I mean it. I want to live in a catalog. Just for a day, I want to escape to the land o’ catalogs. Where the sun always shines. The kids never cry. The mom twirls in the kitchen in her $150 khakis. And the dad hangs the flag with junior on the wide, front porch with the perfectly coordinated wicker furniture and plantings.

The people in catalogs just look so…. happy. It’s not that I’m not happy. As I said before, minus my husband having an aversion to replacing the toilet paper roll (Please refer to, “Seriously? This is my life?”) and realizing I live in a frat house (Ditto for, “Oh no! I think I live in a frat house!”) I’m beyond fortunate.

But the catalog people? Oh yeah, they’ve really got it going on. They’re always flashing day glow toothy smiles about something—like they have some fun inside joke the rest of us aren’t privy to. They always have on stylish clothes that fit just right, not a hair out of place. You don’t see any of those catalog moms rocking the muffin top with spit up on their shoes.  Nobody has on a baseball hat with fringe sticking out because the kids started cockadoodledooing at 5 a.m. If they have a hat on it’s not a baseball hat and it’s on purpose—it’s strategically placed with just the right amount of styled—but not too styled—hair peeking out. And roots? Come on. Junk in the trunk? Um, no. Hello! Pick up a catalog lately? Do yourself a favor—don’t!

The catalog kids frolic in playrooms furnished more beautifully than my house, and none of the toys are strewn about like a stage five hurricane ripped through (please refer to photo above). All the kids color on paper—not on the walls. Nobody crawls into the pull out drawer under the stove and throws all the cookie sheets on the kitchen floor and then clangs them together the minute an adult conversation is attempted. Nobody unravels the toilet paper down the hall, squirts toothpaste in the toilet or boots up their dinner.

Nobody is screaming. Or crying. Or screaming crying.

“Is everything okay over there?” asks your kid’s doctor.

“Oh fine, just fine! Yup. Totally. ” Can you write prescriptions for grown ups? What’s it gonna take? $25 smackers? An even fitty? A c-note? Do you take plastic? What can you get me? And when?

“Oh, because it sounds like you’re having work done in your house. Are you having work done?” Because if not? I’m pretty sure you’re running an illegal daycare or are living in a McDonald’s play land. Where’d I put that number for social services again….

Sigh.

“No. Heh. Just the boys engaging in some spirited play! And that little one? Well, he sure has found his voice!” **Grits teeth.** These rugrats kick it up on command I tell you. They see the phone and they go all Pavlov on my ass—automatically screeching like hyenas in the outback. Or tweens at a Jonas Brothers concert. Or cougars at a Twilight movie. What-ever!

That would so never happen in a catalog. Never. Ever.

The catalog families never have a dated kitchen or a shingle loose. Emerald lawns are as perfectly groomed as their owners. Adorable puppies snuggle by fires on doggie beds that are nicer and cost more than my duvet cover! The catalogers throw parties outside on impeccable brick patios, where coordinating linens, glassware, and dinnerware adorn fancy pants tables made of exotic woods. They play lawn games like croquet. They sail on ginormous yachts (with those adorable puppies and angelic kids again)! But..rest assured it’s never too windy to muss up their hair!

You know what though? On second thought, I don’t want to live in a catalog. Not even for a day. The catalog people look way too perfect to be any fun. Smug even. Superior.

And if that’s superior, then I’m fine with inferior.

Yes I am!

I can hear you. I can. You’re sneering….jealous much?

NO! Who me? I am not. Oh no I’m not!

Yeah, they look good. They probably don’t shout. Or swear. Or shout swears. Or drink out of a red plastic cup on their Target chair on their hastily stained deck. They definitely don’t know how to score a bargain or belly up to a bar. They probably fold all their clothes right when they come out of the dryer. I’m sure they never mix whites and darks. They’d never eat a row of Thin Mints. Or three. They never screech stuff like, “Where the HELL did the bread tie just go? I JUST HAD IT RIGHT HERE!” I bet their socks never get eaten by the dryer either.

They’re…. “the beautiful people”.

Rat bastards.

They’re the croquet to my wiffle ball. The caviar to my hummus. The Banana Republic to my Merona. The Ketel One to my Bud Light. The…the…scone to my muffin. Top.

Pfft. Who needs ‘em? I might like to visit their world for an hour or two. But I ain’t staying. It’s just doesn’t seem that fun. I’m just keeping it real.

Care to join?

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 my husband 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!

It finally dawned on me. I live in a frat house.

I didn’t plan to live in a frat house. I didn’t want to live in a frat house. When I got married and bought beautiful furniture and excitedly brought home paint swatches and fabric samples, I wanted to live in a picture from Better Homes and Gardens.

