Category Archives: Friends…you got what I ne-ed


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!



Isn’t she a thing of beauty?

Never stop believing.


Dreams do come true! They do. And I’m living proof. Something really big happened last week. No, huge. 

My Lands End catalog came. No, that’s not the huge…stick with me! 

I like some good Lands End garb as much as the next suburban hausfrau, but I stood in my kitchen, preparing to be underwhelmed by my typical fleece and khaki wardrobe staples. (Let’s be honest, Lands End is the steady, not the flash.) So I flipped through it, simultaneously admiring and scoffing at the carefree faces of the catalog peeps. (Please refer to a post from last week, “I want to live in a catalog. Wanna come with?)  So, my blasé tude rendered me totally unprepared for the awesomeness that waited inside. 

Lands End, I will never take you for granted again. 

Wait for it……Tretorns! 

Yes, Tretorns! 

Holy mother of cool, old school kicks. Tretorns! 

Just let it sink in a minute. 

If you’re a woman who came of age in the 70’s and/or 80’s you know just what I’m talking about whether you loved them or not. Tretorns from my girlhood are ba-ack. Dude! I NEED them ahora! Is this just my 80’s shoe geek busting out? My repressed inner pink and green prep screaming to be heard? Lands End might have unleashsed a firestorm of repressed 80’s fashion memories. 

My world has been turned upside down. Right side out! Wrong side in! Old is new! New is old! 

What? It is THAT exciting. And if you disagree you don’t know from exciting! 

So, confession time. To put this in perspective on the outside chance you don’t share in my shoe crazy, I’ve had a shoe problem since the third grade. This is when I beat my mother down (not literally…hello!) into buying me some Nike Cortez sneaks. Do you remember them? Oh, they were the bomb! They were white leather with the red swoosh and kind of a semi pointed toe. I can still hear the woman, “I can’t believe I am buying you $33 shoes right now!” 

Totally worth $33! In today's dollars maybe....

Frankly, I can’t believe it either. $33 was a lot of money then. (Back in the stone ages…. I mean, the early 80’s.) I don’t pay much more for my sneaks NOW—sometimes even less. All I can remember is her muttering that I would one day be destined for a career in sales (who knew?) because she was buying them for me and didn’t even know why. Oh! And that I better not tell my father! (If my father ever reads this… mum, I’m so sorry I busted your cover. We had a good run though, didn’t we? And no, I really don’t know who hit the garage. Seriously.) 

After the Cortez came the Tretorns. And after the Tretorns? The Adidas Gazelles— sophomore year in high school. Rumor had it you could only legally buy them in Canada (High school urban legend?). Eh, that made them all the more alluring though. My friend and I couldn’t drive so we ended up taking the commuter train into Boston after school and then the “T” to South Boston aka Southie (If you’re not from Boston, three words… Good Will Hunting.) to score our green contraband. My mother was rather unmoved by my rabid shoe needs by then, and I know I bought them with my own money I made schlepping clothes at Frugal Fannies Fashion Warehouse. The floors were concrete….I needed good footwear to pound that minimum wage pavement! 

I would totally still wear these!

And no, they were not the last green shoes I’ve had. I have, in my closet right now, a pair of green old school Sauconys that I bust out on St. Patty’s Day. And, other days when I just feel like going green. (Kermit was right—it ain’t easy being green—I’ve suffered some slings and arrows over my kicks! Bring it! I apologize to no one for my rainbow coalition of old school footwear!) Converse Chuck Taylors? I have me summa them. And retro New Balance? Yes, please! 

It’s safe to say, next to my family, I live for shoes. It’s the little things—life is too damn short to not embrace footwear fun. And I never pay full retail.  Don’t you wanna know how I scored some Tretorns for $16.50? ( HOLLA! I’m all about sharing the intel but if you buy up all the size 8’s I’m coming for you! !) I knowwww…was that a little McMeanie to find out about them from Lands End and then go carousing elsewhere? Um, $38.50 in my pocket says, ha-ell no!!! 

The shoe fetish is hard to shake—but of all my best shoe memories, Tretorns were my longest running fave. And why I feel compelled to share the love. Now, I usually like to write my own stuff, but I’m not so much into the lovey dovey stuff, and couldn’t articulate it any better than Peaches & Herb…so sing with me now.(Um, maybe in private. You at work? Just hum along, lest someone misunderstand. That’s how rumors get started you know!) 

“Reunited and it feels so good.
Reunited ’cause we understood.
There’s one perfect fit,
And, sugar, this one is it.
We both are so excited 
‘Cause we’re reunited, hey, hey..”

