Category Archives: Yo! It's a girl thing!

THE OSCARS….OR, HOW TO TALK TO A TERRORIST, MUFFIN TOP STYLE

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!

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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!

SHOPPING IN BULK. SQUEE!!

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!

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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!

SERIOUSLY? THIS IS MY LIFE? STILL!

*Hello muffintoppers! After I published my lovely, heartfelt poem the other day, some of you asked about the toilet paper rage?rant?grousing? from the poem. About three months ago, I first published this post. There are some similar themes as the poem, but it goes into….greater detail about my plight. Since many of you weren’t rocking the muffin top with us here at muffintopmommy a few months ago, I thought it was worth a second run….to ,um, help put things in perspective for the newer readers! If you’ve been following the blog since pre toilet paper roll rage, there will be a brand new post by the end of the week. Keep on reading and spreading the word of the muffin top!

Oh! And don’t forget to check out muffintopmommy on Facebook.

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

Someone wake me up. Surely, this must be a dream?

Tell me I don’t live with a 40 year old adult who can’t put a new toilet paper roll on the hanger thingy?

WAIT.

Before we go any further, disclaimer… (Read: I’m about to bash the hubs just a teeny bit, and because I feel just a wee bit guilty I’m broadcasting it on the world wide web, I’m going to put down some nice stuff about him. And, if he wants to respond in kind, he can feel free to start his own blog, OR make amends for his transgression immediately!)

But I digress….I’m the first to admit I’m very fortunate to have the husband I do. Not only does he put up with my constant sassing and overall smartassishness, he tells me I look great even when I know sometimes THAT ain’t true. Better yet, he actually wields a mop. He even—without prompting, puts the toilet seat down. Does he bring me flowers? No, not often. He really doesn’t. But, he does bring me 12 packs, and truthfully, that’s because he gets it—that’s what makes mummy happy. So,yes! Yes! It’s true. The romance IS alive. ‘Nuf said.

But for the love of God in heaven above, why can’t the boy put a toilet paper roll on the hanger thingy? Tell me I’m imagining that. Please.

Please?

It’s not hard. (Please see exhibit A.) It’s not even one of the tricky ones built into the wall. You don’t have to exert even a sliver of effort pushing it to the one side and wait for it to spring back. You merely plop it on the hook thingamabob and done! It takes, I dunno, a second? Two if you’re in major slow mo?

I just don’t get it. I buy the toilet paper. I bring it home. I put extra rolls under the sink. It just needs to travel from under the sink to the hanger which is all of a foot away. Perhaps I should draw a map?

I know you’re not supposed to sweat the small stuff, blabbity blah blah blah. I know it. I know there are far greater transgressions in the world. But this is my world at the moment. Besides, you do the math. I have three little sons so I’m pretty outnumbered around here, and let’s face it, they’re going to be taking their potty cues from daddy. Three boys + one man – basic bathroom etiquette = one jacked up mama bear holding a gazillion empty toilet paper rolls forever and ever and ever! And ever.

After a long, exhausting Thanksgiving that included one family trip to the emergency room (not from my cooking, but thanks for your concern), having houseguests afoot and running to and fro serving food and schlepping drinks all day, I ran into the toilette to take a few moments to tinkle and this is what I find?

For whatever reason, at that moment, on that day, at that time, when all I wanted was 20 seconds to have a minute of quiet time to do the most basic of bathroom biz, I was enraged that, in the words of the great Elaine Benis, there was not a “square to spare”! Because really? That’s just a big FU! Am I right?

Doesn’t everyone, besides someone at huge rager of a college party, deserve a few squares? (Come on, you walk into that situation you know it’s every man… I mean, woman, for herself so no bellyaching. If it’s a good enough party you shouldn’t care if you have to drip dry anyway!)

Even prisoners get toilet paper.

So I sat there stewing for a minute. It was time for action.

