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!”

I ONLY KNOW SHOPPING HELPS. IT DOES!

After my Jillian Michael’s post and the passionate responses it provoked, and with Mother’s Day here, I can’t seem to get this whole motherhood thing off my mind. (Of course, it could be the three boys five and under hanging from my leg, refusing to let me TINKLE alone.)

There was a time I never thought I’d be a mom. And Mother’s Day, though I have a mother I love dearly, was an excruciating reminder I might never be one.  And yet, it was all around me. A painful larger than life indication that something wasn’t quite right with me and no one (no experts, no talk shows, no magazines, no books, and no well meaning friends and relatives…) seemed to know how to fix it. Not a Harvard degreed doctor. Not my ever loving husband. Least of all me. And for that? I felt like a bit of a failure, even though I realize it was undeserved.

I’m not a numbers girl so I don’t know what the statistics are. I have no clue how many women can’t get pregnant who want to get pregnant. Not sure they even track it. It’s pretty personal for a lot of women. After my first miscarriage my ob-gyn told me she had had one too, and that having one was sort of like being in a secret sorority you never wanted to join.  If you can’t get pregnant, or you can but you keep miscarrying, you feel like you’re the only one. And when it seems like every friend, co-worker, and neighbor is having babies, though you’re genuinely happy for them, it stings that you can’t share in the happiness and good fortune.

So when I drove home (in the midst of my years long bout of infertility) with my husband after attending a wedding out of state and the toll collecter innocently beamed, “Happy Mother’s Day!”, I knew he meant well, but I just slunk deeper into my seat after wanly offering a “thanks”. (Can you imagine the line that would have formed behind me had I attempted to set him straight?) It’s the Northeast. We might have been able to hug it out in the midwest, but not the Northeast!

Sometimes, I think it’s the people who mean well who make it worse. It would always seem like it was some woman who had like 37 kids and got pregnant every time her husband glanced her way who would say stuff like, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out!”  (Well, how do you know? You are fertile fricking Mrytle running your own personal Von Trapp family!) After a while, it starts to sound glib. You’re like, “Platitude Patty. Shut it! You don’t know from standing on your head, facing east, during a full moon, every odd numbered day, while experimenting with shots of Robitussin trying to get prego!”

Then there’s the person who assumes you have no kids by choice, like the random new dentist you go to take care of your TEETH lest the rest of you fall apart too, and he asks if you have kids and replies…”Yeah, we didn’t want to have kids either. Good for you!” (Um, no? Assume much? Just….no. Good for YOU, not me. P.S. Your getting to know you new patient spiel needs work.)

The armchair doctors who offer you unsolicited “advice” at cookouts are fun. It’s always a good time when someone you barely know brazenly blurts after a few adult beverages, “Wow. You’ve been married for a while. What are you waiting for, a fire? Why don’t you have some kids already!” (Really? Why don’t I duct tape your mouth shut, moron. Never mind that some people don’t want kids, which is perfectly fine, but either way, if you don’t want them or are having a hard time getting pregnant, not your biz, blowhard!)

I had a long, strange trip to motherhood, but I learned what my marriage and I are made of. The challenge didn’t drive us apart, it brought us closer together. We never gave up on each other, or on our goal of becoming parents. Regardless of how I got here and who I had to encounter along the way, I am so honored to be a mom. My kids don’t define who I am as a person, but I do believe they make me a better one. Through them, I see things for the first time all over again. It’s shocking and fantastic how they each have their own distinct, awesome little personalities. Their energy is boundless. Their love is limitless, generous, and unconditional. It was a crazy road to get here, and I’m so thankful I made it. I feel lucky and blessed.

