So last week my fabulous friend and neighbor, Miss Indeedy, and I hit the road to New York City for BlogHer12. (Side note: when you meet someone and they instantly approve of you plotting the road trip around yummy delis and old skool pizza places? It’s time to cue up Mr. James Taylor because you? You’ve got a friend, girl.)

THIS IS MISS INDEEDY AND ME AT THE BLOGHER CHEESEBURGHER MICKEY D'S PARTY THE LAST NIGHT. NOTE OUR EYES ARE STARTING TO GLAZE OVER FROM BEER AND SMALL TALK.

As the name implies, BlogHer is a huge blogging network that started with three women in their kitchen in 2005 and ballooned into a gigantic community of bloggers who write about anything and everything you could possibly imagine. The conference is a fantastic opportunity to learn more about the latest technologies, to connect with awesome people from all over the world–and those who live in your back yard–who knew, and… to scope out everyone’s outfits, hair, and shoes. Did I mention it was almost 5,000 women? (Can I get a woot, woot for ES-TRO-GEN!) What else would I be looking at besides shoes and clothes? Okay, maybe the swag.

There were tons and tons of sponsors talking up their services and giving out product samples. Everything from Lysol to Wholly Guacamole to Go Bowling! to…em, ergh, choke, cough, look down at mah banged up knee, seexxxxxay toys. There. I said it. There is no proof I visited that booth. At all. Ever. And if you happen to think you see a picture of someone who sort of looks like ME at that booth, Bearded Iris is full of shizizy and, I happen to know, is down with Photoshop. Bless her heart.

I actually contemplated rocking some sensational journalism and titling this post, “I WENT TO BLOGHER12 AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY VIBRATOR!” as a JOKE, people, a JOKE, but what if, God forbid, my 79 year old mother actually buys a computer and reads this shit!!!

Kidding aside, the week leading up to BlogHer coincided with the print release of my book—naturally! In between trying to prepare for my online book promo and actually getting to hold a copy of Mommy Mixology: A Cocktail For Every Calamity (Now available wherever books are sold—meep!) in hand hours before I left (whee!), coupled with falling down trying on shoes (when is it NOT about the shoes???) and making a mad dash for clothes that didn’t scream “carpool line”, things got kinda crizazy up in this frat house!

If you missed the update on my Muffintopmommy page on Facebook, just know the knee thing might have been the lowpoint of the week:

“Remember when I said I would fall on my head if I wore heels? Well, tonight, I kinda did! Yes, trying on some wedge thingys at Off Broadway, I lost my footing on my bad foot, shrieked like Bieber, fell in a drunken looking downward dog and slammed down on my knee. My knee looks like I’m 10 and got banged up racing on my Huffy Sweet Thunder–bloody, raw, etc. But the worst part was I had to do all this–even though the store is the size of Fenway freaking Park, in front of this 20ish couple, and the boy-man, was all, “Are you okay, ma’am?” Which was a sweet/horrifying/humiliating taco to swallow! SIng with me now, “I’m sexay and I know it!” VIVA LA FLIP FLOP!!! Viva.la.flip.flop!!!!!”

Actually, the low point was in the update, in my 97 mph haste, I typed “heals” instead of “heels”. That misspelling? As of my fun grammar friends who knows me well pointed out, well, it hurt more than my banged up knee. I know there are larger crimes against humanity so I dusted myself off and hobbled off with my dignity intact. I am a good person and people like me!!! (And if you don’t, respect my love for grammar. Respect.the.love!)

All this to say? This is why I schlumped along at BlogHer in sensible shoes. The end.

Okay, not really. There was way more to the BlogHer12 trip than just shoes. Though with a conference full of females, shoes were integral, talked about often, and noticed by moi. One of the absolute highlights of BlogHer for me was getting to visit the glorious 6pm.com booth — one of my fave places to shop for shoes (And purses! And clothes! Oh my!). I’ve blogged and tweeted about them before because the deals are crazy. They are the sister site to Zappos. (You get it now. My work here is done.)

Some other things I learned about my whirlwind, four day trip to New York City for BlogHer:

1. When two different people in one day tell you you look 26 and 28, you should just go home. It ain’t gonna get any better than that. Never you mind it was in a dimly lit ballroom. Never! You! Mind! (Chubby cheeks are starting to grow on me. Wrinkle hiders! Wrinkle hiders!)

2. When you and your friend, Miss Indeedy, are told by another blogger, “Wow, you ladies are really chic…..for New Hampshire!” turn and laugh, because the woman actually…seemed nice and sincere. Living a whole fifty miles north of Boston, we have running water here! And electricity! And a Banana Republic!