I stomped into the family room and held up the evidence at hand.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I wailed, thrusting the sad, little empty roll in the air.

At which point, my husband looked at my brother, and they exchanged a knowing look. And then, they laughed.

Way too loud. And for way too long.

I stormed off, knowing I had lost the battle.

But some time, some day, I know I’ll hear a pleading call from the el bano, and then? Victory will be mine!

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Filed under Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, TMI? Says who!, Yo! It's a girl thing!

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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Filed under Awesomeness, 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!

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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Filed under Awesomeness, Friends...you 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!

OH WEATHERMAN? YOU MIGHT LOOK GOOD BUT THERE’S NADA UPSTAIRS, YO.

Dear Weatherman,

Perhaps you missed my last letter to your friend, dude who invented daylight savings. You might wonder, “What do I have in common with him?” Well, I’ll tell you. You both lie. He lies about me getting an extra hour of sleep which is total shit de la bull and you know it (Please refer to…Daylight Savings…What is Your Point Exactly?). And you lie, of course, about the weather.

I don’t know if you lie so much as you just don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Is there anything inside that pretty little head of yours? See, you talk a great game but I’m on to you. You stand in front of that faux weather map (Oh yeah, we all know it’s a blank screen, cool guy.) and wave your arms around all “Look at me! I’m the quaffed weather guy! Check out my new Brooks Brothers suit. I’m hot. Yeah. I’m a hot weather nerd! I don’t get stuffed in lockers anymore. Yeah!” and you point and you throw out words like, “fronts” and “cold weather patterns” and “artic air from Canada” and “dopplar radar” and “storm system” …..but this is all I hear, “blabbity blah blah blah lies blabbity blah frickin lies blah blah liey liar liar pants on fire.” Stuff that in your worsted wool BB suit, playah.

See, I used to just laugh it off, how your forecasts would be about as accurate as the tarot card reader my friends and I visited at the beach after we got our glow on. (But we didn’t care she was speaking in tongues because who really wants to know if they might get dumped or get in a mysterious fork lift accident, am I right? If you’re not going to tell me something magically delicious like I’ll wake up a size four or what the winning lottery number is, just crystal ball your ass away from me and hit it, gypsystick.)

 Oh, and now back to you, weatherman, for I have a bad habit of digressingwhere was I?

(CRAP! Maybe memory loss is in my future! Must get back to beach gypsy, stat. But wait, if she tells me I’ll lose my memory I’ll just forget anyway. Wait, what? I’m confused!) Okay, moving on (I can segue too, weatherguy!) I’m willing to let it go that you totally whiffed the forecast the day we went to the zoo and instead of partly cloudy we got rain. Hey, the kids needed a bath anyway. And the other day, when it was 21 (not a fun number unless you’re trying to get into a bar or trying your luck at the casino, turns out) and not the balmy 35 you promised, sure, I could have used a hat, but whatever, you spared me some bad hair. Bygones, sua-vey.

But now? Oh, it’s personal.

On a day when I bagged my two year old squirting dish detergent on the family room carpet, caught four year old taking a whizz in the bathtub, and baby decided to party in his Pampers through nap time, you really needed to get it right.

But…..you didn’t.  

DUDE. Not cool!

Who dropped the ball on the snow squall and raging winds? WHO!? I want names.

 Because mummy don’t like it when hubby calls from Chicago (1500 miles away) at 5 p.m. eastern standard time (also known as “witching hour”…also known as the time when the inmates start running the asylum….also known as the time when mummy might start eyeballing her friend, Bud. Light.) to tell me his flight is likely to be delayed and maybe even cancelled due to inclement weather. (More like ignorant weather, because who checked with me to make sure that was okay? Also your fault!) Anyway, when I’ve yet to shower, could make a living haunting houses and am this close to hiding under the dining room table again (Re-lax—I only did it the one time and that does not make a pattern!) it’s just not what I long to hear, weather geek. While hearing glasses clinking and people laughing in the background of some airport bar does not make me feel for my husband, it doesn’t make me angry with him either. I’d be rocking the overpriced drafts with my new peeps from Topeka and Montreal and Oklahoma City too if I were him. Lemons…lemonade…you follow?