Peaches & Herb must have been clairvoyant to produce this hit right when Tretorns came into favor. Coincidence? You decide. Did they sense that a random girl would one day rediscover one of her first shoe loves? This song has depth. It has meaning. It speaks to me.  

No, I do not hear voices in my head, why do you ask? 

But Tretorns, my love, um…this is awkward, but I have to wonder, where have you been the past two decades? 

Okay, no, no. I’m not going to go there. The past doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter where you’ve been. It only matters that YOU CAME BACK! You came back for me! I don’t need to know the details of who you’ve been with or why. Bygones! 

When something so fantabulous happens, you want to sing from the rooftops, right? Well, I’m sort of afraid of heights, and honestly, we’re in the midst of a really crazy cold snap, so yeah, no. I did what any other modern day, fraidy cat, clutzy, cold hating whinybag would do…and I went on Facebook (where else?) to sing it, and to find out if others shared my undying decades long Tretorn devotion. I put out an APB on the muffintopmommy page on Facebook and hell yeah, there’s plenty of Tretorn love to go around. I knew this blog had fun readers who would totally get it! 

But wow, my question opened a Pandora’s box of 80’s pride. (And in a few cases, loathing. I cannot explain that which I do not understand. I am sad for the few Tretorn haters. I really am. They know not what they do. Some of them are my very best friends and I hold out hope they will see the light. It’s not too late!) So I have to ask… you share the love or don’t you? And don’t worry…this poll is totally and 100% anonymous (I think. I just figured out how to make one like thirty seconds ago, so you know, it also might not be. So watch your back just in case. I’m just sayin….this could get heated).


Filed under Awesomeness, got what I ne-ed, Retail Therapy, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, Things that make you go....awwww, Yo! It's a girl thing!

“Tis the season to be crabby”…well, at least when it comes to Christmas Cards!

Please welcome guest blogger and friend, Lisa. Lisa is a full time mom and wife, part time Marketing and Public Affairs professional, part time beer and wine drinker and full time funny friend. She strikes a great balance where it matters most, so if her Christmas card comes late…or… **cough**…never…we’ll give her a pass this year! In her free time,  Lisa enjoys relaxing drives on  Route 128, hawking Girl Scout cookies, and working the crowd in the preschool pick up line. Wait, that sounds wrong. Never mind. She’s funny…read her post! Oh, and I hope your holiday cards are in the mail!

Is December 23rd too late to mail your Christmas Cards? 

Some of my cards, and I reiterate SOME, went in the mail this morning.

I dropped them off in the industrial sized mailbox, shut the lid with eyes closed, purposely avoiding any sight of the posted daily pick up time, and walked away with a stern – there’s  your holiday cheer – ho, ho, ho!! 

Christmas comes at the same time EVERY year. Same date even. No fluctuation like Easter or school vacation. It’s 12/25 year after year. So why is it that Christmas cards seem to be one of the last-minute stress factors of the season EVERY year? And EVERY year you tell yourself that next year (at the same time, of course) that you’ll be more organized.

You’ll get that family portrait taken.

You’ll make the cards early and have the envelopes address and stamped BEFORE Thanksgiving even. 

And every year, the cards start pouring in and instead of feeling the holiday joy — you feel panic– complete and utter panic. I have to do these cards NOW. And they have to be good – really creative and fun! 

My husband senses the panic and calmly says, “Just find a great family photo–we must have something we can use.”

Of course, all of your photos from the past year are either still in the camera or hidden somewhere on the computer. And you hear your mother’s nagging voice that pops up at every family function.

“Let me get a photo of the 4 of you together — it’ll make a great Christmas card.”  Wink, wink. 

So you spend a week digging through your digital photos only to realize that you don’t have a great shot and now you’ve just blown a week of precious holiday prep time with your nose buried in the computer, when you should have been decorating, shopping or doing something else that has been foolishly labeled ‘holiday fun’. 

So you make an executive decision:

“We’re not doing Holiday Cards this year.”

There, I said it out loud. Decision made.

It’s December 15th and we’re just going to enjoy the holidays. Back to making those cute homemade gifts (’tis the season to be jolly).

And then the cards start pouring in.

Some of them are great — there’s our old neighbors, wow have their kids grown, and look, our college friends had a new baby –she’s just 2 weeks old and –oh!–they managed to get their professionally done cards out on time. 

Others have some of the worst photos you’ve ever seen. So my husband says, at least.

“Come-on, we must have something we can throw on a card – and it’s be better than THAT (my cousin’s son kissing what appears to be their German Shepard  wearing a reindeer headband?) 

So you spend yet another few days digging through photos and come up with a brilliant idea:

“We’re going to make New Year’s Cards instead.”

There, I said it out loud. Decision made.

