So, my computer guru and I were ill informed. If you want to continue to receive muffintopmommy (and I hope you do!) by RSS or delivered right to your email address as you have been, you need to go to the new blog and resubscribe. Thankfully, it’s even easier than it was on the old one! I just posted a new link yesterday about joining a gym (GAH!) and I sure would hate for you to miss out on a laugh at my expense!

So come on over and sign up. I promise, just like I said after I moved into my last house, I’M GOING TO DIE AT THIS ADDRESS–THIS IS THE LAST MOVE!!!

So visit, and at the top right of the screen, there is an orange button if you want to do feedburner, or a box that says get muffintopmommy by email.

Thanks all, and sorry for the inconvenience!

In muffintops,



Leave a comment

Filed under Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!

Muffintopmommy…is movin’ on up!

Come on! What are you waiting for? Let's go!

Where are George and Weesie when you need them to cue in the music? They ain’t the only ones who are movin’ on up! Muffintopmommy is movin’ on up!!! NO! Not to my dream home, oceanfront, decorated by my favorite Canadian, Candice Olsen (Candice…I puffy heart you!!) complete with a fridge of frosty adult beverages, a maid, personal chef, and trainer. (What? Dream big or don’t dream, people!) Still exciting but real, muffintopmommy is moving to a deluxe domain in the blogosphere.  So….yeah….. I think that’s what it’s called? The new real estate is just better. Mmm hmm. It is. (Were it not for a sympathetic tech savvy friend–can I get a WOOT WOOT for Monique A. who has mad computer skills– I’d be writing my posts on a Bic, storing them in a Trapper Keeper, photocopying ’em at the library, and handing them out in the preschool line. And everyone would be all, “What up with THAT girl in the 80’s Tretorns?”)

I just love to write. And I want to keep improving and distributing muffintopmommy in the best way I know how…so none of this would be possible without the genorosity of a very patient friend, who I imagine may have a red welt on her forehead from slapping it after all my incessant questions because I don’t know a domain from a html code from a ipod, or is it pad? I don’t even know. (I kind of don’t want to know either because frankly, it gave me a migraine the other day and all I was doing was watching. OY!)

So, same old muffintopmommy, fancier new digs. If you have a subscription, *fingers crossed*, you should still receive posts as usual. If you don’t yet have a subscription to muffintopmommy (It’s okay, I still luff you.), it’s easier than ever to sign up–you’ll see!

So check it out. Come on down. Tell all your friends. Kick some tires on the website. Stay for a drink. Make yourself comfy.

I appreciate every single person who visits my blog, and I hope you’ll stick with me. It’s been a fun ride so far. So why don’t we keep rocking the top and see where this train takes us? 

And muffin top’s new digs can be found at……….drumroll……………

Please make a note of it!


Filed under Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!


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!


Filed under OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!


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 anymore. 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. But 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!


Filed under Awesomeness, Mom-ness, Retail Therapy, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, Yo! It's a girl thing!


Dorothy, this ain't Kansas. But wait, is this big ass tree going to keep me from Facebooking?

This has to be payback. You know, for my letter to the weathernerd last month. (Click here if you missed it–it wasn’t, um, complimentary.)

Well, weathernerd struck again, and this time? Oh, he brought his A game, the rat bastard.

So, what I heard him say on the forecast yesterday morning was something like this, “Blah blah, a few inches of rain, a few inches of snow, blabbity blabbity, look at my FANCY map.” Insert cheesy knowing grin, clear throat for good measure and…..TADA!

So I’m minding my own biz last night, crafting a new blog post, Facebooking (Where I joked about building an ark and escaping with some smut mags and booze on the muffintopmommy page– but son of a bitch, there just wasn’t enough time! I swear Noah had a serious head’s up.), twittering, and enjoying me some Olympic figure skating when….BOOM!  The windows start shaking, wicked rain beats the house at a 90 degree angle, and the lights start flickering. I mean, it sounds all kinds of freaky like I’ve never heard it before. If I had been sitting in Kansas and not New Hampshire, I’m pretty sure I would have sprinted for the basement. (Maybe…if I were a little faster. And…if the basement had adult seating. And…if my arse wasn’t glued to the leather loveseat like a hungry college boy to a free buffet.)