But I’m honored to be their mom every day, not just on Mother’s Day. And so while I love the day and enjoy the special attention, every Mother’s Day my heart tugs for those who can’t celebrate, but want to so badly. To those women I want to say, there are people who get it, and don’t ever give up. The secret sorority is larger than we’ll ever know. No one person knows what the future brings (and if they say they do they’re full of S*&^!). If you’re like me, the path to get where you’re going might take more twists and turns than you ever imagined. No one has that crystal ball. (Ok, actually, some do but that one in Ogunquit, Maine told me I was having two boys and a girl. WRONG! So don’t be trolling for info there. That crystal ball is straight up busted.) I think you gotta keep on putting one foot in front of the other….trying, hoping, wishing, planning, shoe shopping. (Ok, shoe shopping is very therapeutic. I stand by shoe shopping. Always.) I sincerely hope you find the peace and happiness you deserve, and that some day someone will be wishing you a Happy Mother’s Day.

(And if you see that guy from the cookout…..I think it’s about time someone spit in his drink. Just a thought. If you feel inclined….)

Damn right I'm pissed! I am muffintopmommy---hear me roar!!!!

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The sales clerk at Kohl’s is disarming.

She’s straight out of central casting with her ashy bob, big old glasses with the stringy things dangling, hip length cardigan over Little House on the Prairie skirt, turtleneck—the whole shebang screams quilting bee or grandma, circa 1984.

So when she participates in the light banter, “Hi, how are you, yada, yada, nice day, blabbity blah…” BAM! You don’t even see it coming.

“Do you have a Kohl’s charge, dear?’

Oh crikey, here we go. They ALL do it. Sears, Kohl’s, even my beloved Tarjay. You know the drill. They try to get you to open up one of their credit cards.

I’ve worked my fair share of retail jobs in the past and the masses are ASSES so I’m always polite. I know the boss man is making them tow the line on the ccard spiel and for a minute, I feel badly grandma is having to pitch the plastic.

“No, no I don’t.” (Sighs inside.)

“Well, GREAT NEWS!!! If you open one up TO-DAY you can save 10% on your order!” Whoa! That was some burst of energy, grandma. She must be spiking her Earl Grey with Red Bull. Damn.

“No, I don’t think so, thank you anyway.”

“Are you SURE? Don’t you want to save 10% TODAY!? You’d be missing out on a great opportunity!” Whoa. She’s borderline cell phone mall kiosk right now. I start to shuffle in place a little.

“I’d love to save 10% today, or, let’s see, roughly $4.55, but I know ultimately I’ll spend more if I open the card.” Yo, I’m no MIT grad, but I know 22 bazillion percent interest wipes out $4.50 pretty damn fast.

“Well, if you open one TODAY, you will get more opportunities to save throughout the year in the form of coupon mailers!” Scratch mall kiosk. She’s got Xerox copy salesperson written all over her. Quilting bee my ass. Granny’s a ringer.

“That sounds wonderful, but I don’t think so. I know I’ll forget the coupon, sit on the coupon, someone will crayon on the coupon, wipe their nose with the coupon, and I’ll never use the coupon. Meanwhile, I’ll be paying 22 bazillion percent interest on my $45 dollar–no sorry, with my 10% off, $40 purchase. And that, to me, is some fuzzy ass math!”  I just said ASS to grandma. Hold the phone. This is getting oogly.

Now it’s on. I’m trying to be polite because I’m all “respect your elders”, but I JUST wanna get my Sonoma on and go. When will she stop? When? NO MEANS NO! Context clues, grandmother. My body language is screaming ants in my pants. Meanwhile, my moments of glorious freedom sans kids are slipping away as I’m engaged in verbal tug of war. She must be into the Bingo hall for some serious cabbage because I see no clear escape route.

Momentarily, I consider screaming, “Uncle!” and signing up for the stinking credit card. I’m starting to feel like I’m on Dateline. I can hear Chris Hansen’s melodic voice, as the camera pans over a vile third world prison, telling the sad tale of the asshat American tourist who does something stunningly stupid in a foreign land, and under duress after hours of intense questioning by unscrupulous foreign authorities, signs something that says he committed atrocities. Or in this case, a high interest rate store credit card application.

