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.

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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!

IT’S JUST NOT COOL TO USE YOUR NEW BABY TO STEAL

*Greetings muffintopmommy readers! Before you read the post today, I want to thank all of you for helping spread the word about the blog–we have had an unprecedented amount of readers this week. You are rocking the top muffin style and I love it! If you don’t have a subscription yet, please look for the orange button to your right. See it? It’s right…there. See? Yup, right there. Don’t be afraid…just click it! And that’s the first step toward getting your 100% FA-REE, money back guarantee *(*just seeing if you’re paying attention…cuz sometimes the hubs smiles and nods too but I know he’s really watching the Bruin’s…) subscription. Anyway, once you hit the magic orange button, you can sign up to receive muffintopmommy by feedburner or email. Just don’t forget to verify your subscription once you sign up. (Does WordPress think I’d be shameless enough to sign peeps up without their express permission? Yes. You bet.) Several of you in your awesomeness have been kind enough to pass your muffintopmommy emails to your pals–and even some of your DADS and HUBS who now read the muffintop (How awesome is THAT? We’re not just for mommies!), but I would politely ask that you send them the link and ask them to click onto the actual blog so that muffintopmommy gets the official blog “hit” from it as that helps me out….”I want credit for the big salad!” , George Costanza, Seinfeld. 

Also, (I know, what a windbag I am today..mea culpa, mea culpa) we have a new muffintopmommy fan page on Facebook! So if you’re on FB, please join. Just type in muffintopmommy in your search box (top right where you search for your friends) and you should find it. My blog is a work in progress (Read: I have absolutely no natural ability at anything remotely technical and therefore seek help from kindly, tech savvy friends…) and soon I will hopefully have a badge right on the site you can click to join, and with any luck, some cool new graphics.

Enjoy the post. I started writing this long before I had a blog—when my baby was still little enough to be in the bucket car seat. (Sniff…where does the time go?) The material is timeless I think, so I thought I’d share…..

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Sometimes I have to take all three kids to the store, and when I do, I don’t linger. If I linger, I run the risk of losing one of them, or my purse, or my mind, or all three. Usually I put the baby in the bucket in the body of the cart, my two year old sits in the front, and my four year old walks with me. This works out great provided I only need a “few” little things. Once you put the bucket into the body of the cart, there’s not much room left for “stuff”.

By the time I get the “few” little things that have multiplied before my eyes and engulfed every square inch of the cart (Please refer to, “Target: My life, my passion, my love!), and corral us all to the check out, my oldest is whining for Matchbox cars and my two year old is beet red, fuming like a major league ball player on ‘roids because I won’t let him open the Dora fruit snacks. “Open! OPPPEEEN! OPPPPENNN ITTTTT!”

Oh, the injustice of it all.

I don’t even get embarrassed anymore. Glass houses and all that. (Go ahead and judge me, I dare you…you know you’ll be there, too!)

By the time I pay, put everyone’s hats and mittens back on, and move the brood out of the store and to the car with all the efficiency of a clumsy snail, I usually get two of them in their car seats before I take the baby out of the cart and realize, sonofabitch, there were two items wedged behind the car seat that I forgot to pay for. Usually it’s something small like some Chapsticks (Why yes, I am an addict and no one can stop me. No one. I live for Crackstick!) and some chocolate.

Exactly. The important stuff.

Oh, the dilemma. Either I have to get the hooligans back out of the car, and schlep all the way back into the store and get back in line to pay the $3 or whatever it is for the stuff OR I have to just toss the bounty into my car and rationalize I will pay next time OR I have to just leave the contraband in the cart, and hope someone from the store spies it when they go to collect the carts and returns it to the store.

I’m telling you right now straight up, I am SO not schlepping back to the store with three kids in the cold for the sake of three bucks worth of stuff. When I had one baby, I always did it. Two kids, I sometimes did it. Three kids, oh no, that shit so ain’t happening. MAYBE if it were a $25 can of formula that I desperately needed to feed my innocent baby or felt too guilty to leave in the cart, then yeah, but you can be sure I’d bitch and moan the whole way back! And why does it always seems cold or rainy when I pull this stunt?

I’m also not taking the stuff, whether it’s three bucks or 25 bucks. I just can’t. Maybe it’s the Catholic guilt that lingers from childhood, or the fact that I was raised by a police detective and a second grade teacher (I know, what are the odds? Talk about bustometer–couldn’t one of them have been, I dunno, an accountant? I couldn’t break my curfew in HS OR spell a word wrong…don’t know how I made it….it was a rough life, you see.)  Anyway, since I never got away with squat growing up, I just know I’m not going to start now.  And even if I did, I’d obsess about it and replay it in my head til I drove myself crazy because deep down I’m a closet nerd. (Right— you’ve probably figured that out by now. Was it the Lands End shoes that gave it away or professing my love to a big box store?)

No, seriously though. Can you see me, looking over my shoulder in the Target parking lot, making sure no one saw me chuck the candies in the way back? And with my luck they would!

I can hear it now, one of the other moms whispering, “Wow, times really ARE tough! I just saw muffintopmommy lifting Dove candy outside of Tarjay!”

“Nooooooooo!”  the other mom would sniff, “as if she needs it too! *Snort!* She should be stealing Weight Watcher dinners, not caaandy, ma ha ha ha!”

And besides, if I’m going to steal and sully my good name, I’m going for the big haul damn it, not some Crackstick I could have paid for myself! (Real crack probably is outside my budget…so it’s nice I have my cherry alternative at the ready.)

