So remember a few weeks ago when I said I feel like a biggity buzz kill sometimes, but I would not not not inflict my thoughts on my kids? I vowed to let them go and watch them fly.

As it turns out, surprise! My six year old really seems to dig math. I figured this out over the course of the year and his teacher confirmed it. Good for him! So when a form came home asking if we wanted to sign him up for something called “Math Superstars”, which is  just a few sheets of extra math homework per week, I leapt at the chance for him to math it up.

Now, I wasn’t a horrible math student, but I had to work really hard for average grades, and I despised it like Ohio State hates Michigan, like Carol Brady hated kids playing ball in the house, like muffin top hates swimsuits. With the exception of tying for first place in the multiplication table contest with a smartypants in third grade, I was no standout. (Did I mention the prize was a trip out for an ice cream sundae with the teacher? Ladies and gentlemen, meet Pavlov, the accidental mathematician!) 

Yes, yes I do.

Science and I–which sometimes seemed like thinly veiled math—were hardly bff’s either, but at least in science you could blow stuff up and learn to be grateful for the geniuses responsible for me being able to drive over bridges to fun vacation spots without plunging to my death—-go Physics!). Only because I was a motivated student kind of a nerd who went to a free math SAT prep class after school, did I actually manage to get a better score on my math SAT’s than my English. (You’re the man, Mr. Sweeney!) I’m not sure who that probably surprised more—my math teachers or my English teachers. Regardless, besides balancing my checkbook (and by balancing, I mean going online to see what’s what and making sure I didn’t blow the mortgage at Tarjay) and figuring out important math problems in my head (If the shoes are $59.99 and they are 40% off, how much are they? A great fracking deal!) I’ve steered mostly clear of math the past few decades.

I figured my kids’ math homework might stump me eventually, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I’m not going to lie to you. Some of the Math Superstar problems are hurting my head.

Example:

Five scarecrows had a candy corn eating contest.

Ben ate the most candy corns.

Jen ate more than Len.

Jen ate less than Ken.

Zen ate less than Len.

Write the scarecrows’ names in order to show how much candy corn they ate.

My son and I figured it out together but dude, this is why English people shouldn’t do math. My brain was whizzing. Why are scarecrows eating candy corn? They’re fake. Most scarecrows are badly dressed dudes, so what is Jen wearing? Not faded overalls and bad plaid I hope! And Jen ate more crap candy than two dudes–I wonder if she has a scarecrow muffin top? And anyway, who names their scarecrow Zen? Is Zen a Buddhist scarecrow? Isn’t it bad karma for Zen to try to scare away crows, who are gifts of nature, and overeat candy?

Moving on to exhibit B:

There are 3 children and 1 wagon ( I wanted so badly to scratch out the 3 and the 1 and write out three and one instead!). Two children can play at a time. One child can ride and one child can pull. In the table, show all the ways the children can ride and pull. (Then there is one column for child riding and one for child pulling.)

Well, this is a dumbass question. You know damn right well the one kid who doesn’t get a turn is going to be whining/crying/pitching a shit fit screeching, “When is it myyyyyyy turn? Is it myyyyyyyy turn yet?” You know the kid pulling is going to pull the wagon too fast, and you know that wagons were not designed by the smart bridge Physicists/Engineers because the damn things suck at hairpin turns. So you gotta figure the rider is getting dumped out onto the pavement. So that leaves two kids crying, pitching a shit fit, and one kid remaining. The one kid remaining will demand his turn from the whinybags who are crying, but the two cryers won’t want to pull him so he’ll start wailing, too.

Let’s review, mathletes: that leaves three kids crying, after only one turn. So that leaves 5 different turn combinations to go, math geniuses? I don’t think so. I’m calling bullshit on your fuzzy math. Meanwhile, the mom who sent the three to play with the wagon is cursing under her breath and counting the minutes til happy hour–she knew it was a stupid ass idea in the first place.

 You can be all Big Bang Theory Sheldon smart, but you can’t check your common sense at the door, son!

Finally? This one:

Teaka finishes dinner at 6 o’clock. She reads her book for 2 (t-w-o, mathletes, two!) hours. Then she goes to bed. Draw the hour and the minute hands on the clock to show when Teaka goes to bed.

