Muffin Top Covers - The Best Invention EVER!

I haven’t bought new clothing in a long time. I went on the scale last night and, to my delight, discovered I now weigh what I did when I met Big Papa six years ago. Who needs a gym when you have a 26-pound baby and a three-story house? Plus, all of Papa’s fish and veggies have helped too. Before I met him, I ate pasta five nights a week.

Having hardly any pants that fit properly, this morning I decided to head to the mall for new jeans. Catherine looked so hot in her skinny jeans Saturday night, I was inspired to give them a try. I went to Jean Machine, grabbed three pairs and headed for the change-room. It was the worst kind of jean-shopping scenario--mirrors on the outside of the stall and a male salesperson. It’s bad enough to have to scrutinize your own ass from every angle in front of the whole store without having some guy watching you do it.

I was composing this post in my head on the streetcar on my way to the mall. This is the part where I thought I’d laugh at myself about how shitty the jeans looked, and describe how I fled the store in horror, empty-handed. But, I can’t! The jeans actually looked pretty good. I’d better mark this occasion on the calendar.

The third pair I tried was a winner. After close examination, I was happy with the way my ass looked, but frowning at my bulging midriff.

“Do you have anything higher cut?” I asked the dude.

“No, that’s the style.” he replied, patiently.

He looked at my dimpled flesh thoughtfully, disappeared for a moment, and returned with a stretchy black tube of fabric.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“No.” WTF?

“You wear it over you jeans instead of a belt, then put your t-shirt over it, so you get the layered tee look. And, um, it hides your tummy.”

“A muffin top cover!” I exclaim. “Let me try it!”

I snatch the thing, go back in my stall and try it on. Holy fuck! This is the best invention ever. It holds in the blubber, and now I will be able to sit on a bar stool without everyone behind me getting an eyeful of white, dimply back fat. I look like I’m wearing layered tees, and I can’t actually wear layered tees because I’m so damned hot all the time ever since I had a baby.

“Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!” I exclaim to the dude, hugging and kissing him. (OK, this is an exaggeration—but only slightly).

“You’re welcome,” he replies, looking embarrassed but pleased.

I am one happy mama. Now, if only I knew what shoes one wears with skinny jeans.

***

I didn’t watch the Emmys last night, even though it was on the one channel we can get with our antenna. I limit myself to one award show per year and this year I spent 6 hours watching the Oscars like I always do. The Oscars are so boring. You have to find ways to liven things up--my friend Christine and I swilled a bottle of champagne, ate a whole gourmet pizza, and made fun of everyone’s gowns. Anyway, back to Emmys—-I’m pissed that Dennis Leary did not win. That’s fucked up. And I’m not just saying that because of my firefighter fetish either. Don't you think?