I want to thank you so much for coming to Junior's birthday party on Saturday. It was a pleasure to meet you...in your entirety. It was so cute how Chuck's friend kept slipping up and saying, "She's my girls." Oops.
I must admit, you threw me for quite a loop. When people came up to me again and again and asked, "Did you see them?" I thought they were referring to the Cookie Monster cupcakes I so lovingly baked and decorated for my son.
Their wide-eyed shock seemed appropriate given my track record with baking. I mean, let's be honest, everything I make usually comes out like shit. It would make sense that they would see the cupcakes and think the cupcake fairy made them, and not me. Alas, they were talking about you.
I also had no idea that so many of my friends and family enjoyed deviled eggs. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you doled them out while leaning forward. I'm sure if I had offered people a plate of creamy eggs that had been sitting in the sun for two hours I would have had eager takers as well. Wink, wink.
Thanks again for coming. It was the breast—I mean best—toddler birthday party ever.
Two! I’ve made it far, man. (For those of you with teenagers, humor me, ok?)
Junior's vocabulary of late consists of “Mine!” “No!” and "I want to be naked!" He’s such a sweet thing. Every moment is rose blossoms and honey suckle.
Just like this...
Are we done laughing? Its funny, right? The idea of Rice Krispie Treats nirvana with your children?
But dammitall, those Kellogg’s people are sneaky marketers. I've had that commercial on the brain for two weeks and last night I finally succumbed.
Junior was particularly unipolar at dinner. I got caught up in red wine, PMS sentimentality, pre-birthday drivel, red wine, blah blah. It suddenly seemed like the perfect after-dinner, pre-bedtime activity. Besides, I could swear there’s a check-list in the baby book that includes “Lovingly crafted Rice Krispie Treats with child,” and if there’s one thing I am, it’s by the book.
I decided to get Junior in the mood by pouring some Rice Krispies into a bowl and dribbling them with milk.
“Listen,” I said. “Snap, crackle and pop!”
Instead of listening, Junior slapped the bottom of the bowl and shrieked, “No! No! No!” He’d just eaten dinner. I’m shocked he didn’t want a bowl of cereal.
Upon hearing food hit the floor, the cat lumbered in (yes, still in her hipsta cast) and started licking up the mess, which sent Junior into a tizzy.
“That’s mine! That’s mine!”
The other cat ran in and swatted at the maimed cat. I nearly tripped on them both.
Most people might have said, “You know what? Tonight’s not a good night” and tabled an attempt at a sticky marshmallow concoction with a tired bipolar toddler as an assistant, but I’m not sure what got into me. I needed to make the damn treats.
So I forged ahead. (Red wine, gulp gulp.) I melted the butter and marshmallow.
That’s when Junior saw Chuck mowing the lawn and screamed, “Outside! Outside!” He ran to the door. One cat had Rice Krispies stuck in its fur; the other in its cast. I had goo in my hair. Then, this happened:
The damn spatula broke in half. Still, I forged ahead. (Red wine, gulp gulp.) I kept melting the butter and marshmallow dear God would it ever be melted why was it taking so long—“Outside, Mommy! Outsiiiiiide!”— and then finally, it was melted and I was ready to pour in the damn krispies, which were crunching underfoot (or was it the cat’s leg?).
I reached for Junior’s hands so he could help me mold the krispie goo into fun shapes like stars and vodka bottles, but guess what?
Freshly melted butter and marshmallow is hot.
Poor Junior.
Needless to say, there were no fun shapes. He wouldn’t even take a taste. I shoved enough in my mouth for both of us and washed it down with red wine.
I feel like such a fool. But I did it. And now I know to never do it again. Or at least wait until he's 35.
Happy birthday Junior. Even though we'd never be in a commercial, I love with all my sticky, gooey heart.
I’m starting a summer camp. Would you like to enroll? You can eat donuts and drink beer and file your nails and pick your nose: anything you want. The name of my camp is Camp Manynutsintree.
Camp Manynutsintree is a camp for sensitive people who overreact when dealing with their families, and by “family” I mean plain ole family, step-relatives, in-laws and long-lost relatives who have no teeth and live in the backwoods of Pennsylvania and who keep writing you letters asking if they can move in with you (everyone has one of those, don’t they?).
You check yourself in; ergo, you must recognize that you are prime Camp Manynutsintree campmeat. Let’s use a hypothetical example to illustrate who might be the ideal camper. Let’s use, ah heck, Chuck’s sister.