Okay. But first….what book was Teaka reading? Is Teaka a kid or a grown up? This might help me guess what book. After she puts her book down, does she brush her teeth? Floss? Check her email? Balance her checkbook *cough*? Do some push ups? Write in her diary! Ooh! Check Facebook? Twitter? Pin some shit on Pinterest? Does she really go right to bed? I know you’re thinking the answer is 8 o’clock, but I find that hard to believe, frankly. But with no further information, I was forced to watch 6 year old put 8 on the little clock, but I do not feel good about it. At all. Because again? I have to call bullshit on the math superstars for leaving out pertinent info!

But I will hold my tongue. I will let him go. And I will watch him fly.

This is my brain on math and science.

As my brain explodes. (At what velocity and force, I really don’t know. I was probably talking about 90210 that day in Physics.)

If I’m being brutally honest, or brutal, or just honest, the muffin top came long before the three boys in four years. If God didn’t bless me with a fast metabolism, he did bless me with three beautiful, healthy boys, who should be justly exonerated right now from being blamed for my cellulite.  What I can blame them for is turning me grey and driving me to drink. I have proof and I’m not afraid to show it.

Okay, even that’s not totally honest. I mean, I was known to enjoy the drink long before they came around. (There are too many firsthand eyewitnesses to deny it anyway.) Really, the bouncer at the Last Drop in Brighton, Mass did not have to tell me during my hay day (22-24…the wonder years) that I could pick up my mail at the bar. THAT was uncalled for (if true). Where are you now, big bouncer? Huh? Huh? Cuz now I’m a productive member of society most some days!

Those days are long gone, but the last vestige of wanting a cocktail at dinner still lingers sometimes. It is not my fault if my coping skills are poor when I see my son trying to imitate Kung Fu Panda, while another teeters on top of the couch on one leg while yet another tries to climb the fridge—I am from a long line of neurotic worriers and I have done my level best to fight heredity but it just ain’t that easy.

Don’t even try to tell me Jimmy Buffet didn’t have moms in mind when he recorded the song, “It’s five o’clock somewhere!”  I mean, is booze a good coping mechanism? Of course not. Yes.  But, a little can go a long way at 5 o’clock, and if you don’t believe it then you just haven’t tried it. Or admitted it. Liars!

WARNING: SOCIAL SERVICES MAY FIND 4PM A BIT EARLY.

Yes, I know there are folks with very real drinking problems, so this is not for you—the last thing I want to do is drag someone down. (I have a conscience. I do!) You will need to grab a Twix or a pack of butts instead. (Oh crap, there’s that cancer thing again. Better skip the butts.) As for the Twix, I know, I know, obesity epidemic. 

For the love of God, is there anything fun left?

Don’t even say it.

If you’re in fantastic shape you’re going to say try running, aren’t you?

Do you know how many well meaning friends have tried to take me to the dark side?

“Running, running, it releases endorphins, yada yada, you’ll feel awesome! Try it, you’ll be hooked!”

Heard it.

Tried it.

NO. 

No, homies, no!

WHATEVER!

Know what running releases in me? Pain. Whimpering. Wheezing. Anger. Despair. And yeah, I will mention the unmentionable.

Chub rub.

What? You might have known my thighs rub together!

Frankly, the only place I want to run is a shoe sale. And even then? It better be a damn good one. Because I always have Targ to fall back on.

What else can I say? If running makes you go boom, do it! And do it again! And do it loud! And do it proud!

I am NOT hysterical. It’s just THIS is about ME not YOU.

I tried, okay? Again. I bought a new pair of running shorts to whimper in at the gym. I thought cute shorts would put a spring in my step. Marketing a&^holes got me again. I’m cutting the tags off my rocking shorts, and notice this lovely diddy:

“You make time to run because it’s what makes you feel alive. Routinely blowing off sit-down lunches and after-work drinks for 40 minutes of fresh air on the roads, trails, or through the park. Catching some much needed “me” time or up on the latest with your faithful running buddies. For you, your apparel needs to fit your body, your run and your life.”

Back the hell up, Reebok. Let’s get something straight. The shorts are a size GRANDE. When your shorts are the size of a big Starbucks drink and you’re rocking the flab in the abs, you ain’t blowing off nuthin’ for running. Fresh air? I’ll take mine at the beach with my cocktail. A chance for a sit down lunch? Where and when, mein freunde! With a frosty beer, please.  And I’ll catch up with my peeps online or for a few pops at Ladies’s Night out—if I got together with them for a run how in the hell would you expect me to speak about pressing issues of today? Will Brangelina finally tie the knot and will that tartlet Lohan will stay clear of rehab? I won’t know if I’m running!

Bunch of bull$hit! Playas.