But wait! Then I remember the frosted hair and the big, toothy grin and the finger wag. Suze Orman! On the Today Show last week! She said NOT to EVER open one of these because it will lower my FICO score and what if I want to get a new mortgage or open a small business this month!?

“NO! Ma’am, I’m sorry, but no. And I’ve really got to be going. I have a meeting with my parole officer!” Yeah! The kid is back!

“Well, all-righty then, I just wanted to help save you some money today, ma’am.” Like hell corporate shill. I bet you work for Amway on the side!

And Ma’am. The final straw. The old bat called ME ma’am.

So Betty, Mildred, Bea, whatever your alias is, YOU get the first ever, STFU Sammie award!! Respect the top. NO MEANS NO!

Look into credit repair companies when trying to fix your credit.

NOOO!! Don't make me do it!!

With everyone buzzing about the Oscars tonight, I have a confession to make. I could give a chocotini who wins what. I’m a woman. I have a pulse. So hellz yeah I’m vaguely interested in what everyone’s wearing. But more than anything, I wonder—glitz and glam aside—how do all the beautiful peeps feel in their clothes. Like the bourgeouis dress me up clothes, they can’t be comfy, right?

Granted, the bp’s have much better duds, much better bods, and are much more poised than your aver-ahhhge hausfrau who has to forage for dresses at suburban Macy’s (gasp!). Pretty sure they don’t pretend running up stairs to fetch babies out of cribs constitutes cardio. (The mystery of the muffin top, revealed.)

To me? Getting dressed up is savage. It’s cruelty of the worst kind. It’s a crime against women perpetuated at every wedding, cocktail party, fundraiser, bar mitzvah, and work party. It doesn’t discriminate. If you’re a woman, you suffer. Period.

Seriously? Tell me there is anything worse than getting dressed up when you’re a woman.

I’m wai-ting.

You’ve got nothin’, right?

That’s what I thought.

Of course we feel good when we’re all gussied up, because looking good always feels good. It’s a confidence boost to know you’re looking your best and hey, having people say it out loud makes it all the better. And when People mag says it, well hot damn, you really are a bp. (But so far, despite being a loyal subscriber and avid reader, I’ve not received such accolades. I suppose since being a famous bp is looking unlikely, the only way I might make Peep is if I have like a dozen more kids and parade them on reality tv. Ehhh. I’m thinking no, my hair just can’t take those harsh extensions.)

See, if you’re like me at a social event, the glow of pretending I’m walking the red carpet wears off by appetizers and by then? I’m crying inside. Dying inside. 1,000 tiny muffin top deaths.

I’m hobbling to the ladies room hoping I don’t fall flat on my arse, or worse, my face. The entire time I’m waffling about when I should dare “powder my nose” because once I hit the loo, I’m not entirely sure I can put myself back together again. Somewhere between my bladder going numb and fearing I won’t be able to speed wobble in heels fast enough to get to said lavatory, I break down. For me, that’s after one drink. You read that right, one. Uno. A drink. One drink. (Thank youuuuuuuuuuu, labor and delivery!) Labor and delivery, 3. Muffintopmommy, ZE-RO. (It’s a damn good thing there’s a cute prize at the end of labor and delivery!) That’s right, I said it. And the Oscar for World’s Smallest and Weakest Bladder goes to….muffintopmommy!

WWBD? What would Brangelina do? Does Brangelina stress about creeping to the toilette? Just because you’re rich and faboo, doesn’t mean that you can ignore when nature comes a calling. But when it seems like all eyes are you on all the time, when do you go? How do you discreetly sashay from your seat to the lav in a jam-packed, televised event? And when you make it to the potty in all your fabulousity, who else is in there and what’s the chatter about? Do you think Angie is shifting her weight, crossing her legs, and tapping her foot praying Susan Sarandon hurries the hell up and gets out of the stall? Do you think she’s bitching about the line and grousing about her uncomfy Stuart Weitzman’s to Sarah Jessica and Mo’nique?

