Category Archives: Things that make you go….awwww

CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE OLYMPICS FOR A SEC?

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!

 

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A VALENTINE’S DAY ODE TO THE HUBS

Okay, so listen, before we jump into my super romantic poem, if there are ANY fellas in the muffintopmommy house today (Be not afraid! You are totally welcome along with women with flat tummies. I’m a lover, not a hater. We are the world.)…what I say in the poem reflects only the opinions of ONE sassy woman who may be prone to eschew certain societal romantic overtures. (Unless done randomly and without prompting!) What? I am not a pain in the ass! Whatever, it ain’t worth getting into here. Just know, not every woman shares my opinion on roses and gifts for Valentine’s Day. It is up to YOU to figure out what makes your woman tick—so, good luck with that! These are just the romantic ramblings (!) of one random, red rose hating, woman. So, unless your name rhymes with trick or pick or thick, take the poem with a grain of salt and in the spirit in which it was intended! Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! (Just wanted to publish a few days early in the hopes my sweets has time to meet my demands. I mean, polite requests. I mean, unsolicited, loving overtures. I mean. Um. Never mind.)
 
 

NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOO. Just, NO!!!!!!

 
 
Roses are red.
Violets are not.
Bringing me flowers on V Day
Just ain’t that hot.
 
Lemme sleep in,
Take the kids at witching hour.
Bring me some gin.
But keep yo damn flower!
 
A sweater, a scarf, even a purse I can do.
Of course, you know me likie shoes, too.
And don’t spend 8 grand on some huge sappy card,
Just say I love you–don’t make it that hard.
 
Save your cashola to feed the muffin top.
Some seafood or steak?
But please , no lamb chops. (BAA!)
 
If you show with even one stinking rose,
I swear to God I’m gonna break your nose.
Oy, do you know the mark up on V Day?
And seriously, could it be any more cliche?
 
If you really want me to swoon?
                    
Bring me a 12 pack some random day in June!
The only “Buds” I wanna see from my man?
Come in a lovely glass bottle or can.
 
Oh, don’t be afraid–I’m not starting a fight.
You always *mostly* get it just right.
And if you can’t find that perfect gift for me?
I know of one that is perfectly free!
 
You can *for once* just replace the TP!                                                
It’s already bought and wrapped in clear plastic!
It’s so super soft and perfectly round.
Under the sink is where it is found.
And when you need it, it sure is fantastic.
What? I’m not even being sarcastic!  
 
I love you, dear.
I love you so much.
You’ve nothing to fear.
Your gifts, always clutch.
 
If my demands seem mean or even nasty,
You knew when we married
I’d be bringing some sassy!
 
I must confesss now, I don’t care what you do         
As long as you read this and still love me, too!
 
 *Props to the very funny wendiaarons.com for teaching me how to make that bitchin’ heart! Check out her site!
 
Well, ladies? What say you?
 

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REUNITED…AND IT FEELS SO GOOD!

 

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? (6pm.com. 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…..do 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).

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JANUARY 15, 2009— DO YOU REMEMBER WHERE YOU WERE?

*Readers…I know, after ALL THAT, after all my carrying on about how you can come to muffintopmommy and always get the funny…I did the unthinkable today and am posting something on the serious side. I need to put in the fine print somewhere with an asterisk, that I reserve the right to get serious from time to time. Hey, even Conan’s doing it this week! And if you don’t like it, rest assured, a refund for your subscription will be promptly rendered! That’s what I thought!!!!!! As always, thanks for reading…

Do you remember where you were on January 15, 2009?

I do.

Lying in a hospital bed, cradling my five hour old newborn in the crook of my arm, I glanced over at the tv.  I’m not sure why I even turned the tv on—the room was dark and I was supposed to be resting. My room had finally cleared out and my husband had gone home to get our two other sons so they could meet their much anticipated new baby brother.

I still felt a little hazy (Or high?) from the meds they gave me during my rapid fire (!) delivery (Please refer to, “The Break Up—I Thought I Knew You!”) and as I squinted toward the tv, I wondered if I might be seeing things.

“Oh no. Is that? Is that a plane in the Hudson River?” I whispered.

Baby did not respond—strong, (9 plus pound!) silent type.