The GRANDE shorts should say this:

“Hey chubs, you’re trying again? That’s good! Back away from the beer…come on….you can do it. Good. Now avert your eyes from the cookies. Still with me? You know the junk in your trunk ain’t going away if you stand here looking at your shoes, right? It’s time to walk outside now. You can do it–step away from the madness. Walk for a bit, then work into a jog. Now, go. Try it for five minutes. If you’re not dead by then, congratulations! And if you’re jogging and an 80 year old laps you, so what? You’ll lap his saggy ass in no time never. Just remember, a beer is not a good post workout beverage. Come back tomorrow if you can still walk. You’re supposed to do this over and over–that’s how this $hit works, you big dummy. Now get your fit bag arse moving already! Jeez!”

Marketing schmucks. Didn’t their mamas ever tell them honesty is the best policy?

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?

So the medical newsletter from the local hospital where I had my last two sons came today. I usually leaf through it to see if there’s any information that might interest me. It’s actually a very good, well written and informative publication. So I’m about to pitch it when I notice the title of the last article, “Could your thyroid be altering your metabolism?”

“OH YES! Yes, absolutely, a thousand times YES!” I scream in my head.

It’s definitely not the wine, the cookies with my kids, the Thai food or the boneless buffalo tenders (washed down with waistline friendly beer) causing the muffin top. Oh no, no, no! IT’S MY ALTERED METABOLISM, STUPID!

It’s obvious.

I must suffer from a condition called “hypothyroidism”, which is when (please, read this with a grain of salt…you don’t see endocrinologist after my name for a reason, people!) your body does not produce enough thyroid hormone, which in turn slows your metabolism and causes you to gain weight. (This is NOT to be confused with “hyperthyroidism”, which is when your metabolism works TOO fast and you burn too many calories —I think it’s safe to assume I am not afflicted with this condition but to those of you who are, you go girl! Ok, just kidding. It’s actually not good for you at all. No really, it’s not. No, I’m serious. I take that back. I do!)

If you want to remember which is which, here’s a trick:

HYPOthyroidism = hippo = big mama = yo too fat.

HYPERthyroidism = hyper girl = moving too fast = yo too skinny.

(Yeah, and you wonder how English major graduated at the top of drug rep class. OH YEAH! That’s what I’m talking about!)

Ahem, anyway, it’s not nice to brag, so in conclusion, thyroid hormones regulate metabolism and thus can affect your weight. And that concludes our medical lesson for today. Or hopefully, ever.

Now, we’re nearing January 1 and my fat pants are tight. I had a baby almost a whole year ago so blaming him is out of the question. I’d love to blame my thyroid, my metabolism, the kid who sells me my wine in a box, but let’s face it…..you know whose fault it is….the man in the mirror. I mean, the woman in the mirror (sorry Jacko!). It’s time to look at MYSELF and make that change!

Anyway,  along with half of the continental U.S., I’ve been checking around to see what I can do after January 1 (When all my benders, I mean, get togethers of 2009, are over. Yeah, that’s right. You don’t think I’m going to go down quietly, do you? I have three left, they might have to take place in elastic waist pants, but I pride myself on never breaking a commitment.)

So my husband’s friend from high school…he just lost three pants sizes. Now we’re talking! His wife, Molly, told me he did it using a series of DVDS called P90X. Hmm, DVDS….. I wouldn’t even have to leave the house! I could do it at night, when the kids are sleeping.

“You should totally do it!”  Molly suggested after I peppered her with questions about this miraculous sounding program.

But, upon further investigation, I began to become fearful, very fearful.

“I’m not sure if this is the right plan for me. I don’t know that going from couch surfing right to mega, intense training is such a good idea? And honestly, I don’t need six pack abs. I’m shooting for mediocrity here. I just want to not be rocking the muffin top to the extreme in 2010, you know? No need to be a show off!”

“You would get in SUCH great shape! You should do it!”

Yup, and then they could cart my cold, lifeless body out the front door on a stretcher because that shit would kill me! And, my kids? What would become of them? I’d have to leave explicit instructions for my very best friends to make sure my husband remarries a suitable woman who would love my kids like her own, but naturally be a worse cook, housekeeper and have a bigger muffin top than me.

I don’t think so.

What to do, what to do?

P90X will kill me and I’m 40 years too young for Sweatin’ to the Oldies. The last time I tried to do Wii Fit, that sarcastic &^%$ asked me if I walked often or tripped over my own feet or something like that, and I fell off the balance board and woke the kids!

I hate to say it.

I don’t want to say it.

Do I have to say it?

I think I need to join a….a….gym.