The lights flicker again, and the hubs and I share a knowing look (and reflexively bolt to the thermostat and jack the heat up) and sigh, all “What what?” because, for once, it’s warm out. (And by warm I mean, like in the 30’s at night in New Hampshire in Februrary…a few more degrees and I’m totally rocking happy hour on the deck in some fleece.)

Hubs heads to bed, smart enough to realize it might be a long night. I press on with my regularly scheduled activties. Sure enough, part way through my blog post, right after souless, skimpy Cleopatra’s skating routine, the house goes completely dark. I’ve only the glow of my no longer connected to the internet laptop (so long, mommy’s playdate) and the flashlight my brilliant husband left by my side to guide me. 

“Seriously!?” I shout to no one.

See, usually this nonsense happens when it’s like 3 degrees out and there’s a vicious ice storm that weighs down the trees, which knock down the power wires, which….render us all Little House on the Prairie, minus the coping skills and that crafty Charles. Last time Mother Nature showed us who’s boss it was December of 2008. Eight months pregnant, with a 3 year old, a not yet two year old, no power, no heat and no cell connection—no, it did not make for a pretty scene. Hubs thought he saved the day by booking a room for us at a local well known chain hotel so once he got home from work, we blasted five miles over there practically crying for a hot shower. We pull up, and the hotel is completely shrouded in darkness.

“And how exactly does this help me?” I screech.

Hell hath no fury like an 8 month hungry, dirty, caffeine and booze deprived pregnant lady. I told the hotel that they– and their 1-800 schmucks down in Alabama or wherever we called (somewhere warm, damnit, I know it was somewhere warm) to make our FAUX reservation of a room with light and heat– could bite my back fat because I could go back to my own dark house and sleep for free, bitches!  After setting hotel chain straight, things went decidedly downhill as there was not a hotel room to be found in all of southern New Hampshire. For real. From there to the state border and beyond, Seriously? Mary and Joseph might have had an easier time finding a place to squat for the night. Okay, maybe not. (But ridic or not, in a moment of woe is me pity party, the thought did cross my mind. I know, what a whiny bag.) I realized while we sat smugly on our hotel rez all day, others in the area booked reservations at hotels that actually HAD power. None of our friends had power, our nearest relative was 40 minutes away and had no power, and, the highlight of an already fantastic day…. one year old booted up his Mickey D’s dinner all over me. Yup. Is there anything hotter than a puke covered, unshowered,  8 month pregnant woman waddling out of Mickey D’s?

Mother Nature broke me that night. I admit it. When we drove out of Mickey D’s with no place to stay, I started to cry. A little, tiny bit. Just as I hit rock bottom, the phone rang, and it was our in law’s saying they just got their power back. Phew! Who but family would take in a motley crew of pukers and dirty birds?

So, here I sit, over a year later. It’s been over twenty four hours, and still no power at home. It’s not freezing. I’m puke free. I’m not pregnant and exhausted. Yes, downed trees impede travel and progress all over my town. Something is hanging from the side of my roof and a section of picket fence litters my yard. 

 I’ve even seen a few huge pines on people’s homes. So it doesn’t really seem that big a deal that I got woken up by 2 year old last night, complaining it was “dark” because his night light was out. (And btw, how can the “dark” wake my kids? What about that makes any sense?)  Weekend plans had to get shuffled around. Stuff will get patched up. Life goes on. But livin’ on the Prairie ain’t easy……so we had to escape for warmer, brighter digs…with free internet and unlimited refills. And while we appreciate that there’s room in the inn again, I realize  as much as I rant about it, I miss the frat house already!


Filed under got what I ne-ed, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, TMI? Says who!


For the love of all things holy, it doesn't have to be this difficult!


There are certain questions in life for which we may never have definitive answers…. 

Where do we all go when we die? 

