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.

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

My family room…at witching hour.

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?

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 digressing…where 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

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!

WHO AM I? I MEAN, WHO IS SHE?

I struggled with a challenging task this week. I entered a writing competition and had to write a biography about myself. You’re probably thinking, “So? You yammer on about stuff going on in your life a few times a week right here.” This is true. But mostly what I choose to yammer about are experiences that happen in my life that I hope others can relate to or laugh with me about. (I said with me, not at me! Meanie! Watch out or I’ll go all Kanye West on you in one of these posts and really go off on a tangent! Then you’ll be all, “Ack! Please, just stick to muffin tops and crock pots!”) Anyway, I’m not in the habit off ticking off the life and times of my professional and academic life. For a reason. (That sound you hear? That’s me snoring.)

And also? This fun little “bio” could only be 150 words—not a word more. 150 words! I swear I can speak in 150 word sentences when I really get going and not even come up for air. Brevity is not my style, though in truth, being forced to limit myself to fewer words at times makes my writing better. (And probably would keep me from sticking my foot in my mouth if applied to the spoken word as well!)

But my main issue is biographies—and I’m not sure why—tend to be written in the third person. So to me, it’s kind of like you’re writing about yourself in a detached manner. It seems impersonal, oddly formal, and for some reason—totally weirds me out. For example, instead of writing, “I live with my husband, sons, and assorted dust bunnies.” I had to write, “Mrs. Muffintopmommy lives with her husband, sons, and assorted dust bunnies.”

It just doesn’t sound right. Not the dust bunny part! That part is totally right.

I tried to practice by speaking in the third person when my husband got home from work the other night.

“Hey hon, she didn’t cook any dinner tonight so would he like to order some take out?”

“Huh?”

“I said she didn’t cook any dinner. There’s NO dinner. None. Muffintopmommy was too busy working on her blog, hoping to spread joy and laughter for the good of humanity, and so I’m sorry, but she couldn’t make any dinner. Between that and her role as executive hausfrau in charge of toddler negotiations, she just couldn’t squeeze it in.  Her degree in English did not adequately prepare her for these culinary challenges.”

“Wait, what? Who’s she?” Now that’s flip. If he’s pissed there’s no dinner, he should just say so.

“Hon, try to follow along here. Come on. You know who she is. Just tell me. Does he want pizza or Chinese?” Dinner is just a phone call away. Just answer her already! She’s starving! Can’t you hear her tummy roar? Can’t you see her muffin top whittling away?

“I thought the kids ate. He who?” Sonofabitch. Remind her not to try the kingly we.

See what I mean? If the whole world operated in the third person, pandemonium would surely ensue.

Oh, and by the way, this whole blog post is 567 words! It’s one of my shortest ones ever. One good thing about the bio exercise? I’m embracing my inner brevity. Besides, I don’t have time for more tonight. She has to go cook the dinner.

Send help.

COME ON. I’M WAY TOO YOUNG FOR A HEARING AID, RIGHT? RIGHT!!

I thought cardiac arrest had my number the other day. My four year old rushed up to me with his Transformer and shouted, “Mommy, Megatron can fly!” but what I heard was, “Mommy, let’s get drunk and high!” DEAR GOD! I was about to call that preschool and ask who he’d been cavorting with on the playground. (Was it YOUR kid? It was YOUR kid wasn’t it?!)

I did not sign up for this! I mean, I know at some point you need to address these issues with your kids, but for the love of all things holy, I hoped we’d at least make it through middle school first. Or elementary school. Or, you know, preschool?

I asked him three times to repeat himself. And three times I seriously thought he said “Let’s get drunk and high!” Panic set in. I ticked down the list of potential temporary hearing impairment causes….. Nope, I hadn’t been drinking. (It was a week day at like noon. Come on, give me some credit.) And yup, I’d had my daily coffee iv. Hungry? Um, no. (Come on, we all know I don’t miss a meal.) So if the whole hearing malfunction wasn’t alcohol induced or the result of caffeine or food withdrawal, then what was it? At four, the kid isn’t going to be winning any linguistics awards but I understand him 99% of the time so I couldn’t blame him either.