But…it does make me want to hurt someone. And that someone? Is you.

Save it. Don’t tell me to blame God or Mother Nature. Just don’t. I blame you. Because you ARE the messenger and the message is NEVER delivered correctly. It’s YOUR job to figure out what he/she is throwing our way. It’s why you get a fat salary and fancy hair and unlimited orange make up. So…how about you start earning it and telling me the truth? Because, overpaidcheeseballguysmileyweather guy, if you had just TOLD me earlier about the gale force winds and icy conditions coming my way, I would have made a mental note of it. I wouldn’t have fantasized about stealing away to the walk in closet or my imaginary rubber room.

So weatherdude, you get this month’s asshat award. Congratulations!  

And your prize is???????????

Some breaking news on the house… you have about as much chance with that hot, glam anchorwoman as Alabama has of enjoying a white Christmas. It ain’t never gonna happen so stop spitting all over her, nerd boy. She’s all about the sports guy. He’s a DUDE. Everyone can see it but you.

Face it. You? Just ain’t no Ron Burgandy.

Truth hurts, doesn’t it? Well not as much as the lies, weathernerd, not as much as the lies!

 In weather I fail,

Muffintopmommy

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

TARGET: MY LIFE, MY PASSION, MY LOVE!

The one place I love to visit, and visit often, is Target.

Wait, let me start over.

“Hi, my name is Muffintopmommy, and I’m addicted to Target”, or as I, and seventy bazillion others affectionately (nay, lovingly?) call it, “Tarjay”. I know that to some Target might just seem like any other big box store, but to me it’s so much more. I would go so far to say it’s a huge part of my life right now. No, I am not kidding!

Really. Stop laughing, you! Come on, did you really think I was going to say Bloomingdale’s or some fancy pants place like that?

WE DON’T EVEN HAVE BLOOMINGDALE’S IN NEW HAMPSHIRE AND EVEN IF WE DID, THEY’D LOCK THEIR DOORS IF THEY SAW MY BROOD AND ME COMING!

“Henderson, cut the lights, lock the door…I see the bourgeois coming. Quick, quick!”

Target is where I buy a lot of household stuff, sure, but it’s also where I end up socializing, and for better or worse, buying a lot of my clothes. Now, this is partly because I can rapidly toss clothing items into a moving red plastic cart while I shop on the fly with the little scamps in tow…. and partly because Target really embodies ‘cheap chic’… in my humble opinion. I like to think I really am quite the budget fashionista—please, don’t tell Stacey and Clinton. (Or better yet, do tell.  I exaggerate my talent, and could use a $5,000 wardrobe makeover and some pointers on how to disguise the muffin top, because it is becoming abundantly clear that I am just going to continue to whine about it while doing nothing to change.)

There, I said it. I feel better now.

Please note for your shopping pleasure that Target really knows its audience. “A” for effort Target marketers—no doubt a team of savvy moms—you thought of everything. Frazzled mommies on the go rejoice that the big red shopping carts that restrain your crew can easily navigate their family changing rooms. Take that Bloomies!

Every time I hit Targ I run into other moms I know and end up yukking it up by the laundry detergent or seasonal items. I’m not going to lie to you, staying home with three kids four and under can make for long days, especially when those frosty New England winters hit, and I so look forward to my impromptu social hour. Don’t even tell me you didn’t know Targ was an informal social club? (Are you lying? Admit it— you’re right there with me.) They don’t advertise it in the Sunday flyer but it’s a well known fact among moms. You might have your water cooler, we have our aisle seven!