Why must we speak in tongues at Starbucks? 

Why do kids on soap operas go from infant to college in three years? 

And just why, why, why do older people bother to have cell phones? 

Help me understand. I really wanna know.  Please feel free to present your theories, and the most plausible will be posted here in a subsequent blog post. Winner will receive a free subscription to muffintopmommy for life and my unending gratitude. (Depending on how you view it, the prize is either worthless or priceless. It’s on you!) 

This question has been bugging me for a while. I’m not proud, but I’ve frequently gotten huffy with my rents who travel two hours to visit us, but don’t call when they leave to give me an ETA. (So I can make sure I’m home when they arrive. Or maybe NOT WORRY about their well being! Wouldn’t you think they’d be totally into that since they appreciated the heads up phone call– and probably would have put a tracking device in my shoe had it been available– when I was growing up?) 

The rents also fail to answer their phone when I call to inquire as to their whereabouts. My mum and dad will arrive, and mum will throw her hands up in the air all “Oops! I guess it was at the bottom of my purse and I didn’t hear it!” (In her defense, it’s totally possible my dad blasted talk radio at concert decibels. But bottom of the purse–not prime hearing the phone ring locale.) This is the same woman, God love her, who til recently if I called her on my cell and lost the connection, she’d call back my house and leave a message, “Hallo! Hallo! What happened? We got disconnected!” I mean, would I hang up on my own mother? Shouldn’t she know I wasn’t raised that way and assume I was on my cell? Or look at her caller ID to see where I called from? Nope. She called me the other day to ask if I called and hung up on their answering machine. (Again, why would I crank call my own parents? Huh? She’s not a cute boy and it’s not 7th grade, circa 1985.)  

 “Was I on your caller ID?” A tiny part of me thought maybe 2 year old hit redial or something. Oldest called Nebraska once so you never know! 

 “Oh, you know, I never even thought to check that!”  Freaking Comcast, just stop taking caller ID money from anyone over 65, you scammers! You know none of them even use it! 

I swear to God, I am not trying to make fun of my beloved mother who gave me food, love,  shelter, and Nike Cortez sneakers. I am not. I simply don’t understand. I know this is gonna bite me in the muffin top some day when my sons are all flustered that I don’t remember to call them in the Andes in 3-D or whatever the hell we’re expected to do then. 

My friend’s parents never even got caller ID. (They are so banking that $5.99 a month at least.) But now caller ID automatically shows up on their tv when it’s on so they think they’re all funny answering, “Hi, friend of muffintopmommy! HEE HEE.” when she calls. (I’m not going to start outing friends, sorry.)  But…but… the 90’s called and they want their joke back. OMG. 

This whole cell phone madness finally came to a head the other night.  Unfortunately, the rubber met the road on a jammed Route 93 South in New Hampshire. We were taking the fam to meet the in laws (Follow along…totally different set of older people…I’m equal opportunity with my phone snark.) for dinner about thirty miles south in Massachusetts because my son and hubs both have birthdays this week. You figure 30 miles, 30 minutes? Give or take an unexpected potty stop or two? Except we forgot it was the Sunday after the end of school vacation week for Mass. (That sound you heard Sunday night was me slapping my gigantic forehead.) So, there we sat on 93, along with every Bode and Lindsey disciple who came north to New Hampshire to ski for vacation and now voyaged south to get home.  

After the highway screeched to a halt, we jumped off  the nearest exit, and soon found ourselves winding our way down random back roads, blindly heading south. (Not really blindly. We did both get our licenses in Massachusetts so our driving skills are probably questionable in other regions of the continental United States, but our eyesight is totally fine. And while the registry, aka DMV, officer who administered my driving test junior year in high school did ask me if I had an eye deficiency after I parallel parked, I still passed with flying colors. Okay, I passed–barely–no need to be a show off! Someone has to barely make the cut or there’d be no cut, am I right?) 