Because I know when I’m out, there’s no way I’m alone in all this. Even the skinny girls are kvetching in the bathroom about their pain and suffering, and you know they don’t have on half the under-ammo-cammo I’ve got going on. And while I’ve never walked in anyone else’s shoes, don’t stilts support 100 pounds much easier than (more than that, okay, just…. more than that!). I’m no physicist so that could be erroneous information. But still!

Regardless of size and shape though, we women all bear the dress up burden. I defy you to prove anyone–famous or not— really feels comfortable in high heels, dresses that bind and undergarments that truthfully, I think—nay, I know, the CIA could use to interrogate terrorists. Forget the whole waterboarding debate. You want a guy to talk? Stuff him like a sausage into casing with female muffin top reducing undergarments, shove him into two inch heels, force him to stand, smile and make idle small talk for hours on end while plying him with miniature foodstuffs and booze, reduce his bladder capacity and lengthen the men’s room lines, and…and wait…and then? Wait some more. Bitch’ll be crying like a school girl before the dessert cart is wheeled out. Oh, and do it in a cold climate, because in addition to the aforementioned flaws, bear in mind that most of women’s fancy schmance attire is not at all warm. (Hello, sleeveless dresses in winter in New England? What about that is not torture?)

You want Osama bin Laden? Just borrow some of my undergarments and shoes. I can picture it now…..

CIA OPERATIVE: “I’m going to put you in this support garment and these heels, and YOU WILL tell me everything you know!

BAD TERRORIST GUY: “No! No! No! I know what that’s about. You did it to my friend from the training camp! You will not do it to me. I’ll talk! I’ll talk. I’ll taaaaaallllkkkk!”

Sorry, but the Feds are overlooking some very valuable tools they readily have at their disposal. As a proud American, I’m ready and willing to answer the call to duty by emptying out my closet on a moment’s notice to help secure our nation.

I am that selfless. Yes, yes I am.

(Do you think Peep would interview me about my heroic plan to protect the nation?)

Either way, CIA, you know this plan is bitchin’. Cawl me. I’m in the book!

Oh, honey! That ain't gonna be big enough!

I love me some shopping in bulk.

Shopping in bulk makes me go boom. Yes, I’ve already established my first love is, and always will be, Target—my life, my passion, my love! Shopping warehouse style is not the light, bright, “cheap chic” social hour shopping experience of Tarjay. Still, something about buying in bulk puts some bounce in my butt. Something about cradling a 36 pack of individually wrapped cookies in the middle of a suburban concrete shopping jungle makes me wanna shout, “SNACKTASTIC!!!”

The warehouse club? It’s momma’s playground.

Warehouse “clubbing” (Yeah, new rules. New definition of clubbing. What? People call me ma’am now. I can’t go into a real club without looking like I’m missing from a bingo hall. Come on, you know I’m more Irish pub anyway.) is pure shopping A.D.D. Or is it A.D.H.D.? Either way, it’s sensory overload in the biggest, most funtabulous way. It’s awesomeness in a box. A big, big, biggity big ass box. Everything is bigger. And better. And did I mention bigger? How do you not get sucked into paying a few bucks more than you would at a regular store to get a much larger quantity of something? This is to speak nothing of the vast range of goods and services all housed under one ginormous warehouse roof for your shopping convenience.

Leather furniture purchased in conjunction with a 200 pound drum of pretzels and a 30 pack of beer is what I call EEEE-fficient? And well? The ability to test out the sofa with beer and pretzels in sight? Now you are singing my song! Take THAT Ethan Allen!