Ugh oh.

I shudder to say it—even think it. Could I possibly be losing some hearing? I am way too young for that! I joke I’m turning grey and begrudgingly confess I’m closer to 40 than 30, but that’s still way too young to be rocking the hearing aid with the silver foxes down at Bingo. (Although, I might as well confess. I really think I could get into Bingo…there’s yelling and gambling and probably some swearing. Throw in some beers and I’m ALL in!) Gert, you need an extra? Call me. I’m in the book.

And…maybe I’m not too young to be falling apart. Last year I succumbed to glasses. I’d been having a rough time driving at night and strained way too much to read street signs. I’d blamed the small New Englandy signs and dark roads for too long. I had to take action. But glasses? Turns out not so traumatic. Glasses are fun now. Funky! Stylish! Hip! An optical fashion genius (I’m not sure if that’s her exact title but it should be) helped me choose some fly (maybe I am old enough to be deaf if I’m still using fly as an adjective…) brown Burberry frames that were face flattering. (Read: didn’t make my round face look more dough girl…we went less dough girl…more glam girl. Glam girl, good. Dough girl, bad.) Gracias eyeball insurance!

I felt giddy when I picked them up. I’m not gonna lie, I preened in Lenscrafters and skipped out of there like a girl who just got smooched for the first time.  I drove home, modeled them for my hubs, went all Good Will Hunting and screeched that I felt, “wicked smaht”! When I wear them I feel studious, professorial even. It’s a good look I wear with pride at the grocery store and the preschool pick up line. I can sense the cashiers and other moms are trying to hide how impressed they really are. (They pair nicely with the rest of my ensemble from Tarjay and my Lands End Suburban nerd shoes.)

But my hearing? Unless Burberry makes a sassy match to the glasses for my lobes, um, I don’t think so. Just….no. Nooo.

It’s good to know I’m not alone in the resistance. See, the stubborn streak runs in the family. For years my dad has been struggling with his hearing. He’ll put his hand to his ear, we’ll shout, he still won’t hear us, and then he’ll bark, “You don’t enunciate!” or “The acoustics in this room are terrible!” (Apparently, they’re terrible in every room. In every house. In every city. In every state.)

But he’s an older guy, he’s actually pretty stylish (I mean fly) and you can appreciate him not wanting to put some clunky, uncomfy plastic thing on his ear if he’s not really hearing impaired. (Plus? Then he’d have no excuse to yell and what fun would that be?) When we suggested a hearing aid and he growled they’re for “old farts”, well, who could argue? (Did I mention he’s over 80?) So I’ll continue to scream at my dad and admire how spiffy he looks (cuz I’ll have my fancy pants glasses on—how better to see him with) in his button downs, cords and loafers, his white hair just so. And I won’t bust his chops anymore to get that hearing aid, now that I’ve had my own brush with the terrible acoustics in my home. (I regret ever doubting you, dad!)

When all is said and done, you just can’t fight DNA and dad knows best on this one. We ain’t going down without a fight! You all better just start enunciating!

P.S. I meant to mention in the post that my memory is starting to fail as well (so many possible reasons why!). But then….I forgot.

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.

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!

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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?

WORKERS IN MY HOUSE…FRIEND OR FOE? AND DO YOU PEE? I WANT TO KNOW!

I don’t know about you, but when I have workers in my house, I feel like I’m on display. It’s not like anything I’m doing around here is top secret, scandalous or would even be remotely interesting to them. (Unless they consider me slurping my coffee, while I put someone in time out, while I subsequently bitch about it on the phone to my husband or one of my girlfriends interesting?)

It’s just that when I have workers here it can be sort of awkward. When you think about it, when you hire a worker or let a cable guy or repairman in, you pretty much have virtual strangers in your house. You’re told your whole life never to talk to strangers and then you grow up and you’re letting them right in the front door. One minute, you could be passing them in traffic (Yet another reason why you should mind your manners and NEVER flip another car the  bird—do you really want them remembering you as they calculate the bill?) and the next minute, they’re using your bathroom and are privy to who and what you’re yakking about.