Let’s pretend that Chuck keeps calling his sister and inviting her and her children to the house so that Junior might actually be able to hang out with his cousins and not have to be introduced to them every time he sees them like they’re strangers off the street.
And let’s say that when Chuck’s sister keeps declining and using the excuse “I have so many errands to run” he finally asks, “Like what?”
This is where Chuck’s sister hypothetically freaks out and yells, “Are you serious?” and he says, “Yes!” and she makes up a bullshit list of laundry and grocery shopping. Later in this fictitious day, Chuck’s mother calls him and says, “I hear you and your sister had a terrible fight” and Chuck says, “We did?”
Yes, Camp Manynutsintree would be perfect for someone like this. It would also be perfect for someone say, like me, who hypothetically called Chuck’s sister later that make-believe week to see if she was coming to Junior’s birthday party this weekend, then freaked out when she hung up on me. Later in this fictitious day, Chuck called her and said, “I hear you hung up on my wife” and Chuck’s sister said, “I did?”
Turns out she was baking something, dropped the phone when she answered and, not recognizing my work number, decided not to return the call. I mean, ehem, that’s what I’m pretending happened for the sake of this illustrative example.
While enjoying the rolling hills and sparkling lake of Camp Manynutsintree, you’ll view pictures of benign exchanges between relatives. Every time you react with anything other than a forced smile, your buttcheeks will be zapped with non-lethal electrodes. This process facilitates what is known as a “proper conditioned response." It also facilitates minor weight loss.
If you enroll by July 30, you’ll receive the special rate of $49.95 per day. The typical stay is one week, though you can stay for longer if you’d like an extended break from your spouse/children/pets.
Since there’s no money-back guarantee, Camp Manynutsintree provides you with a roll of duct tape and some cement blocks, in case you just want to off your family members instead of turning your oversensitive frown upside-down.
Camp Manynutsintree: If nothing else, your ass will be smaller.
My poor coworker, Judy, was back at work today after spending the weekend in Maine. On Friday, she had confided in me that she and her fiance, Dan, were going to stay with friends and that while they were there, they were going to elope.
It was her second marriage, so Judy wanted something small and private. Just her and Dan on a beach with a Justice of the Peace and the friends with whom they were staying. Dan is a folk singer in the making; he wrote a love song and wanted to serenade her. He’s a shy guy, but he was comfortable singing in front of friends. Above all, they both wanted something intimate.
When I walked by her office this morning, I couldn’t wait to hear the details. I rushed in and asked, “How was it?”
“Strange! Terrible!” She burst into tears.
I nodded. Getting married is strange and terrible—but there was more.
What happened was this: Because they’re not familiar with the beaches of Maine, Dan and Judy told their friends to pick one for the ceremony. The day of the ceremony, the four piled into the van, along with Dan’s guitar and the Justice of the Peace, and headed off to...
....a carnival!
“We got m-m-m-married in front of two h-h-h-h-hundred people I didn’t even k-k-k-know!” she blubbered.
Yes, instead of taking Dan and Judy to a secluded beach so they could wed, their friends brought them to a noisy carnival. Dan and Judy said their vows into a microphone in a gazebo—“Everyone was d-d-d-d-drunk and yelling!”—while onlookers snapped photos and whistled. When they were done, people chanted for Dan to sing.
“His v-v-v-voice was cracking he was so nervous. S-s-s-someone threw beads and hit him in the eye.”
When Judy finally stopped crying, I feebly said, "At least you'll always remember it."
Then I backed slowly out of her office, because a woman who has just said her vows in front of 200 drunken townies is probably mad enough to knock your teeth out. And I really don't want to start looking like a Mulletvillenite.
I had something funny in mind for today's post. Chuck, Junior and I spent the weekend camping with friends and their children, and if six adults stuck in the woods with five children under the age of five doesn’t scream funny, I don’t know what does.
But then when we got home, I took Junior to Mulletville Park and everything changed.
When the planets align correctly, Mulletville Park can be a very nice place. There’s a pond you can walk around, picnic tables, ducks with mullets; it’s quite enjoyable.
Alas, today was not a day of celestial convergence. In fact, as I drove home, I vowed to never return and to write a letter to the mayor of Mulletville that read: “I’d rather live on a sinking, splintered river boat on a smelly polluted river of rotting fish and West Nile-infested mosquitoes alongside a family of lepers than in this town.”
The first problem with Mulletville Park is that the children’s playground is nestled in a spot at the top of a cliff. You can’t see it from the parking lot, so you never know if it’s crowded or not with other people’s brats. It’s like going on a blind date: You just have to hope it doesn’t suck too bad. Getting a stroller up and down the cliff pathway is harrowing. There should be a fricken t-bar.