Like Tarjay, there’s a $100 cover charge–$200 if you don’t keep your head down and your wits about you. When you walk in the door and grab two supersize boxes of diapers and a box of wipes (Sorry environment, I double pinky swear I’m so getting you back when everyone in this joint is potty trained!), you’re pretty much there. And that’s before you sample the jalapeno/artichoke/dip/spread on the new!/flatbread/toasty/bread/thingys or spy the 500 count daily mega vitamins for women–totally worth the price. (Health before wealth!) Speaking of 500 count? Give me summa those 500 count thread count sheets! (Oh, you’re dead to me Bed, Bath and Beyond, you’re so dead to me. 20% coupon? Pfft…Thanks for playing!)

 ”I just know if I get some cute new workout pants it will really inspire me to get my Richard Simmons on,” I whisper out loud. ”But, build me up butter cup! Is that a vat of olive oil the size a gallon of milk? A must have for a gourmet chef such as myself!”   Barefoot Contessa? You better put some shoes on woman, because I be coming for you! Fresh herbs? Bring it. I have  a year’s supply of EVOO and cumin for $14.99! And Giada, watch your back, girl–you and your beloved pancetta (I’m sorry, I mean, pannncheeet—ttaaaahh.) Yeah, me be getting some of that in bulk. So suck it!

30% off books? Should we take one more whack at the crock pot? I mean, 1,001 crock pot recipes for only $9.99–there’s gotta be something good! (Yeah….probably not..remember? Nothing good comes out of a crock pot!) 50% off cards? Oh squeeeee! Happy birthday to meeeee!

Need new tires? Have them put on while you snack on a  jumbo dog or ice cream while you shop for…face cream? Ray-Ban polarized sunglasses? Small appliances? Big appliances? And more! Oh, so much more! Deeeep breaths….deeeep breaths. Wait! I know! A yoga mat!

Every day could be a party at the warehouse club. With all the free tasty treat samples, they’re halfway to margaritaville!  Just uncork some of that wine in aisle 12 and call momma a cab! Who needs a club? Crank up the Bose in aisle 7 and we’ll get this party started. Sorry Pauly D, we’re beating up the beat without you, bro!

The worst part is, I’m so club crazy I have memberships to two different warehouse clubs. Costco I love for produce, meat, antibacterial wipes, and diaper wipes. Their frozen fish and wine is fab too, and last time the hubs got “lucky” there….no really, he did. But why do I have on dork jeans from Kohl’s today, but my husband is sporting Lucky jeans? Costco! Over the years, we’ve bought….a swingset.. a fridge.. a tv, too… oh, Costco, I’m just sooo in love with you! (But seriously? Selling fridges? That is kinda akin to a drug dealer selling you a container for your stash, no? I mean, I ended up buying so much meat, frozen fish, and drinks at Costco that we needed another fridge for the basement to store said bargains and OH, LO AND BEHOLD, crafty Costco happened to sell just the perfect one….I believe that’s called entrapment!)

But BJ’s, sweet BJ’s, I love you, too. So I guess I’m all about the two timing and some might even call me a warehouse ho. (Harsh, but true. I will slut around for the best deals.) But BJ’s is closer to my house, and carries diapers, food, and drinks the kids like. It also takes coupons. They send out their own every month–good ones too for like $1 to $10 that really add up–not these piddly ass buy five and save .35 cents nonsense—BJ’s plays to win on the coupon front. They also take  manufacturer coupons (but we all know how well those coupons usually turn out for me…remember?) But seriously, last week BJ’s sent me a friendly email saying based on what I purchased last year, I saved over $1,000 on grocery items alone. Whoa. If I saved a grand, what the hell did I spend? I know they thought they were being all smarty pants sending me that, but ho’ing it up big ain’t cheap apparently! Perhaps I should re-examine the thrill of buying in bulk?

And I will say I’ve figured out the hard way a bargain ain’t a bargain unless you really need it. I’ve been “Costcoed” and “BJ’ed” before. Have you? You get home and realize it’s not really cool to have two giant bottles of salad dressing that you don’t end up loving or 4,000 of the wrong size garbage bags. So I guess the lesson is, “caveat emptor” or let the buyer beware. Or I should say, bulk buyer beware! But… as long as you know the rules going in, oh what fun you’ll have playing the game!