Some of my friends and family constantly worry workers will come to their homes and steal something. While I realize this does happen from time to time, I rarely worry about this. I assume most people are honest and are just trying to do their jobs. And really, unless they are going to figure out a way to sneak my china cabinet and its entire contents out my front door or wheel away with my (Shiny! And New!) washing machine, they’re gonna be sorely disappointed with the slim pickings at Casa de Muffin Top. See, most of my money is tied up in Transformers and Matchboxes right now, and I rather doubt the street value for a pre-owned Decepticon is all that much. 

And my diamond earrings? Yeah, they’re totally faux. (Oh shut up—you knew that!) My diamond engagement ring? Real. But you’re gonna need to put me on three months of Slim-Fast before that sucker’s even coming off my finger before you even think about pilfering it—good luck with that! (I might add though, if you can figure out how to get me back to my wedding weight, I might turn a blind eye while you slink out with that beloved washing machine! Sorry Whirlpool, but you’re not the only one who’s white and boxy….on a washer, divine, on a woman, not so much.)

When new workers get here and we exchange pleasantries, I always wonder, how much small talk do I need to make with this virtual stranger? How many refreshments should I offer them? Or do I? I mean, technically, they are working for me and are not coming over to my house for a social engagement, but I still think it’s nice to offer them something to eat or drink, let them know where the bathroom is, and just in general be cordial. It’s in my nature to be hospitable, but I also think it’s not a stupid idea to be gracious to the people who are working on your biggest investment. Can it really hurt to throw the guy who is doing wiring in your house a coffee and a doughnut? (That would be…noooo! Guess who stole the show Christmas Eve when he made a surprise appearance here dressed as Santa? Uh huh! That’s right!)

Being a homeowner for almost a decade, and doing a fair share of home improvement projects, I’ve had quite a few workers in my house. Sometimes they’re here so long and I like them so much I’m sorry to see them go. When you have small kids, we all know there are some days an adult convo is a refreshing change. (Need I reiterate talking about whether or not fish have teeth with a four year old for the umpteenth time can get trying?) So a real live grown up in my kitchen who wants to talk about the Sox game or who got voted off Idol is a welcome visitor in my book. You wanna whistle while you work? Fine, but you better be whistling my tune! (Wow, that sounds REALLY wrong. I am so misunderstood!)

Seriously though, a word of caution—sometimes you can really interrupt their work and that’s not such a good thing. I had one small mishap with the cable guy who came the day I was baking cupcakes for my son’s birthday. I offered him one and he gladly accepted (probably wasn’t aware of my reputation in the kitchen…eeek). Five minutes after he drove off, cupcake in hand, I got a call from him on his cell.

Oh God, did I poison the cable guy? I better not be getting a call from James Sokolove and Affiliates next! Would a wrongful cupcake lawsuit be covered on my homeowners? Must remember to up coverage.         

“Hi, um, this is the Rob, the cable guy. Um, I was supposed to get the serial number from the new cable box but I got distracted by the cupcake and forgot! Can you read it off to me?” Well at least SOMEONE appreciates my baking!

 I don’t want to be getting these guys in trouble with their bosses. That ain’t right! Especially after the cable guy hooked me up with cable in the kitchen so I can stay abreast of the very important comings and goings in the world…of  Salem, USA.  (And these are the Days of Our Lives….Will Sami get back with E.J? Will E.J. figure out Sami is the mother of Sydney, not that tart Nicole? And will Dr. Dan and Chloe finally get together when, and if, she awakes from her coma?) I now know thanks to my handy kitchen tv! A cupcake is the least I can do for the man responsible for making it all happen, my cable guy, my hero.

I can’t let that man get busted at work.

The vast majority of workers we have encountered have been great, a few have been slightly scary, and a few really need to go back to charm school. One of my personal faves was the guy who was the sub on a job we thought we hired someone else to do. (Love that. I hire the guy that looks like Bob Newhart and he sends someone who looks like Charles Manson. I wasn’t scared.)  