Target having everything I could possibly need under one roof is both a blessing and a curse. It’s fantastic because I only have to take the kids out of the car seat ONCE to do a million errands. What’s more flipping annoying than taking three kids, none of whom can buckle themselves yet, in and out of car seats on multiple errands? You might as well go have a tooth pulled then do that. (Although wait, I just remembered– that’s my vacation!)

Really, the only downside to my love affair with Targ (I like to abbreviate words. So fun. Go ahead and try it. Be a rebel. I dare you.) is that it is absolutely a threat to my household finances. But if posed with the choice, heat, light or Targ, I gotta admit, I’d have to think about it long and hard…..

Okay, I decided.

Who needs light when you can just go to Targ and enjoy all the lovely, fluorescent bright lights you want for as long as you want?! Lighting at home is so glorified anyway. So twentieth century. Laura Ingalls didn’t need light, so neither do I!

It is just so terribly easy to become derailed in Targ. I swear the orangey red décor riles you up into a spending frenzy or there’s some kind of secret old school subliminal messages in play. All I know is I might go in there for toilet paper and soap, a minor and necessary expenditure, and then come out with new wine glasses, some shorts, a frame, a book, bathing suits for the kids, tortilla chips, stationery, a purse and—oh, don’t forget the undies at the check out—seven pair for $6.99 with the fancy cursive writing on the band—sing with me now, “I’m bringing sexy back. Yeah!” 

But the kicker? I’ll get all that and then forget the toilet paper and soap that I went there in there for in the first place.

Oy.

I’m pretty careful with the household budget but in Tarjay I end up like a kid in a candy store and since most things are reasonably priced, I figure what’s the harm—til I get to the register and realize, omg, all this piddly stuff really adds up and did I really just spend that? If I get out under $100 bucks, it’s a good day. (My friend’s sister jokes that there’s a $100 cover charge at Target. I swear no truer words have been spoken.) I have no idea why each and every time I shop at Target what I spend astounds me. You’d think I’d learn some defense or something, or, gasp, just not shop there. But the fact is I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop!!!!

HELLPPP MEEEE!!!

I think I need an intervention.

It’s comforting to know I’m not the only one who suffers from Targ-diction. I’m not going down alone. As a joke, I started a Target group on Facebook. (What? I do too have a life!) Are you really surprised I’d be into Facebook?  I’ve already revealed that I’m a thirtysomething mom of three boys four and under, who has a serious muffin top problem and looks forward to socializing at a big box store. Should it surprise you some of my biggest socializing now occurs online? It’s not sad. It’s not!

But I’m digressing again (Adult onset ADD? I keep meaning to look into that…but then… I interrupt myself again and forget.). Just for kicks, I decided to see if I were the only loser, I mean, mom, who shared these sentiments about Target. I figured it would be a fun social experiment of sorts. Here’s the group’s description as I wrote on FB, and you can check for yourself, it’s 100% real and serves no actual purpose as evidenced by the fact that I put it under, “just for fun/totally random”:

MOM’S ADDICTED TO TARGET—ADMITTING IT IS THE FIRST STEP!!!

For all you moms out there who hit Target at least once a week…..if you go in with the intention of buying a ‘few’ things, and come out with at least $50 worth of ‘stuff’…..if you bump into at least a few other moms you know every time you go and love the little impromptu social hour by the cleaning products….if you can’t stay away from the pull, the glow, the allure of the orangey-red decor of Targhhhay….if you passionately tick off a laundry list of why Target is infinitely better than it’s dingy, unhip, uncool and no fun rival Wal-Mart, this group is for you! Target addicts unite! Admitting it is the first step to recovery….although, none of us probably want to recover…where would we go on weekday mornings then???

I’m proud to say, we are 63 members strong! And? We’re a geographically diverse group, having members from coast to coast, and even from Canada making us…an “international” group (That’s what I’m talking about; I like to foster international relations.) and  proving the Target addiction knows no boundaries, and targets (no pun intended) any mom, anywhere. Consider yourself forewarned!

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