*Hello muffintoppers! After I published my lovely, heartfelt poem the other day, some of you asked about the toilet paper rage?rant?grousing? from the poem. About three months ago, I first published this post. There are some similar themes as the poem, but it goes into….greater detail about my plight. Since many of you weren’t rocking the muffin top with us here at muffintopmommy a few months ago, I thought it was worth a second run….to ,um, help put things in perspective for the newer readers! If you’ve been following the blog since pre toilet paper roll rage, there will be a brand new post by the end of the week. Keep on reading and spreading the word of the muffin top!

Oh! And don’t forget to check out muffintopmommy on Facebook.

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Someone wake me up. Surely, this must be a dream?

Tell me I don’t live with a 40 year old adult who can’t put a new toilet paper roll on the hanger thingy?

WAIT.

Before we go any further, disclaimer… (Read: I’m about to bash the hubs just a teeny bit, and because I feel just a wee bit guilty I’m broadcasting it on the world wide web, I’m going to put down some nice stuff about him. And, if he wants to respond in kind, he can feel free to start his own blog, OR make amends for his transgression immediately!)

But I digress….I’m the first to admit I’m very fortunate to have the husband I do. Not only does he put up with my constant sassing and overall smartassishness, he tells me I look great even when I know sometimes THAT ain’t true. Better yet, he actually wields a mop. He even—without prompting, puts the toilet seat down. Does he bring me flowers? No, not often. He really doesn’t. But, he does bring me 12 packs, and truthfully, that’s because he gets it—that’s what makes mummy happy. So,yes! Yes! It’s true. The romance IS alive. ‘Nuf said.

But for the love of God in heaven above, why can’t the boy put a toilet paper roll on the hanger thingy? Tell me I’m imagining that. Please.

Please?

It’s not hard. (Please see exhibit A.) It’s not even one of the tricky ones built into the wall. You don’t have to exert even a sliver of effort pushing it to the one side and wait for it to spring back. You merely plop it on the hook thingamabob and done! It takes, I dunno, a second? Two if you’re in major slow mo?

I just don’t get it. I buy the toilet paper. I bring it home. I put extra rolls under the sink. It just needs to travel from under the sink to the hanger which is all of a foot away. Perhaps I should draw a map?

I know you’re not supposed to sweat the small stuff, blabbity blah blah blah. I know it. I know there are far greater transgressions in the world. But this is my world at the moment. Besides, you do the math. I have three little sons so I’m pretty outnumbered around here, and let’s face it, they’re going to be taking their potty cues from daddy. Three boys + one man – basic bathroom etiquette = one jacked up mama bear holding a gazillion empty toilet paper rolls forever and ever and ever! And ever.

After a long, exhausting Thanksgiving that included one family trip to the emergency room (not from my cooking, but thanks for your concern), having houseguests afoot and running to and fro serving food and schlepping drinks all day, I ran into the toilette to take a few moments to tinkle and this is what I find?

For whatever reason, at that moment, on that day, at that time, when all I wanted was 20 seconds to have a minute of quiet time to do the most basic of bathroom biz, I was enraged that, in the words of the great Elaine Benis, there was not a “square to spare”! Because really? That’s just a big FU! Am I right?

Doesn’t everyone, besides someone at huge rager of a college party, deserve a few squares? (Come on, you walk into that situation you know it’s every man… I mean, woman, for herself so no bellyaching. If it’s a good enough party you shouldn’t care if you have to drip dry anyway!)

Even prisoners get toilet paper.

So I sat there stewing for a minute. It was time for action.

I stomped into the family room and held up the evidence at hand.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I wailed, thrusting the sad, little empty roll in the air.

At which point, my husband looked at my brother, and they exchanged a knowing look. And then, they laughed.

Way too loud. And for way too long.

I stormed off, knowing I had lost the battle.

But some time, some day, I know I’ll hear a pleading call from the el bano, and then? Victory will be mine!