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!

Some high school friends and I have been trying to meet up for quite a while. It would seem like no big deal to make a date with old friends, right? Wrong.

I’m telling you right now, it would totally require less communication to try to broker peace in the middle east. This is not a rag on my friends (in case my peeps are reading….clarification to follow—stay with me and put the scanner with the Aqua Net photos from high school DOWN!)

Even though we mostly all live within an hour and a half radius of each other, the last time we all managed to meet for lunch, George Bush was still President—and I swear we’ve been trying to get together again ever since. 

You know what happens—you finally get together and get your high school on— or whatever the crowd may be really— and the last thing you say, very sincerely, as you part ways is, “It is RIDICULOUS how long it’s been. It was so great to see you. We have to do it again and not wait so long next time!” Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, and boom—-there you are a year later with nothin’!

Everyone is busy these days, no question about it. You throw kids and activities and sports and jobs and husbands and travel schedules into the mix and its one hot scheduling mess. This isn’t a problem reserved just for my (formerly) peg leg posse. Although we all have much better hair and pants now (THANK GOD), I’m not sure we’ve ever been busier.

See, it all starts out innocently enough….we all have a genuine desire to get together. Problem is, when a half dozen moms try to make plans with their friends, it takes 47 emails back and forth to each other on where to meet, when to meet, what time to meet, what to wear and if it’s with kids or no kids.

When dads make plans with their friends, one email goes out…the one the original guy sent throwing out a date and a place, and one email back from each guy saying if they can make it that day or not. Period. The end.

It’s just assumed if they can make it, then the time and place are fine. No one writes back to say, “My friend’s sister JUST went there and said the service was terrible! Should we pick a different place?”

And kids? What kids? None of the guys even wonder if kids are invited. They just assume they’ll just leave them at home with mom. 

And if everyone can’t go that day, then what-ever, only those who can go, go, and they figure they’ll catch up the next go around with whoever can’t make it. There are no alternate dates thrown back and forth and no deep regret and guilt if someone can’t go. If a guy can’t make it, he just says, “Sorry dude, I can’t make it,” or “that date doesn’t work for me”. And what he means by that is….”Sorry dude, I can’t make it.”

What he doesn’t say?

“Well I really can’t make it if it’s at noon. See, my cousin’s son is visiting from Oshkoshbagosh that day—he has a soccer tournament down in Rhode Island—their team is undefeated— and he’s supposed to come up afterward for a short visit—maybe lunch but I’m not sure. He might be gone by early afternoon though, which would mean I could go IF we could meet after 4. But if it’s before like 4, I don’t think I can make it. Do you think we could meet after 4? After 4 would work—wait—oh wait a minute…yeah, after 4 would work as long as it’s not more than an hour away. If it’s more than an hour away though, then I really can’t make it because I’d need to be back to put Muffy Junior to bed.”

This is a guaranteed mine field for the organizer/original emailer. Because if you send out a subsequent email about how Muffy can make it only if it’s after 4, but only if it’s not more than an hour away, you need to calculate how far away the meeting spot is from Muffy’s AND you have others emailing you back saying they can’t meet that late because they have a church/Boy Scouts/piano practice/barium enema “thing”.

And that? That’s when the whole damn tete a tete starts to unravel and you realize you might never see these people until the next administration or maybe….gasp….ever.

Usually at that point all communication breaks down because now there are more questions than answers about where, when and even if this ‘thing’ is still on! Which…starts a whole other litany of emails…..and at some point you have to play the heavy and just pick a date, a time, and a place based on the majority and hope something sticks.

Because even if you do manage to beat the odds and firm up a date, place and time, it’s guaranteed that someone won’t be able to come at the last minute because her husband is sick, her kid is sick, her husband ends up having to work, she ends up having to work/walk in a Brownie parade/broker a peace treaty.

Perhaps if I get this lunch scheduled with perfect attendance, I should ring up Madame Secretary at the White House and offer my services?

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?