I got an immediate pit in my stomach as I watched what looked like a scene from a terrible movie— the plane sort of suspended there, partially submerged in what had to be inhumanely cold water. Freezing air gripped the entire Northeast that day and I feared for the fate of the passengers. I wondered as I clutched my new bundle tighter —was it terrorism? Did it just crash? Would anyone live? Who was on board?

Nothing made sense. At all.

All of the lingering meds and pregnancy hormones combusted in my brain, as I imagined who might be on the plane.

Mommies and daddies? Children? Pregnant women? Expecting dads? Daughters? Sons? Brothers? Sisters? Friends? Grandmothers? Someone who might have the cure for cancer or the next life changing innovation? People whose life stories were incomplete, their dreams unfulfilled, their songs not yet sung?

Anytime someone dies—especially younger people and regardless if I know them or not—my mind always races with the same questions…What could they be? What would they be? If this… didn’t happen? How would the rest of their lives have played out and what sort of impact would they have had on the world? I’m not sure if I do this because my own sister passed away far too young when I was in high school, or if this is what everyone does. It’s just my normal, I guess. I have no other basis for comparison.

As I held my warm infant, and smelled his perfect head and marveled at his tiny fingers, I imagined and dreamed about the possibilities that would exist for him, for his hopefully very long life. “Welcome to the world!” I had exclaimed just a few hours ago. (Well, I’ll have to check the video—it might have come out more, “Awwww…wecumtothawhirllll…”, but I said it and I meant it—even if under the influence!)

But now it appeared a tragedy occurred on the day of his birth. It seemed exceptionally cruel. The whole thing. A plane full of innocents whose mothers once held them when they were a few hours old and likely dreamed for them the same dreams I had for my own son—possibly gone in a few moments?

And much less importantly? It crossed my mind that my son’s birthday would always be slightly marred coming into the world on the day of such a devastating event. And did I even deserve to be this happy on a day when others lost their loved ones and by human extension, a part of them?

As news started to trickle in though, optimism trumped dread. Squinting, it looked like there were tiny figures on the wings of the plane. ‘Scuse me? Rescue boats appeared! Eventually, it became clear every single person made it out alive.

Word quickly emerged about the incredible feat we now know transpired that day. Captain Sullenberger— maybe the only pilot who could land a plane safely in that situation—actually did avert disaster. How many times do I screech, “Disaster averted! Bleah!!” like a flat out crazy lady when I do stuff like barely miss burning the dinner? But this guy? This guy lands a freaking airbus on the Hudson River, next to one of the most congested cities in the world. He’s a DUDE! A STUD! He? Is.The.Man. The MAN! (Attention airline industry: Henceforth I fly only with Sully Sullenberger. Damn straight. Please make a note of it for when I book my next flight.) Sorry. I digress…Never mind if he had just crashed the plane into the river instead of landing it safely—haven’t we all been too scared to wonder what if he’d crashed it into the middle of New York City? He likely saved more than a plane full of mommies and daddies, sons and daughters, teachers and coaches, volunteers and engineers. He probably saved blocks and blocks of them.

I don’t know a thing about aviation. I know even less about plane crash statistics (and prefer to keep it that way, thanks). Everything I’ve read indicates Captain Sullenberger had to do everything right for that plane to land completely intact and for everyone to emerge safely that day. It’s all hard to fathom for a mere mortal like me–who carelessly banters the word disaster around.

For years my husband and I struggled with miscarriages and infertility before we had our first son–so we felt grateful, if puzzled, to have three healthy sons in four years with little medical intervention. So I’ve long since given up on figuring out the mysteries of science— never mind of life. I’ve tried repeatedly to wrap my head around it all, but I’m left with more questions than answers. (English major.) In the end, I have to believe it’s some kind of miracle. Because really? Like Sullenberger landing that plane against impossible odds, pretty much everything has to go right for a woman to go from un-pregnant to holding a real live baby. I don’t understand the mystery; I’m just a willing and grateful participant.

A lot has transpired both in the world and within the walls of my home over this past year. My newborn has grown probably ten inches, roughly tripled his weight. He’s learned to roll, sit, crawl, stand, and he can even walk a few steps. He’s got three (and a half?) teeth and a full head of enviable hair. He good naturedly survived wearing a helmet for three months—and we did, too. (Please see, “Oh No! We Have a Smelly Kid!”) He found his personality and his voice—he’s chatty (not in my native tongue, unfortunately) and stubborn like me and playful like daddy. He’s already been busted for ripping things, climbing on things and pulling on things—and been forgiven in an instant all for flashing a three and a half tooth grin. And for all my joking some days about the inmates running the asylum around here and how I’m going to hide under the kitchen table ’til daddy gets home, I get it. I know how lucky I am to be able to watch his brothers and him grow. Through their eyes, it’s all promising and new again. And when I start to forget this— something always pulls me back to reality. Sadly, I only have to think to events of this past week in Haiti to be reminded of my good fortune.