3. The best conversations and connections always happen in the ladies room. Fact.

4. No matter where I go in the world, my arse will always find its way to a bar stool at an Irish bar, and at that Irish bar, its success or failure will be judged on the temperature of the beer and the friendliness of the bartender. (Upstairs. McGee’s. 240 W. 55th. Go! Upstairs is where the hilarious female bartender from Chicago works the wood.) (Chicago=Good People. Another fact. So fun to find one in NY.)

5. I still don’t know how to fold a god dang fitted sheet! Lemme ‘splain. One of the lunchtime speakers was none other than Martha Stewart. By the time Miss Indeedy and I got to lunch, it looked like a communist bread line. I’m not kidding! Due to my arse being planted on the aforementioned bar stool too late the night before, I was getting a little hangry (Hungry+ Angry= Hangry) while in line and wanted to run away. But Mommy, I mean, Missy, wouldn’t let me. I don’t get hangry often because, let’s face it, if my muffin top was against the wall, I could live off my fat for three days, easily. But I was legit tired and slightly hanging and headaching so I maybe pouted in my espadrilles a bit. I admit it! Anyway, by the time we got our tuna on pumpernickel there were no seats left at the grand ballroom and I was SOL on hearing Martha. And worse, my dream to charge the stage demanding a sheet folding tutorial, died. Just like that. And now? My fitted sheets remain balled up in my linen closet. Le sigh.

6. The lunchtime speaker the next day was Katie Couric. Yes, she looks fabulous. Yes, she had on fab shoes that I would surely plunge to my death in. Yes, she is so engaging, but also, hilarious—really quick with the one liners and that is the way to my heart. Truly. Can’t wait for her new afternoon show (wait for it…it’s called, Katie..) to start in a matter of weeks. It will be the perfect format for her. She’s targeting smart women–even those of us who can’t even fold fitted sheets– so be sure to check it out! (After you read my book. What? Too much?)

7. BlogHer is so GINORMOUS that even an extroverted muffin top like ME can get overwhelmed (Hence: sniffing out the Irish bar!) and also? Be totally bummed that I didn’t get to connect with everyone I wanted to see and hang with. BOO!

8. Finally? Because I think I hear the music cueing me to exit stage left….Stopping at the famous Halal food cart….at 3PM….with your Irish belly full of adult beverages? No. When the dude asks you if you want hot sauce on your food? MIDDLE EASTERN HOT SAUCE, YO. This ain’t no NH Taco Bell! You say: NO. Thank you. Not, “Sure, let it rip!”

HALAL-AAAAHHHH!!!!

You should know, now that my taste buds and body have recuperated, that Halala! is my new go to word instead of Holla! I was over Holla anyway. I think I should talk to the Halal guys about my catchy new slogan. Maybe next time????

**Thank you to the lovely Amber Strocel for the wonderful interview/podcast she did with me about my book. Listen here if you’d like. (Yes, I do sound 12. Good thing I only look *twennyyyysix*!!! )(Ok, ok, I’m going now. Jeez.)

A few weeks ago, I won an award. No, not a certificate of sucktasticness, which I proudly won a few years ago. Meeeemories!

I was nominated for a blogging award on my friend’s blog, Nurse Mommy Laughs. (The funny thing is–I can’t find it now–it vanished. Really. But I’m still a winner. I swear. I knew it as early as 7th grade, when I guessed the weight of a ginormous pumpkin at a fair, and won a free Rolls Royce ride around town. I have skillz–don’t want to brag but that was NOT easy. And, I have to say, ginger ale in a plastic wine glass has never tasted better. I’m sure that driver was so cranked to pick up a tinsel toothed 7th grade girl in neon pants and Barracuda jacket and her mom. Two thumbs up on your raffle investment, Rolls company!)

Anyyyway, I have a proven track record of winning. Clearly. And I hope you check Stacey’s blog out. Stacey is a mom who spent many years as a pediatric RN. Especially when you have kids of your own, you realize it takes a very special person to have the strength to work with sick children. I thank God there are caring people like Stacey who can do it because those kids deserve the very best, and I would be bawling in the corner. Guessing that would not be helpful. I tip my Bud Light to Stacey and all the health care providers who work tirelessly on behalf of children everywhere.

Nurse Stacey’s award came with rules. I don’t like rules per se, but since  I’m A. a nerd herd rule follower and B. Stacey is good peeps who knows how to wield needles, I’m going to do exactly what she says. So no one gets hurt. She said I’m to share 7 things with you all that you don’t know about me. Let’s try to get through this without horrifying anyone. Ready? GO!

1. I’m a LEO. (That probably splains a lot.)

2. I loooove to throw parties. And I’m a total “more the merrier–grab a red Solo cup and come on by” type person….how-e-ver, this has been hampered somewhat in recent years by children sucking me dry and their activities, but I hope to get my Martha Stewart Animal House on more now that the kids are getting older.