Anyway, after it looked like our circuitous voyage would be a rather long one, I said to the hubs as I eye balled the hungry trio in the back, “You better call your parents and tell them we’re going to be really late. Or even ask them if they want to start driving north and meet us halfway somewhere else to eat.” 

“Yeah, you’re right.”  Of course I’m right! That’s the wife’s job! Scratch that. If I were that smart, we wouldn’t have gone 93. And I’d be way better at parallel parking.  

So the hubs dials up the parentals….and…..NO ANSWER. 

I raise my eyebrow. 

Dials them up again five minutes later. NO ANSWER. 

I raise my voice. (Which was difficult. Given the intense competition coming from the bleacher seats.) 

And again? He dials. And you guessed it….NO ANSWER! NO ANSWER, NO ANSWER, NO ANSWER. NO. ANSWER. 

I raise my pointer finger and squint all mommy/tv trial lawyer/Bubba Clinton. “WHY EVEN HAVE A CELL PHONE!!!!” 

“I know! This is your next blog post. Why do older people have cell phones? WHY!” 

After our collective (and surprisingly cathartic) huff is over, I finally figure out, A-HA! We can go all 90’s and just call the restaurant, like you’d do if someone had NO cell phone.  Rocking the brain cells that night! 

Hubs gets the restaurant number right away off the iphone (See! Cell phones are your friend!) and explains the sitch to the hostess. 

“You? You….have TWO parties of 7 for 5 o’clock for Dick?” 

Seriously? I cannot make this shit up. Two parties, under the name “DICK” for half past the stroke of blue light special. 

OMG, my mind can’t help but wander as he looks at me dumbfounded….what are the odds? Eleventy billion to one? I swear to God, I’m gonna go buy one of those MEGABILLIONTRILLIONMULTISTATE lottery tickets. Because with odds like there being two parties of 7 at 5 o’clock for Dick, I think we just might have the chance to be sunning oceanfront at the Cape some day on our own freaking Kennedy-esque compound! 

Why yes, I would like my Bud-Light in a frosty mug, thank you, Jeeves….just leave the stack of People and OK! right over there by the massage table!  

Snap! Paging muffintopmommy…. 

“Oh, one has a high chair? Okay, then that’s our…Dick. Yup. Yes. Oh, he’s not there? Okay, well if he checks in can you tell him we’re going to be pretty late because 93 was a parking lot? And can you ask him to call his son?” 

At this point, steam is coming out of my typically calm husband’s ears. (That’s not good, because that’s my job, along with being right!) 

“Well, I feel badly they’re going to be waiting so long for us.” Translation: I feel sorta bad but I postulate that if I were in their shoes, I’d be lovin’ me some bar snacks and frosty adult beverages, while I watched some Bode butt on the flat screen in the restaurant bar. (What? I am not obssessed with Bode. He’s from NH and I’m all about him representing is all!) 

“Too bad! Serves ’em right for probably sitting on the cell phone in the car with the ringer turned off!” Dial down the anger, boyfriend! We’re just minutes from toasted ravioli! 

But then….the baby starts whining, 2 year old keeps shaking his head saying, “I don’t see the Ta-toe, I really don’t see the Ta-toe!” (The Chateau!), and birthday boy says he has to “pee and he doesn’t know how long he can hold it…”, and there is not a store or a business in sight in Eastbumblebee, Cow Hampshire. 

 “Dad, are you SURE you’re going the right way?” 4 year old demands.  

“YES!” husband uncharacteristically snaps as the team starts assaulting us one by one. Yeah, he so had no clue and the gig is about up. They’re totally turning on us. 

In the midst of  this family fun adventure, I start rethinking my steadfast claim that I don’t need a GPS because, “I don’t go anywhere but Tarjay or the grocery store!” If we’d had a GPS, we might have known there was traffic. Calling the in laws would be a moot point. We’d have gone another way, and been yukking it up over toasted ravs. 

Maybe our blame and cell phone fury has been totally misplaced this entire time! We’ve been livid with the collective older folk in our lives for not using technology to our liking and to our advantage but WE could have had a completely different trip had WE gotten all 2008 and gotten a GPS! 