Some people might call it good luck that Captain Sullenberger, of such brilliant ability, was piloting that plane that frigid day. And some might call it a miracle. I’m not a super religious person, but I do believe in miracles. I do. And, when I look back on that day, I know I got to see not one, but two miracles. January 15, 2009 is a day I will never, ever forget. I feel honored—and that maybe it was good karma even— that my son was born that fateful day. And as I write this, as things look very dire, I hope for the people of Haiti that many miracles have occurred there this week as well.

If you wish to donate to help the people of Haiti, go to redcross.org or call 1-800-REDCROSS. Or, text HAITI to 90999 to donate $10 to Red Cross Haiti Relief.

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THE BREAK UP…I THOUGHT I KNEW YOU!!

*Greetings muffintopmommy readers! We have many new readers, so a big thanks for joining.  We’re excited to have you! Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions in the comments. And, if you like what you see, please subscribe and tell your peeps. If you’ve been with me since the beginning (waaay back in September of ’09…go loyalty!), you may notice I first ran this post in October. So if it’s not new to you, consider it a  refresher–or some back story, to what I’ll be posting on Friday. It’ll make sense then, I promise. Thanks!

********************************************************************************************************************

I learned some dreadful news the other day.

Apparently, there’s been a terrible break up. And it happened to some of my favorite people.

What went wrong?

Did they grow apart? Was it a fight over money? Did someone get wooed away?

The worst part is, I only found out about it when I read it in the Sunday newspaper. Nobody told me. I missed all the signs.

My ob-gyn practice is splitting up!

I’m sick over it!

If it were my primary care practice, that I hardly know anyway, then pfft—who cares—easy come, easy go. I go there, what, once a year, maybe twice if I come down with a bad somethin’ somethin’ that requires antibiotics. (And even then, they might not gimme any…grrr. What’s up with that, btw? I see all these news reports about junkies trolling from doctor to doctor for Oxy-Contin and I can’t even score some flipping Penicillin when I’m splayed out in my argyle socks and paper gown on the exam table! We’ve covered this…Would I really waste valuable babysitting to limp to the doctor and strip down if I didn’t mean business?)

But my OB office? Say it ain’t so! Despite their terrible taste in magazines (As noted in my first post, “My vacation… to the dentist”), I genuinely loved them all. They saw me through my last two pregnancies, and did so in good humor (Although, don’t you have to have a sense of humor to do that job….eeek) and in good shoes (plaid Danskos….me likie!)

I often thought, “If I could have passed Anatomy and Physiology, didn’t want to hurl at the sight of blood and thought working nights, weekends and holidays would be super fun, I would SO want to work here!” I know. And people say doctors get paid too much? Eeeehhhh.

From what I gleaned in the paper (talk about being in the know…not), three docs are splitting off to a new office and three are staying put. My doctor is staying with two of the doctors from my original practice, but the two doctors who delivered my last two sons are going to a new office with another doc from the office. My actual doctor never ended up delivering any of my kids because she was never on call when the time came. Or, because she was afraid. But there’s absolutely no proof of that!

What to do, what to do?

My husband doesn’t understand my quandary. I called him all in a flux about the big break up!

“What’s the problem?” he asked. “You should stay with your doctor. She’s been nothing but great to us since we joined the practice. I feel like she really went out of her way to help us when we were having trouble getting pregnant and then was so awesome while we were pregnant.”

“I know. I am not disagreeing with you. She’s wonderful. But the other doctors actually delivered our sons and were also really helpful to me during my pregnancies and I love them too! And, they’re on our home movies!” I (might have) shrieked.