I need to just go to a building, where there is equipment I can use at my own pace, and where there are professionals on staff who could guide me (or, resuscitate my ass, you know, should I keel on the elliptical or something.)

Who’s in?

Nothing good comes out of a crock pot.

Okay, I should say, almost nothing. 

I tried. I really did.

I wanted it to work. Because, what’s easier than throwing a bunch of food in a pot and it cooking itself? (Yes, yes, yes, takeout. Besides that.)

You can probably surmise based on the top de la muffin I sport that I’m far from picky. I’ll try almost anything. I’ll eat almost anything. And with my own cooking? My expectations are low. Lowwwwww. I mean it. Low.

Truth time? My cooking skills are roughly somewhere between third grade cooking class and wayward bachelor (Yay for me I have a husband who is a fantastic cook! Or boo? It’s not so great for the muffin top. But me thinks I just found my scapegoat….)

Despite this, I’ve always felt confident I could rise to the challenge of throwing a bunch of stuff in a pot, turning it on and opening the lid 8 hours later. It’s practically magic!

It would seem the crock pot should be the unsung hero of the household appliance line up. I mean, I haven’t found an appliance that will clean my toilets for me. I haven’t found a gadget that will make my beds or do my laundry. (Super smart inventors? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?) So, some may say I’m sounding just a little ungrateful to a low cost, user friendly machine that will quietly cook my family dinner for me.

But see, here’s my glitch: unless you’re making some kind of pulled meat barbeque or a hot dip, or using the crock pot merely as a vehicle in which to heat something up (ie. mini meatballs…um…yummm), nothing good comes out of a crock pot. If you’re trying to make any kind of balanced meal with some kind of protein, starch, and vegetables that tastes yummy—-good luck. It ain’t happening. I mean, it’ll happen. But it won’t be good. Trust me. I so want to like crock pot meals, that I’ve tried and tried. But it’s just not possible to achieve anything edible for anyone who has teeth. While I’m no gourmet aficionado, I just really don’t want my carrots to taste like meat and have the consistency of a mashed potato. Meat flavored carrots, even ones that cook themselves, are unwelcome in my world.

I finally realized, the only time I made an actual meal in the crock pot that tasted good, the recipe required me to sauté the meat before I put it in the crock pot and mix all kinds of crazy wines and seasonings. (It was from Cooking Light magazine. Once again, I ask you why I am not skinny? This crock pot recipe, while low fat and delicious, was like a 24 step process that had me in a flux before the sun even came up! Way to work with me Cooking Light!) How does having to sauté meat on an empty stomach before I’ve even had my coffee make dinner preparations easier? No one should be sautéing meat before Matt and Meredith greet them from Rockefeller Plaza!

(Even having to just throw raw ingredients into the crock pot at the pre coffee hour I’m flirting with disaster, to speak nothing of it being beyond unpalatable. We know I’m not coordinated, and morning is just not my thing….so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I was peeking at my crock pot dish the other afternoon and realized one of my pieces of stew meat was a rim shot that missed, hit the counter and sat out all day. Ack! That is off the charts gross!) Hi Lysol, you better call for some back up…..

And is it really practical for people who are trying to get to work or get kids off to school to have to be cooking stuff at the crack? The whole selling point of the crocko de potto is that you can set it and forget it—dump your goods and hit it.  And frankly, if I have to cook stuff in a pan, I’d really rather do it at like 6 PM and not 6 AM! And if I have to cook stuff in a pan, I might as well cook it all the way in the pan because it will taste better than the freaky crock pot mush I’ve been coming up with!

Every single time I attempt the full on crock pot dinner, I fool myself into thinking the meal will look like the picture on the recipe or seasoning packet. And as the day wears on and wonderful smells waft through my house and trick my brain into thinking sheer deliciousness is in my future, I realize once I open the lid, it’s all a sham. A lie. A scam. A fraud. A big, fat crock pot crock of mushy crockpottyiness. (Oh and p.s. Should you not heed my warning and still insist on getting your crock pot on, please be advised when you do open that lid, that the steamy meat facial which awaits….. is not so fun and not so glam. Cough up the cash and get your facial at a spa!)

When my husband reached for some frozen veggies in the freezer as I took plates out for the latest crock pot concoction, I decided it was time to accept defeat.

“What are you doing?”

“I just thought I’d microwave some veggies to go with our dinner,” he replied innocently.

“There are veggies in the dinner!”

Game over crock pot. Pack up your cord and go. You ain’t welcome here anymore.