And why is my husband always at work while I am alone holding the bag when some of these characters show up, most of whom HE hires! Truly, some of them are right out of central casting. Charles Manson, although he really seemed harmless, appeared in my kitchen shirtless one day at lunch time and asked to borrow some silverware. A little disarming in the middle of my turkey and cheese. Was I cynical for even fleetingly wondering if he might try to stab me with a fork if I didn’t have the mustard he preferred?

“Are you fricking kiddin’ me! No GREY POUPON!!!”

Seriously, a shirtless Charles Manson lookalike in your home is just not right. Not a good look—I did not need to see that man in that state. The image is burned into my brain for life. (Make it stop! Make it stop!) And btw, why can’t the shirtless contractor ever look like one of the hot firefighters from Rescue Me? Instead, I get the old, wrinkly skinny guy who looks like he’s on death row. Is that karma? I want to know. What exactly did I do in my past life and how can I repent? (To be fair though, he could have been hoping for Gabby from Desperate Housewives and instead he got the plus size hausfrau with sensible shoes….well those are the breaks, Chuckie!)

There was the quirky hardwood floor guy who looked just like Weird Al Yankovic. Nice guy. Kind of awkward though when I was perusing his folder of previous jobs with him. See, the hubs and I had decided to go with oak to match the rest of the hardwoods in the house. This guy loved Brazilian cherry and truly, I can’t argue, it’s a gorgeous wood, and as I reiterated after his passionate sales pitch, one I would have chosen had I not already had two rooms of oak. So enamored of this Brazilian cherry was he though, that he blurted out, “Oh man, you gotta see this wood. It’s hotter than sex!”

Really? What’s the proper response to a statement like that? It’s not often I’m rendered speechless, but this was one of those times. Weird Al actually stumped me. First the Grand Canyon, one of the biggest wonders of the world…..then randy Weird Al the floor man.

What could I have said?

“Oh really? Hotter than sex? Wow. I’m no professional, but me thinks you must have some ca-razy hot sex life if a piece of wood is more enticing!”

Someone get that guy’s wife on the horn. Something ain’t right on the homefront!

And really, I don’t care how gorgeous a wood is…..how does sex come up in an innocuous conversation about flooring options? Is that part of the routine sales schtick? Maybe I should have tried that when I sold pharmaceuticals.  “But doctor, this osteoporosis medicine is the bomb—it’s hotter than sex! You have to let your elderly, postmenopausal patients try it! And pair it with some Viagra…it’s off the hook, yo!”

I’m thinking I’d be persona non grata around the doctor’s offices if I started talking like that. The Weird Al ringer was certainly enthusiastic about his craft, I’ll give him that! And while I’ll never be able to look at another scrap of Brazilian cherry as long as I live without thinking about that stunningly random comment, he was actually one of my more favorite workers.

The least favorite, oh those were the “camels.” They were here for a week working on a project. Despite making them coffee and lunch every day, and telling them repeatedly to feel free to use the bathroom whenever they wanted, they never once used it. I asked my husband, “Do you think they are walking out the basement door and going outside? That’s just charming since our kids play back there. Manners aside, I don’t get how can you seriously go all day and not use a bathroom?!”

Yeah, that’s just not normal. Honestly, I can’t go an hour without having to go. Granted, I have the world’s smallest bladder, but who can go all day without a potty break?

 But here’s the thing with these guys….the one day I have to leave for twenty minutes to pick my son up at preschool, no joke, I get home and the bathroom light and fan is on and the door is shut and they were back in the basement working away (Or pretending to work away, as the case may be. Grrr.) In this situation, it was easy to do the math…..I put one and one together on what went down in my absence and it really did equal two.

EEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I called my husband to unleash my contractor rage about the clandestine bathroom activity!

“Yuck, yuck, yuck! These guys didn’t have to so much as TINKLE all week and then the ONE time I shoot out for a few minutes they go numero dos?!”

They will NOT be invited back for coffee and cupcakes! I wish they had just taken my faux earrings and hit the bricks instead!