It’s December 20th and we’re just going to enjoy the holidays.

Back to last minute shopping (Joy to the world!)

New Years cards will be a nice change!

Isn’t it about wishing people well for the season and the whole new year anyway?(or should we just admit out loud that it’s a brag fest of “my kids are cuter than yours” vs. who has the better vacation photo vs. whose wife has gained the most weight and husband has lost the most hair?).

And the cards keep pouring in…..

“Look! It’s your mother’s second cousins from Charlotte – so nice that they always remember us. And his 87 year old godmother from Florida – she’s a spry one isn’t she!?”

And here comes the panic again!

She’s 87 and cannot only manage to remember who we are – but get a nice, hand-written card to us — in plenty of time for us to enjoy it!

What if she doesn’t know that we’re going to send New Year’s Cards?

Will she think we forgot them and don’t wish her happy holidays?

Will she think they didn’t make the list?

Oh the horror!!!! 

And now you’re in a real dilemma.

What to do? It’s Dec. 21st! Are we too late? Will sending cards now look like an after thought? Or an oops, I got theirs so I must send them one?!? 

If we do these right now, at least a few of them will get there at least a minute before Christmas.We’ll just do the necessary family and old people who we only communicate with once a year.

And then, you remember where the real panic comes from as you look at THE LIST.

Where do you draw the line?

Who is considered family and ‘close’ friends?

Who is old enough to get a card?

Do you blow off all of your neighbors and in-town friends because they see your kids all the time anyway? Or do you blow off the out-of town, out of touch people you only communicate with once a year via Christmas cards? 

The Christmas card list started with your wedding guests from 10 years ago. Add in the friends you have made along the way. Co-workers from each job, friends that your kids have made, neighbors, etc. Not to mention, the mailman, teachers, the bus driver and, in Janet’s case, her favorite kid from the supermarket deli. 

Now you’re sending cards to more people than you actually see or speak to in any given year. (Fa la la la la). 

So you dig though the pile of cards the thoughtful ones have taken the time to send wishing you a happy holiday season, instead of just a ‘day’. And you get some helpful comments….From the kids.

“Mommy – who are these children, do we know them?”

“No honey, you don’t.” And neither do I.

“Will we meet them some day?” Maybe some day (more likely no, and I’ll probably never see their parents again either). 

And from your husband?

“Greetings from Tennessee – who the heck do we know in Tennessee?”

My college room mate’s best friend from high school that was in her wedding with me back in 1997.

“Seriously – have you seen her since?”

Nope. And probably never will again.

And about the beautifully crafted card that folds out like an accordion to display three formal portraits of the family with six children and one dog dressed in matching outfits for each season?

“Who are these people – -that guy looks like a dork. Do I know them?”

“No, I used to work with her many years ago.”

“When? Have you seen here recently?”

“My first job out of college – before I met you.” (love of my life for the past 16 years now).

“Well, is she a good business contact?”

“No. She’s now a super religious housewife that home school’s her children.” (not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you).

“And she still sends you Christmas cards? That makes sense.”

“No it really doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?”

And neither do 3/4 of the people on this list.

But then again, this tradition of holiday panic doesn’t make any more sense than putting a live tree in your house, decorating it with shiny accessories and food and expecting your children not to touch it, right?

It’s a tradition, damn it.

So, you hastily order a cheesily designed on-line card that you pay out the nose for. For a brief moment that holiday cheer fills your soul before you realize that it will be ready in exactly 24 hours at 6:23 pm on 12.22. Translation: three days before Christmas. 

It’s okay – at least we’re sending them this year! “It’s the thought that counts!” , you exclaim proudly as you open the box to see:

An overly dark photo where your husband’s eyes are closed and you look pregnant. Nice!

Not to mention that you spelled your oldest child’s name wrong and listed your youngest as age 2 (she’s now 4 1/2). Whoops!

It’s hideous. And will be late. For those who actually made the list — very late. Not exactly the card worth waiting for.

But sadly, it’s better than what you sent at the same time last year!

Happy Holidays everyone!



Filed under got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage


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?


Filed under got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Yo! It's a girl thing!

It’s not my fault, I don’t get out much!

It all started when we got the invite to my friend’s wedding. The wedding was out of town, a good two hours away, and the night we’d be getting home from our family “vacation” week at the beach. (And by vacation, I mean one week relocation. Everyone knows a vacation with kids isn’t a vacation. You don’t go out alone. You don’t sleep in. You don’t finish a conversation. It’s like being at home, but with a much better view! And the view? Better be damn good while you’re washing dishes by hand, thank you very little! Mrs. Ingalls…how DID you do it?)