Smug much, muffintopmommy and hubs? 

Anyone know where I can get a deal on a GPS?? Preferably one that’s, ah, easy for a technology challenged mom to use?


Filed under Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!


Can we talk about the Olympics for a sec? Please?

Something’s been bugging me all week and I need to get it off my chest. First, you should know that I always look forward to the Olympics. No, not because I’m some fab athlete—if you know me you know I sometimes (read: frequently, and often while as sober as a Duggar) trip when I walk. Over my own feet. I really don’t know what it feels like to fly through the air on skis or flawlessly execute a double axel (or even badly execute it, for that matter). And I’m okay with that— because I’m pretty sure attempting either of these would lead to my untimely demise. Usually a basic mastery of walking is a prerequisite to the aforementioned activities.

I don’t know what I could do (nothing responsible, anyway) or what it would be like to inspire a crowd to erupt. I can’t imagine having the entire nation pulling for me. (Although that? I think I could handle. “Muffintopmommy in da houseeeeee.” Yeah, I know. Ridonkulous.) I can’t help but well up when an American wins gold–glorious gold– and they play our anthem as the athlete stands tall on the center podium. And I’ve shed many a tear watching someone give it their all, yet fail spectacularly. (If you’re gonna fail, do it going for the gold. Seriously. “Going for the gold” has become a cliché, but damn, it means something when you see someone skate or ski their heart out and they crash and BOOM—just like that, it’s over. How do you not respect the effort and yet, feel the pain?) It’s hard not to be moved hearing about the personal sacrifices many athletes and their families have made all around the world just to get one shot at one medal. Sure, much of it’s about natural ability and skill, but like anything in life, so much about it is perseverance, mental fortitude and work ethic. In any nation, in any language, that translates.

But dayum. Something else is making me cry at these Olympics. And never mind cry, the something “else” is downright distracting.

I’m just gonna say it. Some of these Olympic fashions are flat out crazy.

They’re just….bad. No. BAD. Teh-ree-bley. Honest to God, I try to steer clear of sounding off about fashion. Who am I, a desperate hausfrau from the burbs of New Hampshire, to comment? A gal who readily admits to rocking the muffin top and outfitting herself in duds purchased in a red plastic cart with generic Tostitos? Who am I to dispense fashion commentary or gasp (!) advice? At any minute, Stacey and Clinton could be knocking on MY door. (One can only hope. Feel free to nominate me. I dare you. No, beg you. Seriously. How many hints, in how many posts, do I have to drop to get you to hear my cries for help? Are you gonna help a sister out or not?)

In the past week, I’ve seen snowboarders in grungy looking jeans (eeehhh) with holes (Shut up. I do not sound like my mother.) and bad plaid coats. How is that comfy? Are those jeans waterproof? Are they warm enough? Do they have enough padding if they, God forbid, fall?

I know how it sounds!

But..are they going right from the mountain to the bars? (If so, I’m all in with the outfit strategy because that’s just smart planning. See. I’m not my mother. Yet.) What up with the ginormous gold prep school gone wrong crest on the bad plaid coat? Yo, I’m a fan of plaid but I’m just not feeling it with the grungo jeans.

But Seth Westcott rocked the gold in it, and since I don’t know squat about squat, I’m gonna totally drop the snowboarding thing. Except to say…I’m relatively certain one of the women snowboarders had on my son’s Power Ranger mask yesterday.   

The skiers all look like I’d expect. Bode Miller? In his spandex number? Spandex=speed. It’s all good. And if, in the process, we catch a glimpse of “BB” (Bode butt), that’s no crime. Lindsey Vonn? She looked a-dorably, All American stylish in her cream Olympic hat after clinching gold with her bum shin in her boy skis! YEAH! The Canadians have been all about the style with fun maple leaf mittens and quilted red coats.