So, out of viable options, I’m left to just dump the cart and run for cover, burning rubber out of there like a teenage wild child who just got his license.  This option I know is imperfect, because leaving the stuff in the cart essentially just makes it easier for someone ELSE to come along and take it, provided they share my affinity for cherry Chapstick. Hey, I did the heavy lifting and got the loot out of the store, and now it’s like low hanging fruit for the taking for any unscrupulous shopper that happens by! Now that I think of it, I could be charged with aiding and abetting.

I’m a criminal after all. Crap! (How much does James Sokolove and Affiliates get by the hour? Anyone know?)

I'm innocent. I swear. It was all a big misunderstanding! I can explain!

Do you think four Hail Marys and two Our Fathers will cover it? I don’t imagine a priest has ever found himself in this awkward position of moral ambiguity, being single and all. I think I should dole out my own penance on this one. Which has to be, listening to my kids when they find out there’s no candy when we get home. Yeah, that should square me with God I think.

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Filed under Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness

I WANT TO LIVE IN A CATALOG. WANNA COME WITH?

I mean it. I want to live in a catalog. Just for a day, I want to escape to the land o’ catalogs. Where the sun always shines. The kids never cry. The mom twirls in the kitchen in her $150 khakis. And the dad hangs the flag with junior on the wide, front porch with the perfectly coordinated wicker furniture and plantings.

The people in catalogs just look so…. happy. It’s not that I’m not happy. As I said before, minus my husband having an aversion to replacing the toilet paper roll (Please refer to, “Seriously? This is my life?”) and realizing I live in a frat house (Ditto for, “Oh no! I think I live in a frat house!”) I’m beyond fortunate.

But the catalog people? Oh yeah, they’ve really got it going on. They’re always flashing day glow toothy smiles about something—like they have some fun inside joke the rest of us aren’t privy to. They always have on stylish clothes that fit just right, not a hair out of place. You don’t see any of those catalog moms rocking the muffin top with spit up on their shoes.  Nobody has on a baseball hat with fringe sticking out because the kids started cockadoodledooing at 5 a.m. If they have a hat on it’s not a baseball hat and it’s on purpose—it’s strategically placed with just the right amount of styled—but not too styled—hair peeking out. And roots? Come on. Junk in the trunk? Um, no. Hello! Pick up a catalog lately? Do yourself a favor—don’t!

The catalog kids frolic in playrooms furnished more beautifully than my house, and none of the toys are strewn about like a stage five hurricane ripped through (please refer to photo above). All the kids color on paper—not on the walls. Nobody crawls into the pull out drawer under the stove and throws all the cookie sheets on the kitchen floor and then clangs them together the minute an adult conversation is attempted. Nobody unravels the toilet paper down the hall, squirts toothpaste in the toilet or boots up their dinner.

Nobody is screaming. Or crying. Or screaming crying.

“Is everything okay over there?” asks your kid’s doctor.

“Oh fine, just fine! Yup. Totally. ” Can you write prescriptions for grown ups? What’s it gonna take? $25 smackers? An even fitty? A c-note? Do you take plastic? What can you get me? And when?

“Oh, because it sounds like you’re having work done in your house. Are you having work done?” Because if not? I’m pretty sure you’re running an illegal daycare or are living in a McDonald’s play land. Where’d I put that number for social services again….

Sigh.

“No. Heh. Just the boys engaging in some spirited play! And that little one? Well, he sure has found his voice!” **Grits teeth.** These rugrats kick it up on command I tell you. They see the phone and they go all Pavlov on my ass—automatically screeching like hyenas in the outback. Or tweens at a Jonas Brothers concert. Or cougars at a Twilight movie. What-ever!

That would so never happen in a catalog. Never. Ever.

The catalog families never have a dated kitchen or a shingle loose. Emerald lawns are as perfectly groomed as their owners. Adorable puppies snuggle by fires on doggie beds that are nicer and cost more than my duvet cover! The catalogers throw parties outside on impeccable brick patios, where coordinating linens, glassware, and dinnerware adorn fancy pants tables made of exotic woods. They play lawn games like croquet. They sail on ginormous yachts (with those adorable puppies and angelic kids again)! But..rest assured it’s never too windy to muss up their hair!

You know what though? On second thought, I don’t want to live in a catalog. Not even for a day. The catalog people look way too perfect to be any fun. Smug even. Superior.

And if that’s superior, then I’m fine with inferior.

Yes I am!

I can hear you. I can. You’re sneering….jealous much?

NO! Who me? I am not. Oh no I’m not!

Yeah, they look good. They probably don’t shout. Or swear. Or shout swears. Or drink out of a red plastic cup on their Target chair on their hastily stained deck. They definitely don’t know how to score a bargain or belly up to a bar. They probably fold all their clothes right when they come out of the dryer. I’m sure they never mix whites and darks. They’d never eat a row of Thin Mints. Or three. They never screech stuff like, “Where the HELL did the bread tie just go? I JUST HAD IT RIGHT HERE!” I bet their socks never get eaten by the dryer either.

They’re…. “the beautiful people”.

Rat bastards.

They’re the croquet to my wiffle ball. The caviar to my hummus. The Banana Republic to my Merona. The Ketel One to my Bud Light. The…the…scone to my muffin. Top.

Pfft. Who needs ‘em? I might like to visit their world for an hour or two. But I ain’t staying. It’s just doesn’t seem that fun. I’m just keeping it real.

Care to join?

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

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!