Given the logistics and the fact that my in laws offered to watch our kids over night (woot woot!) we decided we’d get a room so we could whoop it up (Get your mind out of the gutter you freshie! Whoop it up = drink it up!). We planned to get to the hotel a little early and relax for a bit (Relax= have a drink and some party snacks! What is WRONG with you people! Get off this blog now and go get a Harlequin if that’s your thing!)

Despite painstaking planning, we got to the church with seconds to spare. No party snacks, no drinks and we sprinted into the church as my friend was standing on the front steps with her dad —looking like quite the little hottie I might add! (The bride, not the dad! We really need to talk!)

(We never thought there’d be so much traffic on a summer Saturday heading out to western Mass. Who knew? Thank you Mass Pike traffic, I love you, too! I watched my quiet time slip away while we limped to the wedding behind a tractor trailer.)

We ended up just being thrilled to make it and it really was a lovely wedding.  The bride was radiant, the food delish, and the dancing….not recorded. (PTL!) Everything was perfect….except, if I have one bone to pick….it was the seating chart. Did I have to be seated next to our old (and apparently cradle robbing) friend, “Jack”, and his date—a 24 year old blonde Russian bombshell?

Was she nice? Yes, yes she was. She was very, very nice and I actually learned a thing or two about Russian culture that evening (I can now swear, give a toast, and ask to go to the bathroom in Russian! Look out Putin!) But come on. Is it really kind to put the chubby middle aged hausfrau whose had three kids in four years and is suffocating in her Spanx next to the hot child model? That would be “nyet”! (My esteem is very fragile, you see.) But na na na na na, she didn’t get carded at the wedding either! Victory is mine (But maturity? Apparently not)!

We brought clothes to change into after the reception figuring we’d hit one of the hotel bars afterward. At the end of the reception,we chatted with some others and planned to all meet up.  We have a mini conference in the hallway with Jack and the underage model and a friend of the bride’s, Erin, but Jack says he heard the bars were already closed!

“Nonsense!” I shriek. “I’ll be ready in like two seconds. You guys sit down and have a beer or some wine while I go change! There are some snacks on the desk over there. Help yourself!” (I’m sorry but I was fresh out of Vodka! Had I known I’d be playing international host, I would have been more prepared.)

We change fast and regroup. I am HELL bent on going out. And if I can’t go out, I will bring the party to us! (See, this is what happens when you unleash a drunken housewife onto the world. The fact that my husband and I had not been away alone since Christ was a child, coupled with spending most of the day snarling around various New England traffic jams, was the perfect storm for one mother gone mad!)

I soon realized I had a cooler and non refrigerated party snacks. It would be like college! We had the start of a party with the cradle robber, the Russian, and poor Erin, who in retrospect I realized was looking more uncomfortable by the minute, nibbling on her pretzel rod and trying to be positive, “You’re such a mom! Look at all the cute snacks you packed–so prepared!”, while probably trying to formulate an exit strategy. In my Bud Light brain, I totally missed the social cues that a cute, single 30 year old most likely did not find the prospect of partying with this random foursome  at all amusing. (Sorry Erin! You really should have come to the shower—I was on my best behavior—only one mimosa!)

The other problem? I wasn’t totally sure where everyone else was and I didn’t notice it was about 1:30 in the morning. (Was there speed in my filet mignon? I have to wonder.) So I did what any good party planner would do, I made our little international coalition stomp down the hall with me, and then I knocked on a few doors where I imagined people were staying.

After three different doors, with my husband finally urging me to stop (Okay begging…but I blame him! He should have stopped the madness way sooner! So his fault!) my friend’s bridesmaid opened up. In her pajamas. And… I guess I missed the “Do Not Disturb” sign.


“Um, I think I’m gonna pass but you guys have fun! Maybe I’ll see you at the breakfast tomorrow?” Um, nyet, because I’ll be in fetal position vowing never to drink again….

“Shurrree! G’night!”

Just then, two uniformed men show up. I remember thinking, “Hmm, wonder what they’re doing here?”

They very politely tell me to please pipe down, there are other people staying in the hotel and it’s late and I really am being TOO loud.

“Oh, I am sho shorry! Yesh, I will be quiet and I will head back to my room right now!” I whisper, horrified that I’m the one in trouble.

The next day, as we were chatting about the wedding on the way home, I said to my husband, “OMG! I cannot believe I got busted by the Marriott security guards! How embarassing! I am SO going on the wagon. What.a.loser!”

“Janet, that was a Marriott security guard AND a Springfield cop! You got busted by a real cop!”

“What! Are you kiddin’ me! For cripes sake, if I had known that, I wouldda said, “Don’t you be worrying about me! Why don’t you do me a favor, and check blondie’s visa!”


Filed under got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!