“Remember the last delivery?  When we thought I’d gotten there too late for the epidural, so they gave me that drug that made me kind of cuckoo? (read: high) I think it was called….. I dunno, something evil… I just can’t remember the name of it because….I think I was…. high?….but anyway, remember, the doc and all the nurses and I were all peeing our pants laughing (me literally, sorry tmi) because after I delivered the baby, the doc told me to put him on my chest…. and instead of lifting up my gown, I tried to stuff the baby down the neck opening of my gown and the doc couldn’t breathe and choked, “I didn’t mean to stuff him down your shirt!”, and I was all like, ‘Just say no to drugs, kids!’ We all TOTALLY bonded!”  P.S. Apparently mother’s instincts are NOT inherent.

That is not someone you just dump!

Truthfully, I’m 99.9% sure (That’s what the package insert says, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!)  we aren’t having any more kids. So my trips to the ob from here on in are probably likely reduced to the yearly pap smear visit. (Hap-py birthday to me!) So, even if they all stayed together for the sake of the patients, I’d only see my own doctor anyway.

And, I guess I know deep down none of these doctors probably really remember who I am. They see hundreds of pregnant mamas every week and I can’t even hazard a guess on how many babies a year they deliver. But kudos to all of them for making me feel like I, and my baby, came first. That’s rare I think, and not something to sneeze at. I know I’m not alone in my estimation of them, and I hope they know that, even as they splinter. *Sniff.*

But still, I’m crushed about the break up.

Do you think they’d consider a shared custody agreement?

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Filed under Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Things that make you go....awwww, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!

“OY” TO THE WORLD, IT’S CHRISTMAS AGAIN AND NO, I’M NOT A FREAKING TOY SHOP!

You know what’s fun?

When you move, and the phone company gives you a recycled phone number. But instead of giving you any old recycled number, they give you the number of a toy store that went out of business.

What’s even more amusing when you have a phone number that used to be a toy store? The holidays! Ho freaking Ho. Don’t forget the bottle of rum now.

 (Yeah, no, this blog really is a work of non-fiction, because, honest to God, I could not make this shit up if I tried. Really.)

Usually around Thanksgiving, the desperate toy seekers start to come out to play. And even though this is my fourth holiday season in this house, the calls still persist. And, I have to tell you, I’m feeling less sympathetic and less inclined to help these callers with every passing year. I mean, if you don’t know the joint went out of biz four years later, clearly you weren’t their most loyal patron.
And frankly? Maybe if you had been more loyal, the damn store wouldn’t BE out of business, and I could go back to taking my very, very, VERY important personal calls. (The constant interruptions when I’m trying to discuss with my girlfriends WHY Tiger cheated —and WHAT his wife should do to him— are getting tres annoying.)

The first year? I should have been on Kringle’s payroll (they still had a shop the next town over), or been honored by the local Chamber of Commerce or something. There were tons of calls and this is how it would go down:

“Hello?”

“Yeah hi, is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“Um, no, I’m sorry it isn’t. They went out of business recently. Their other location is still open. I’d try them. Here’s their phone number.”

“Oh thank you so much!”

“No problem. Have a nice holiday.”

Year two, I was still on my A game. My old jobs in customer service and sales were still an asset. I thought evil thoughts, but did not voice them in keeping with the spirit of the season.

“Hello?”

“Is this….Kringle’s Toy Shop?” What part of HELLO led you to believe that?

“No, sorry, no. I have their old phone number. Yeah. Gotta love that phone company! Viva Verizon. NOT!”

“HA HA. You must get a lot of calls. I’m sorry to bother you.” You should be. I’m right in the middle of finding out which condo the twentysomething bachelor in Chicago is going to pick on House Hunters! I think he should pick the one with the killer view of the lake, but HE wants to be nearer to the L! If you want to woo the ladies, killer, go with the view and hoof your ass to the train, you dumbass! Have fun being single forever, putz!
I know the people inside the tv can’t hear me, but I must let my voice be heard! (It’s my family room and I’ll shout if I want to!)

“No problem. They still have their other store. Try them.” And look up the damn number yourself. I ain’t on the clock!

Year three. Now, I’m beginning to screen my calls if I don’t recognize the name and number. (I’m thinking, HELLO, the least Verizon could have done is throw in some free freaking caller ID to help a sister out. I despise them, so I switch to Comcast, partly out of spite. Too late to change my number now, as all my peeps have it. Sigh. I don’t want to have to call like 10 or 15 people to change it!)

Now, you’d think that if a would be Kringle’s shopper got my voicemail, which essentially is a woman’s voice stating simply, “Hi, you’ve reached 555-5555*, we can’t take your call so please leave a message at the beep,” that yahoos would realize, game over, this ain’t no toy shop. (*Come on now, you don’t think I’m actually going to print my real phone number, DO you? Like I need more people calling here to yank my chain asking if I have toys!)