Three boys, two houses, countless hacked up baseboards and dinged walls later, I realize that’s a virtual impossibility. I’ve come to grips with the scratches on my china cabinet and the dents on my fridge and my oven (FINE! I might have accidentally kicked the oven when I burned the chocolate chip cookies one pregnant night.) What? I had a craving!

 My coffee tables are bare; my kitchen table, sadly naked. Most of the household accessories….have indefinitely retired to the basement. My tv stand is missing the doors because someone tried to hang from them, or on them, or…yeah, I actually don’t even know what he tried to do to them, but suffice it to say….the stand is now shabby chic minus the chic. Thanks fellas!

Then there’s the leather couches. When I say the leather is buttery….I don’t mean because it’s soft…I mean…they really might be buttery on any given night. Twice now (how dumb am I that there was even a second time?) I’ve left a stick of butter out on the kitchen counter to soften, only to find my two year old smearing it into the leather couch.  They’re scratched and worn and are slowly becoming discolored in places (that we bought them off the cement floor at BJ’s Wholesale Club in conjunction with a pack of diapers, a 500 pound drum of pretzels and a 30 pack might exonerate the boys on that one…..)

I can deal with all that. I’m totally over the whole Better Homes and Gardens thing. That’s not real life. Hey, if I’m not gonna look like I walked off a photo shoot (please see, “THIS IS JUST NOT RIGHT”), why should my poor house be expected to? I know my home isn’t my own now, nor should it be. A home with kids should be lived in and be comfy–and hopefully still look relatively good, too. I want my house to be a fun place where my kids feel like they can bring their friends, where everyone feels welcome.

When I had my third ultrasound and realized I was having another boy, I knew my visions of pink and green sundresses were over. There would be no Princess Barbies or patent leather Mary Janes. With no pink on the horizon, I thought I prepared myself for a life of Transformers and Spiderman, mud pies and bugs (help). It hasn’t been hard—they’re adorable, easy to love, and so much fun….despite the occasional broken picture frame or culprit dancing on a table.

I can sort of wrap my head around this place turning into a little boys club. But I did NOT sign up to live in a frat house!

The other day, when my four year old said he had to go potty and I heard some major hooting and hollering coming from the bathroom, I realized you can never really be prepared. I’m really in for it.

My son was on the toilet while my two year old was stomping up and down (think Lucille Ball in the grape crushing episode) with his brother’s Power Ranger tighty whiteys on his head as they both laughed hysterically.

“YUCK!” I shrieked. “Get those off your head. Disgusting!” I admit it though, it was kinda funny, in a completely gross/ wrong Vince Vaughan/Will Ferrell movie kind of way.

But I had to ask myself, if this is what they’re doing NOW, what’s next? And what is this house going to look like when I have three teenage boys? And never mind look…what’s it gonna smell like? EEWW. Febreze…I’m so very sorry I trash talked you in my coupon post!

A  girl’s gotta put her foot down sometimes. And today, was one of those times.

I was changing my two year olds diaper—something I’ve done more times then I want to know— and he started hollering to his brother in the other room, “Come see! Look at dis! Look at dis!!”

OH.MY.GOD.

He was trying to show off his poop! He was proud…of his poop! (And if he’s that damn proud he can show it off in the toilet and not in a diaper, thank you very little.)

That….is just not right. All of sudden I have a frightening flashback from college. One of my housemates from college recounted a story to us girls that her boyfriend’s roommates at Harvard showed off their #2’s to each other sometimes! (At Harvard they do this. At Harvard! Don’t you kind of think you’ve done something right in the child rearing department if your kid gets into Harvard? But no! Guys are guys and if some of society’s most intelligent are doing this at Harvard then can’t I logically deduce all hope is lost?)

 Yet, I still assumed I would never—could never— raise such a son!  But he beat out the Harvard boys by about 20 years.

This just proves…..that my two year old is more advanced than a Harvard undergrad….or…that a  Harvard undergrad has the maturity of a two year old… or….doing foul stuff when you’re a boy is just inherent!

I think I’m just gonna put all my cute accessories in a pink padded room in the basement….moms of boys….feel free to join!

Holy (insert your favorite swear word here—this blog is for you!)!!!!

I just realized I’ve been blogging for almost a year! Though I am prone to overexclamate (!!!!!), it’s my bloggity blog bloggerversary (!!!!!!!) and I’ll overexclamate if I wanna! And I wanna!!!!!