THYROID? WHAT THYROID. OH, I WISH!

So the medical newsletter from the local hospital where I had my last two sons came today. I usually leaf through it to see if there’s any information that might interest me. It’s actually a very good, well written and informative publication. So I’m about to pitch it when I notice the title of the last article, “Could your thyroid be altering your metabolism?”

“OH YES! Yes, absolutely, a thousand times YES!” I scream in my head.

It’s definitely not the wine, the cookies with my kids, the Thai food or the boneless buffalo tenders (washed down with waistline friendly beer) causing the muffin top. Oh no, no, no! IT’S MY ALTERED METABOLISM, STUPID!

It’s obvious.

I must suffer from a condition called “hypothyroidism”, which is when (please, read this with a grain of salt…you don’t see endocrinologist after my name for a reason, people!) your body does not produce enough thyroid hormone, which in turn slows your metabolism and causes you to gain weight. (This is NOT to be confused with “hyperthyroidism”, which is when your metabolism works TOO fast and you burn too many calories —I think it’s safe to assume I am not afflicted with this condition but to those of you who are, you go girl! Ok, just kidding. It’s actually not good for you at all. No really, it’s not. No, I’m serious. I take that back. I do!)

If you want to remember which is which, here’s a trick:

HYPOthyroidism = hippo = big mama = yo too fat.

HYPERthyroidism = hyper girl = moving too fast = yo too skinny.

(Yeah, and you wonder how English major graduated at the top of drug rep class. OH YEAH! That’s what I’m talking about!)

Ahem, anyway, it’s not nice to brag, so in conclusion, thyroid hormones regulate metabolism and thus can affect your weight. And that concludes our medical lesson for today. Or hopefully, ever.

Now, we’re nearing January 1 and my fat pants are tight. I had a baby almost a whole year ago so blaming him is out of the question. I’d love to blame my thyroid, my metabolism, the kid who sells me my wine in a box, but let’s face it…..you know whose fault it is….the man in the mirror. I mean, the woman in the mirror (sorry Jacko!). It’s time to look at MYSELF and make that change!

Anyway,  along with half of the continental U.S., I’ve been checking around to see what I can do after January 1 (When all my benders, I mean, get togethers of 2009, are over. Yeah, that’s right. You don’t think I’m going to go down quietly, do you? I have three left, they might have to take place in elastic waist pants, but I pride myself on never breaking a commitment.)

So my husband’s friend from high school…he just lost three pants sizes. Now we’re talking! His wife, Molly, told me he did it using a series of DVDS called P90X. Hmm, DVDS….. I wouldn’t even have to leave the house! I could do it at night, when the kids are sleeping.

“You should totally do it!”  Molly suggested after I peppered her with questions about this miraculous sounding program.

But, upon further investigation, I began to become fearful, very fearful.

“I’m not sure if this is the right plan for me. I don’t know that going from couch surfing right to mega, intense training is such a good idea? And honestly, I don’t need six pack abs. I’m shooting for mediocrity here. I just want to not be rocking the muffin top to the extreme in 2010, you know? No need to be a show off!”

“You would get in SUCH great shape! You should do it!”

Yup, and then they could cart my cold, lifeless body out the front door on a stretcher because that shit would kill me! And, my kids? What would become of them? I’d have to leave explicit instructions for my very best friends to make sure my husband remarries a suitable woman who would love my kids like her own, but naturally be a worse cook, housekeeper and have a bigger muffin top than me.

I don’t think so.

What to do, what to do?

P90X will kill me and I’m 40 years too young for Sweatin’ to the Oldies. The last time I tried to do Wii Fit, that sarcastic &^%$ asked me if I walked often or tripped over my own feet or something like that, and I fell off the balance board and woke the kids!

I hate to say it.

I don’t want to say it.

Do I have to say it?

I think I need to join a….a….gym.

I need to just go to a building, where there is equipment I can use at my own pace, and where there are professionals on staff who could guide me (or, resuscitate my ass, you know, should I keel on the elliptical or something.)

Who’s in?