But, you would be wrong. (People really are scary stupid. I’m not trying to be all uppity as I’m no master of quantum physics, but really? Connect the freaking dots people. Toy store? Gone.) See, when I decided to start screening my calls, I would get voice mails like, “Hi, do you have the jumping monkey? It jumps? Call me.”

But my all time favorite? The granny.

“Hi, um, my name is Gertrude Granmama and I’m looking for some dolls for my granddaughters. I don’t know what they’re called but they’re very realistic looking—the hair and oh! The eyes move and they smile. I thought maybe you—you know, because you’re a small toy shop might have something nice like this instead of, oh, I don’t know, Wallllll-mart or Toys-R, um, Toys-R-Us or one of those, you know, boxy stores. Well, if you could just put me on your list, and please call me back when you get this message, that would be great. Ok, all righty then, this is my number….555-GRANNY. Call me back. Bye. Oh and I can send you a deposit. Bye! I look forward to hearing from you!” (Offering to send money! Oh no! No wonder why seniors get scammed!)

Anyway, what I really wanted to do, was tell the golden girl those dolls sounded so super creepy that really, she should go to plan B and spare her poor granddaughters. EEEHH. But hey, if she wanted to spend her pension on bad toys, I decided it just wasn’t my biz. I wanted to ignore the message, but I just felt too awful envisioning this nice little old lady sitting around doing her crossword or whatever, thinking she was on the creepy doll waitlist, waiting for Kringle’s to call back.

So, out of a sense of some kind of obligation I felt responsible, and I called her back. But, I got her voice mail, so I leave a nice message stating I received her message, but that unfortunately, I’m just a random, yada yada, the toy store is gone, try the other location, good luck to you, yada yada, just didn’t want you to be waiting for a call back. Happy holidays, bye bye!”
So, I’m upstairs later that night and the phone rings, and I hear my husband, “Oh, it’s no problem at all. Honestly. Yes, oh yes, heh heh, yes, she is a great girl. Mm hmm. Oh two granddaughters? Oh that’s great. Good for you! Yes, well she just felt badly that you might be waiting to hear back about the doll. Oh you too, oh yes, thank you, bye. You too now. Okay, yes, I’ll tell her. Bye bye.”

He runs up breathless, laughing.

“Hey, that was granny calling back to say she got your message,”

“Yeah, I gathered. What’s so funny? You’re mean laughing at granny!”

“Well, she told me my wife was so lovely to call and tell her we weren’t Kringle’s,” he choked.

“WHAT IS FUNNY ABOUT THAT? I AM LOVELY!! I AM!”

“No, no no! I’m telling you, Granny…is…wasted! Grandma totally sounds like she’s on the sauce tonight. Seriously. Granny just drunk dialed us—she’s totally hitting the vodka gimlets or something!”

“MA HA HA HA. MA HA HA HA! I love it! Good for granny! Well she gets a pass for calling an out of business toy store cuz she’s hammered! The other fools are just young and dumb!”

Seriously, how do you not love that granny? She rocks.

There was the younger sounding granny in Florida who I called back, who when I explained the sitch, dryly said, “Oh! Sucks to be you! You’re gonna have a fun Christmas!”
She sounded so fun I was tempted to see if she had room for me down in the old beach condo. I really could have used a break after the busy holiday season!

And now, my friends, we’re onto Season Four. The other Kringle’s location is no longer—it’s kaput (after all my referrals no less! I did everything I could, really.) (I’m thinking about calling that number to see if I get some poor sap like me who answers!)

I’ve gotten a few calls this year already. I’ve contemplated—as I’ve toiled for four seasons with nothing to show for my efforts—telling people where to mail their deposits! But I decided instead, this is how the next call I get is going to go:
“Hello?”

“Is this Kringle’s Toy Shop?”

“Why yes it is! I just want to let you know we’ve moved to the basement of 98 Smartass Street*. We specialize in gently used toys. Please come see our vast selection. Our prices are very competitive! Please, please, come on down!” *You want my real address? Not unless you’re coming to pay me for some toys, chump!

See, I’ve been wanting to purge a bunch of the kids’ toys anyway. This just might be my chance to save a trip to the transfer station AND make some scratch for the holidays!

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