But wow, I’ve seen more than a few figure skaters who’ve lost the good fight with bedazzlers and puff sleeves this week. Feathery, flowy materials and glitzy garb reigned supreme. But really, there’s nothing new about that. I’ll grant that figure skating is about style and substance and you need some drama and flair. It is, at times, theatric. A little bedazzlin’ never hurt the likes of Big Papi from the Sox and it’s certainly not going to take down a figure skater. You can’t be showing up to light up the ice in jeans. You just can’t. Or…can you? 

And Johnny Weir? He had an interesting number on the other night. He takes some, ah, chances with fashion. But the dude can skate! He’s got the ‘tude to match the skating to match the duds to match the drama. He could bedazzle himself from head to toe and you’d have to just shut it. Cuz he’s got the goods. He had nude hose on his chest? Pfft. Whatever. Hot pink zig zags whatever they were? He works it. He owns it. It’s him. It’s just Johnny being Johnny–and honestly? I love a person who’s true to himself.

Drama? Flair? It’s all good—that’s what it’s about. But what about the Ukranian couple decked in blue tin foil? I’m envisioning a really badly decorated function hall right now—blue foil, streamers,  platters of beef jerky and Cheez-Whiz—you feeling it?  Either that or the blue foilers were gonna get beamed up–whatever, bad party, outer space—it presented a tremendous distraction. Whoever told them to wear that shit should be rightly beaten with a Ukranian stick, straight up to Sunday.                               

Seriously. And dude, if you’re gonna dress like that you better BRING IT. You want people to remember your skating, not your duds, no? I recall nothing of their routine, because all I remember is royal blue Reynolds Wrap. And for the mom or dad who schlepped them to an ice rink at the crack in the Ukraine somewhere, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, who probably scrimped and saved for ice time and lessons and coaches, I feel for you that your son or daughter, your biggest investment, your pride and joy, had to step out as a metallic Smurf on the world stage. Wrong. So wrong.

Other pressing questions for which I want answers? When did the whole Italian dirty country bumpkin/stock car mechanic look come into play? Just…..what? You’re talking about a guy from a country that produces some of the best tailors, organized crime figures (who we know are, if ethically dubious, impeccably dressed) and the Pope, dude, THE POPE (if you pray to the Holy Father or not you gotta give it up to his stylist—never a hair, thread or crucifix out of place). And this guy glides out looking all redneck Dukes of Hazzard meets Jiffy Lube. What what? Vito Corleone could not have approved to speak nothing of the Situation and Snooki down at the Jersey Shore. (Here is where I insert an apology to my Italian husband, but even he can’t deny the truth!) 

The Russians brought blonde mullet boy out of retirement and he worked the crowd in Mr. T- esque bad gold bling. His whole person was a clash of 80’s culture right there. I have nothing else to say on that. You be the judge!

Belgium put up a dude clad in a skeleton costume who looked like he should be holding a toddler’s hand on Halloween in suburbia gunning for a Snickers, not a Gold.

Trick or treat!

Trick? Rock on. Can you hold my treat bag? Okay…lemme show you my triple axel-lutz-twist-fast-spinny-skate-routine-program-Olympic-thing! I’m a champion! Didn’t you hear? Bel-gium! Bel-gium! We’re not just about the chocolates.

Some scary ass German clowns totally haunted me and ruined my sleep the other night. I’m not being disparaging—they really were dressed as freaky ass clowns, complete with shiny black triangle eyebrows. I swear when I was a kid, a rumor circulated bad clowns in windowless vans would try to snatch up innocent kids with the promise of free candy. In my mid thirties, I’ve now visualized what I vaguely imagined they’d look like as a kid. I think I was shaking during their routine. Which, incidently, I’m pretty sure kicked some clown butt. The guy might have fallen one time…maybe? But see, see, the duds were so bad I forget now!

I know when you get to the pinnacle of your sport, when you’re one of the best in the world, the world (!), all that matters is the “way you play the game”. I know that. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wasn’t distracted by all the fashion bad.

And? I’d be lying even more if I didn’t say I loved to hate it!

See you in 2014 beatches! I can hardly wait!



Filed under Awesomeness, OH &^%$!!, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Things that make you go....awwww