Reflecting back on my year o’ blogging, I’ve come to a few conclusions:

1. So far this gig isn’t making me rich. (Crikey. I was totally eyeing that waterfront property down the Cape, too. I was maybe gonna get ca-razy and buy a kegerator and some matching chaises. You were SO gonna be invited. And when the police came looking to break up a bunch of 20 year old guys, I was gonna be all, “Surprise! Don’t you be profiling me now! Middle aged mamas in da house! Woot!”) This joke is not going to make me popular at Thanksgiving.

2. It ain’t making me famous. (Ed Burns and Ellen still won’t return my calls. What the frack is that about?)

The good news though?

 During this past year of rocking the muffin top, I’ve come to know so many wonderful new friends, both in person and online…other bloggers, other moms, and just random people (yes, even a few dudes!) from right in my town to halfway around the world. Had I not started this whole thing, I would not have had the pleasure of meeting so many of these peeps. It’s been such a fun ride and I so appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read, comment, subscribe and/or  ”like” the muffintopmommy page on Facebook. I’ve received so many well wishes, work out tips, crock pot recipes (Um…yummy?), and come to realize, I am not the only person who spends half the household budget at Tarjay and wants to punch the Kohl’s cashier/traffic cutter/ice cream man in the face! (Good to know! Hell would be lonely without friends.)I learned there are far too many of us out there who can’t tinkle alone and a good deal of you who will fight to the death for your soda. City of Boston, be damned! And Jillian Michaels? Her callous words about body image struck a nerve with so many of my readers of all shapes and sizes.

Would I like to be richfamoushaveabookdealandanAliceBradytocomeatwitchinghourandmakemyfamilyporkchops? Yes, yes I would. LOVE! (But the plastic grass backyard, not so much. How much of a lazy ass were Mike and the boys that they couldn’t take care of and mow some freaking real grass. Did Carol and Alice have to do everything?!)

Would I love to have earned more than roughly 47 cents the past year from blogging? Yes. There’s more money in my seat cushion. Great news though! I don’t owe ANY income tax on it. MINE, MINE, ALL MINE Feds!!! Three more cents, and I’m halfway to Twix-ville. Oh yeah.

Anyway, in celebration of my dentist vacation appointment  tomorrow, and since it was my very first blog post, enjoy!

Being a mom to three boys four and under doesn’t leave much time for r and r. Don’t get me wrong. I love being a mom, but I’m no martyr—everyone needs a break now and then. Since this gig is 24/7, I have to take what I can get, when I can get it.

I used to dream of all inclusive vacations to the Caribbean….now I linger by the pineapples in produce and hum, “One love, walla walla wall-aaaaa.”  (I believe in the business world, this is called a “paradigm shift”.) Either way, I relish my solo trips to places like the grocery store and the dentist for the glorious taste of freedom that they are.

Everyone seems to grumble about going to the dentist. The dentist gets a bad rap, but I’m here to tell you, that’s totally undeserved. For one thing, unlike the doctor, the dentist does not make you strip down and wear a decidedly unfashionable, cold paper johnny….(hi, you’d think in New England they could at least make them out of fleece and not flipping coffee filter material…how about not adding insult to injury, doc?) At the dentist, you get to keep the clothes on your back and the shoes on your feet. YOU decide how fashionable or unfashionable you want to be!

Another bonus, the dentist so does not care what you weigh!! You don’t need to cower in your paper gown, waiting for the nurse to come in, bark out your weight, and record it for all eternity in a chart you can’t even see! At the doctor, they take your blood, your urine—they take, take, take—and then tell you nothing (except maybe lay off the Oreos, Chubs!) At the dentist, everything they do is an open book….they take your x-rays, slap ’em up on the screen, and tell you what’s up right then and there.  Bam! You get to know all your teeth biz….no lines, no waiting, no calling back to chase results. And, you leave with a gift, every.single.time. I love prizes! Who doesn’t want a shiny new toothbrush?

But the best part?  The dentist’s waiting room is a virtual smut magazine bonanza—People, US, OK!…oh yeah, they’ve got it going on. And since they’re bound to run late, you can catch up with all the latest Brangelina biz in peace! Hmm…we might be on to something here….flossing, good bye. I’m taking my chances for an extra dental visit!!!

I mean, everyone knows the dentist is the one who has the all the good trashy mags….you go to the ob and fuhgettaboutit….it’s all Healthy Pregnancy this and Being a Good Mom that……ahh….no thannnnk youuuuuuuu! Too late and……well, the jury’s still out. Either way, not how I want to spend my few moments of glorious freedom. (While I love love love my OB and all her partners, their choice in reading material, as well as gowns, is dubious.)

So who wants to meet me in the deli line or the dentist’s waiting room, say Friday, 7-ish?