliant way to sum up the year. And let’s face it. When the clock strikes twelve, and a new year is upon us, we don’t know what’s in store. It’s exciting. And it’s scary as hell. What 2011 will bring no one knows.

I hope if you had a wonderful year, your good fortune and blessings continue. I hope if 2010 kicked you in the gut, you kicked it the hell back, and this year you will find the peace and happiness you deserve.

I’ll leave you on a funny note…..apparently, many out there on the world wide web are having anxiety about procuring “muffin top undergarments” or “undergarments which reduce muffin top” for their big holiday bashes–at least if the random search phrases people use that land them on my blog (Accidentally and on purpose! Welcome one and all!) are any indication. The following is a blog post I wrote last year about muffin top undergarments, in case you weren’t along for the ride back then. Or, in case you were, and you just don’t hang on my every word. (Damn you, that was my goal for 2010!) In 2011, I say we all collectively say to hell with it……muffin top or not, let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we? After all, what’s the point if we can’t laugh about all this madness?

Spanx a lot, muffintoppers. It’s been great getting to know so many of you through your comments on Facebook and twitter and the blog.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

xox,

Muffintopmommy

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I bought an undergarment that claims to “reduce muffin top”.

First, I’d like to thank the undergarment company for letting me know I’m not alone in my tragic plight. The mere fact they are marketing a product that claims to reduce muffin top, means there’s dough to be made in the muffin top biz! Which means, I’m in good company! (Don’t even get all high and mighty with me…. you bet your booty misery loves company!)

At first I was relieved that help finally arrived —since I got a muffin top way before I even knew it had a name.

(I swear, I’ve had a muffin top since the third grade. Some girls got boobs in third grade, I got a muffin top. Ain’t genetics a bitch?!)

Point is, since I’ve had my muffo de topo since leg warmers and the Rubik’s Cube were all the rage, I’m thinking it’s here to stay (clearly, since I not so optimistically named my very own blog in its honor. Sigh.)

So, when I had to get all fancy pants for a special event, I knew I had to take drastic measures. Thus, I purchased the vile undergarment (for almost the same price as my dress. No, I am not kidding. What’s up with that? Can you say, stop extorting desperate muffintopistas, greedy undergarment purveyors!)

Despite initially skipping out of the store with glee, upon further reflection of my purchase, I couldn’t help but wonder…If you reduce muffin top and whittle your waist, where does the muffin top go? It can’t just vanish into thin air (and trust me if it did, I would so not be bitching about the price. I’d pay any amount. Anything. And I’d stop at nothing to get the cash. There’d be a series of stick ups at local Targets, I’d probably be caught, but damn if I wouldn’t look great in that orange jumper sans muffin top!)

Dare to dream.

Anyway…I’m no expert in physics, but I know if you squeeze something, it has to come back out, somewhere.

So… what then?

 The cold, hard truth? The muffin top comes out your underarms and your tush. (Yes, yes it does. And it’s not pretty. Don’t even try it at home.) And when you take off said undergarment, it’s like opening up a tube of crescent rolls—”POP!! Look out, thare she blows!”

I’m telling you, between the muffin top contraption and your other undergarments….it’s one big house of cards. One false move, and you are so going down. So unless you plan to stand like a statue all evening to hold in your newly acquired under- arm –muffin- top, the gig’s up.

Take my advice…..and please don’t shoot the messenger….there’s just no easy fix. You can reduce muffin top in two minutes flat, but you’re either going to explode, implode or seriously contemplate throwing the garment in the “feminine products only” trash receptacle in the bathroom stall at your event. (Tell me cleaning people do not find evil muffin top and gut sucking apparatuses tossed aside when they clean restrooms after events. I defy you to prove otherwise. I will go on record stating desperate muffin toppers across the US are being driven to ditch in droves.)

LIKE HELL, LADIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I tell you what, I am so traumatized from my run in with the garment, I am this close to being desperate enough to do crunches!!

I KNOW!!!

DON'T YOU WORRY. IT'S ALL UNDER CONTROL. NO, IT IS. IT IS!!!

I am not a professional.

I have no formal training–I’m left totally to my own devices. I don’t have enough time to complete my tasks and I’m woefully undercompensated. My under aged staff is completely uncooperative, thwarts my efforts, and asks for way too many snack breaks.

I’m talking about the housekeeping aspect of my current gig as a mom.

Let me be frank: I suck at it. (Don’t you find brutal honesty refreshing? Sorry mom, while you forbade me to say ‘sucks’ while under your roof, you also told me to always tell the truth. I believe that’s called a ‘quandary’.)

If it were my professional job, I’d definitely get written up. But since I spoon with the only other grown up in charge of this joint, there are never any real consequences, except for my own feelings of housekeeper inadequacy, or, as I prefer to say, ‘inadequas housekeeperis’. It’s the new Latin for, “You suck so bad at cleaning, no one would even hire you to clean for free!”

See, when I decided to stay home with my kids and quit my job, I decided I couldn’t justify paying for a cleaning woman when I was making zeros dineros. I figured, big deal, I’d be home, I could just do it. Well, that was before I realized little urchins would try to swim in the toilet as I cleaned it, eat crumbs from the dustpan as I swept, and hang on the vacuum and chomp on the cord. For real, people!

That’s when I proclaimed, “To hell with it! I’ll do it at night when they’re sleeping!”

And then? A little American Idol here, some blogging there, and the house, well, let’s just say it probably wasn’t the best sign when I started naming the dust bunnies. But yo, check it out—I finally got my girls. Mm hmm. (What? I’m not crazy. No, I’m not!)