3. I am 74 years old.

*Please note my fashion and cooking prowess. I know. You’re wondering how I juggle it all. Many do.

4. I once got carjacked around the corner from Fenway Park in broad daylight. (Please visit the Boston Tourism Board to book your next, fun getaway! “The spirit of Massachusetts is the spirit of America!”) (Bet you didn’t see that one coming!) The funny thing is, it happened before car jacking was even in vogue. (I’m a trendsetter.) And, I was only 12. Nothing like being held at gunpoint to make a bucked tooth, Barracuda jacket wearing girl scream! I screamed so loud that I think the glass on the car windows shattered, the dude told me I could go, and I jumped out as he was pulling away. I have skillz again! I can wield off gun toting bandits with just my voice! (Shut up.) No need to carry pepper spray or a weapon. Armed and dangerous, right here. Step off, bad people! I will send you running. RAR!!!

5. I know. It’s hard to top 4. Ask my mom. Let’s see….I was born in Boston and lived in the same house from the time I was born until I left for college. I went to college in Ohio–completely random choice based on a brochure (really)–and loved it. I went home with one of my bf’s one weekend to Cleveland and asked her, “Why can’t I see the other side of the lake?” True story. She was like, “Um….because it’s in Canada, dummy!” Growing up outside Boston, we always went to the ocean and any lakes I saw were small–I had seen great lakes on map but didn’t understand the magnitude until I really saw one. Who knew they looked just like the ocean! (I’m worldy, I know.) I was also informed by my midwest friends that my plan to “run through cornfields because it looked fun” would cut me and hurt like hell. Who knew!!! So I just stuck to Coppertoning at the lake.

6. I once gave my scarf to a fun girl in a bar in Blarney, Ireland in the spirit of fostering international relations. Meaning….we bonded over Irish cider, she liked it, it was from Tarjay and I knew I could get a new one when I went home! Plus, I felt I owed something to the good people of Ireland for letting me kiss their cold, wet, germy, grey stone.

7. Once in college I went white water rafting with some high school friends in East Bumbleebee Ass Crack, Maine. We faux camped/shivered (Seriously. Northern Maine I think has like one day of summer. All the other days are fifty degrees or below.), cooked out, and drank beer to keep warm. All fun until the next morning, when I had to put on a tomato red wetsuit fatsuit (And seriously. Tomato red. Who looks good in that color? I want names.) Really regretted not taking the chilled out canoe trip–might have cursed my friend who planned it lured me with grilled meats and beer. We actually got in a raft where a 95 pound raft guide assured my girlfriends and I that if any of us fell out, she would pluck us to safety. Ok, crackhead, smoke some more dope in the woods, crunchola bar. Guess who dumped out first, went skkying down the river, sans paddle, with just my wits about me for a few miles? ME. Big Red. Let’s just say that now I know how my towels feel during the spin cycle and that a hung over muffin top is no match for the wilds of Maine! Eventually, after I said my mental good byes in my head to my family and the cast of The Outsiders (“Stay gold, Ponyboy! I’ll see you on the other side!”), forgave the carjacker, and pondered briefly who would be bequeathed my bitching mix tape collection, I rounded the corner, the choir of angels Van Morrison sang to me, and a raft full of hot guys on a bachelor party plucked my tomato ass to safety. As I choked and sputtered like a wrinkled, red, sexy beast. GAH! “Hey guys, look what I caught!” They were actually very nice guys. But now you know why me being outdoorsy is playing wiffle ball while I sip my beer!

That is all, muffintoppers. For verifcation purposes, my church going, 79 year old mother is on stand by to swear this list is almost 100% factual. (Fine. I’m actually 75.)

Just step off when I'm trying to do my biz!!!

Last week it seemed like I had a kick me sign on my back. You know how it is– you have one of those weeks where it seems like very little goes right.  I know there is very real pain and suffering in the world, so the pity party/beatchfest needs to be commensurate with the situation. I’m not going to lie to you—last week, I would have been happy to just tinkle alone. Doesn’t everyone deserve that tiny bit of personal space? I’ve joked a lot as a wife and mother of three boys, that I’ll get the last laugh when I get all the bathrooms to myself. But that’s not exactly true, and even if it were, not sure I’d want them all anyway. Why? Three boys, plus one man, minus one cleaning lady—you can only imagine the condition of said bathrooms. Martha Stewart would SO not be impressed. (But Martha? You’re a felon. And I? Am not.)

Yes, fine, a college housemate and I did get called down to the campus police at the end of my senior year for a minor transgression. It seems the university looked unfavorably on my housemates and me defacing a campus sign. (Note: it was not an art school.) Typical rookies, we were sloppy in the aftermath which led to our ultimate demise. We made amends to the school by cleaning up said sign and parted ways with the university feeling we had paid our debt to society, I mean, campus.

So Martha, in conclusion, I’m not impressed. Insider trading, while making for a much better story than campus tomfoolery (Is that not one of the best words ever?), is insidious, not prankish. And committing a felony in cashmere and not plaid flannel (It was the 90’s, I was NOT a millionaire like some felons, what do you want from me?) makes you no better, missy! (Although I will say, you’ve always had fantastic hair. No one can take that away from you, Martha!)

So despite my checkered past, I have a squeaky clean criminal record AND I have the bathrooms to myself. I’ve got it going on! Ok, not really because there is not a point during the day, from sun up to sun down, where I could use any of our bathrooms without an audience.  Even the baby is on to me, toddling on in like he owns the joint. I feel like saying, listen pal, as long as I’m wiping your tush and dropping huge dinero on Elmo diapers, you do not need to be in here!  Why anyone, big or small, would wish to bear witness to my bathroom duties, is beyond me.  Sometimes, they even try to offer me food and drink when I’m in the bathroom…a swig of milk from a sippy cup here, a cracker there….and while my heart swells with pride that they are grasping the concept of sharing, we clearly need to review the time and place concept!

Sometimes my husband and I get in small arguments about the aforementioned topic.  It usually starts when my kids are screeching like tweens at a Hannah Montana concert or hanging on me like monkeys at the zoo.

“You’re so lucky, hon! You get to drink your coffee in peace on the way to work, and go to the bathroom ALONE. You get to do your biz unsupervised by a two year old! Do you know that little devil just got a smidge out of my reach and squirted out my one tiny tube of Clinique foundation squealing, “This is my makeups, momma!” He never touches the cheap stuff, the little sh*&!

“Hon, seriously? Sometimes I think you think I leave here and go to a party all day!” Define party? If by party you mean, edifice with private bathrooms and unlimited coffee drinks, then yes, fiesta it is!

“No! I do not think it’s a party!” I snarked. “Remember, I did once enjoy paid employment?” Enjoy is a relative term. I enjoyed my paycheck! I enjoyed my hour lunch break! I enjoyed my free internet access!

“I totally get you have a lot of pressure at work. Believe me, I do. It’s just different pressure. Being home is not stressful like working, but I’m telling you straight up, I never had one boss half as demanding at these half pints here!”  There was the one actually, but we won’t name names. Bygones!

I totally get working is no picnic—I do recall the rigors of a career. But really, why can’t my husband just admit how awesome peeing alone is? Most moms agree there are definitely plusses and minuses to staying home versus working —that could be a whole book, never mind blog post.  But my mom friends who work admit they savor going potty solo at work (just like I readily admit I don’t know how the hell they get their kids where they need to go and manage to get to work on time in one piece), and drinking their coffee while listening to some tunes (and I’m not talking Raffi) on their commutes, so I just don’t know why my husband won’t fess up, too! And maybe, if he’s lucky, he gets to finish a conversation—a sentence even, rehash American Idol at the water cooler, and listen to sports radio—which we all know is Days of Our Lives for guys.

The nerve of my husband, right? Who the hell is he, working hard to put food on the table? No small feat with three boys and this graceful ballerina of a wife.

I understand how it must sound sometimes when he calls from work.  Sometimes the timing is good when he calls—once in a while the stars align and the baby is napping while the other two are coloring (Maybe on paper? Maybe on the walls? But who am I to complain if they are quiet?) or, dare I admit lest I suffer the scorn of the anti-tv moms, watching a show—praise  be to on demand cable, I heart thee so!  Other times, the baby might be howling, my two year old might be sticking a fork in the one electric socket I forgot to cover (Yes, he’s THAT kid and no, I’m not getting mother of the year.) and maybe the five year old is pulling a Caillou (bald whinybag 4 year old Canadian cartoon freak show) and asking the following:

“Do dogs have teeth?”

Yes.

“Do cats have teeth?”

Yes.

“Do elephants have teeth?”

Yes!

“Do cows have teeth?”

Yes!

“Do chameleons have teeth?”

Yes! Wait, how do you know what a chameleon is? Never mind, yes!!

“Do alligators have teeth? “

YES!

“Do rabbits have teeth?”

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”

Maybe at these moments the neighbors have heard me scream, “Serenity now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” and whispered to their minor children not to go near our home because a crazy lady lives there. (I suppose it’s really best I don’t know!)

And a word of advice? If you call here and I answer, “Thank you for calling the insane asylum!!!” you should probably just scream, “Wrong number!” in a foreign accent and hang up!  ME-OOOOOWWWWW!!!