I wonder if my cleaning woman knows I miss her so. (Do you think she misses me? Yeah, $90 every other week says probably not.) I keep hoping Santa will bring her back to me, but I guess I’ve just been too naughty. (Okay, get your mind out of the gutter. This is muffintopmommy, not Harlequin.)

Anyway, ‘hem, I keep threatening to form a cleaning union, but frankly, I’ve neither the time nor the inclination. I can’t even be passionate about my plight because I despise it so. I actually have friends who ENJOY cleaning. I do. I have it in writing and I’m not afraid to expose them. You know who you are, you sickos!

To me, enjoying cleaning something is just unfathomable. You might as well tell me you dig having pap smears, doing your taxes or running into your old nemesis–who is skinnier and better looking than ever. Come on now! I simply don’t believe you. I don’t.

I would rather shot gun a bottle of Lysol instead of clean with it.

 Hello poison control? Please stand by…..

Due to me being completely useless as a “homemaker” (Btw, what in the name of popcorn does that term mean anyway? Kind of overstating your ability there June Cleaver and the gang. You made your home my ass. Like you built the thing from scratch in that ridonkulous get up, sporting your pearls while you vacuum–it’s because of YOU I’m now inadequate–wet Swiffering only when completely necessary in my XL Merona sweats!)

What?

Gimme a break. Someone needed to say it. June set us all up to fail. And we think show nowadays are unrealistic? Bottom line: my home looks like a cyclone hit it some days and probably sounds like it, too.

Bite me, June.

SEE WHAT I MEAN? SEE! SEE! SHOWOFF!

I should clarify I do have some pride as my home is really more cluttery than dirty–even I have my standards. Between the toys and books and shoes and everyday junk it just sort of spirals at times. Now my husband—he seems to have higher standards than I, and has little appreciation for the squalor in which we currently live. (Probably watching too many reruns of the Beav. But fricking Ward only worked like 9 to 5 and had a five minute commute. Screw those Cleavers! I should also remind the hubs they shacked in twin beds.)

 I rest my case.

Like many hubs, I know he understands my primary goal is to take care of our kids, not our toilets. He definitely maybe knows I don’t sit around eating Bon Bons all day. (I don’t even know what a Bon Bon is–why are moms always accused of sitting around chowing on them? If I’m gonna nosh on anything all day, it ain’t gonna be no random Bon Bon. Salty snacks or bust, baby!)

No, he realizes I’m busy as a short order cook, bottle washer, tush wiper, clothing outfitter/laundress, grocery schlepper, driver extraordinaire, martyr! This, when I’m not reading to them, helping select their favorite on demand tv shows, Tarjay-ing, slurping coffee, and Facebooking. BUSY, BUSY, BUSY! Take that, June! I mean, honestly, without Facebook, twitter, online shopping, talk shows and Tarjay runs, no wonder June had nothing better to do than vac in pearls. And everyone knows moms back then trapped their kids in baby jail aka ‘play pens’. (Um, hello, pen…as in…penitentiary?) I actually let my kids out of the confines of an indoor four foot by four foot fencing and do stuff with them, June. I, and society, prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt before we send them down river to the clink.

The hubs does help with the cleaning, but he has no more free time than I do. But every now and then he’ll have a relative shit fit about the condition of our home, stomp his foot, and beg me to hire a cleaning woman.

Then I get on my dusty soapbox and say, “Listen moneybags, while this would thrill me to no end since I am the unfortunate one who cleans the toilets, how can we justify it when we’re on one salary? I feel like if we can find the money for that, then we should save it for something else, because we’re certainly not swimming in it!” At our fictitious summer home…sigh…pass me my Dunks coffee please….cream, one sugar.

“But hon, seriously. We have NO time to clean. I honestly think my throat is scratchy from all the dust. And think about the kids’ rooms–how much cleaner the air would even be!” He’s pulling out all the stops now—hitting below the belt saying even our AIR is dirty! And bringing the kids breathing into it, like I don’t have enough mothers’ guilt between on demand cable and cheap produce that isn’t organic!! Now I have visions of them gasping for breath during nap time. If I can’t clean hard surfaces adequately, how am I gonna clean AIR?

“Listen, I just don’t think this is in our budget right now. What don’t you understand?” We live in New Hampshire, not Fantasy Island, dear. Da plane? Not coming.

“We can swing it. We can. We’ll just get take out less.” Gasp! Does he NOT even know me? The husband giveth, but the husband taketh away? I beg your pardon, mtm don’t play that way! I’d rather scrub a nasty toilet used for potty training than lose my one true love, red chicken curry and siam rolls! It’s time to play hardball.

“Ok. You really want a cleaning lady? Which would you like to give up? Food or clothes?”

“Fine, Janet, you win.” I win? Kind of a hollow victory there, husband, when I walk away STILL having to clean wretched toilets, used mostly by people with “peanuts”, in the five minutes of spare time I currently have. Oooh Bob Barker, what do I win next? The chance to clean out the gutters? Yeah, let’s spin that wheel.

If he ever calls my bluff, btw, I’m thinking we’ll give up food, because then we’d look better in our clothes. Really, since I’m the lucky one who pays the bills (Another brilliant move…put the English major in charge of the finances…we are so never affording that fancy assisted living with the open bar. Damn.) that usually ends the debate until the next round of dust bunnies make their appearance.

At which point, I’m gonna put my feet up, turn up the volume on Idol and say, “Great to have you back, girls!”