The second problem is that there is no one in charge. The Mulletville police stop in from time to time to bust drug dealers, but not often enough. People swim and fish in the pond. The ducks quack and preen. Dogs roam. Radios blast. Ice cream trucks speed by. Drug dealers hide in trees. Chipmunks rally against squirrels. The Mulletville track team runs. It’s anarchy, I tell you.
Anyway. Today.
Today at the children’s playground it was me and Junior, two dads and their toddlers, and two moms with their older kids. A group of teenagers was sitting on a bench. Everything was going fine until one of the teenagers started fighting with his girlfriend. And oh my God, I know sometimes I have a bad mouth, but I was not prepared for:
F***ing whore F***ing bitch F***ing slut
And the worst of all disgusting, horrible words: F***ing c***
Shouted. Repeated.
I started to shake.
I am terrible in public situations involving conflict. Terrible. When a fight breaks out, I freak out. I often wish I could morph into a 350 pound muscular man with menacing facial hair and an authoritative voice so I could go around breaking up fights—instead of running from them—but all attempts thus far have been unsuccessful.
I looked at the dads to say something, but all they were doing was glaring. There was more:
F***ing whore F***ing bitch F***ing slut
And the worst of all disgusting, horrible words: F***ing c***
And more.
And more.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. If I could have willed myself a pair of testicles, they would have been the size of watermelons. I inched closer. I was so close to saying something and then, from below the cliff:
“Riccccccccckkky! Riccccccccckkky!”
His peeps were calling him. The group disbanded and disappeared.
I wanted to rip Ricky's head off. I wanted to shout to the parents, "Why didn't anyone say anything?" But then, why didn't I speak up? Why did I expect one of the dads to save the day? Sure, they would have fielded a punch better, but I can look tough.
Or not.
And Ricky, your name sucks. If you want to verbally abuse your girlfriend, why the hell do you need to do it on a children’s playground? I think that says more about your character than your trash mouth.
Holy shit. You guys are nuts. I hope I never cross any of you! Oreos with toothpaste filling? Syringes full of Ex-Lax? Open tuna fish cans hidden under desks? And (my personal favorite): stolen dirty underwear origamied to look like a wrapped sandwich?
No lack of imagination here.
But, I am so upset! You came up with so many glorious, vengeful ideas for Steve the Lunch Stealer and I can’t use one of them because look what was waiting for me today after I got back from my mid-morning meeting:
Not only did Steve come through with a replacement lasagna, he also left me my very own Sharpie pen so I can mark up my lunches with NOT STEVE'S LUNCH till the cows come home.
I heart Steve. I like how he bitchslapped me then came through in the end. What a catch!
The end.
(Was this anticlimactic? Cause I can still, like, give him food poisoning for fun. The hallways at work are so long; it's always entertaining to see a sprinter.)
Yesterday when I went to get my frozen lunch from the freezer it was gone. There was one frozen lunch and four boxes of frozen corn in there, all marked "Steve," so I walked down to Steve's office.
"Did you, um, eat my lunch by accident?" I asked nicely.
"Did I? I might have."
"Veggie lasagna?"
"Shoot. That explains why the box didn't have my name on it."
Awkward, drawn out pause.
"I, um, don't have a lunch now..."
"Right! Have my tofu lasagna."
Yuck. I would rather sprinkle moldy cheese and gizzards on my toes, mash them into my shoes, run five miles and lick the goo off than eat tofu lasagna.
"I don't really like tofu," I said, this time not as nicely. More like, Hey, jackass, you ate my lunch, how about $5?
"Shoot, sorry," he said. "Next time write your name on the box."
I was about to say, "Ok, sure," but why? Why was it my fault he ate my lunch? So I said, "Next time eat the lunch with your name on it."
I shot him death rays, but he was already back to typing. Apparently we have not progressed from our days on the playground.
I need a plan. A carefully hatched plan of revenge. Yeeeessssss. Mwaaahahahahaa.
Our poor kitty is doing just fine, thank you. I particularly enjoy the thunks as she drags herself across the kitchen floor. And how Junior tries to pull her leg off as he screams, “That’s mine! That’s mine!”
Yes, everything belongs to Junior these days, including things that are melded to other creatures.
But let’s get back to me. I didn’t even get a chance to write about our weekend in Assachusetts (oops, did I forget the “M”?). We stayed with friends at their beach house. As purdy as their beach house was, it was very small.
Like, when we pulled up to the house, our car was bigger.
Shudder.
Our friends let us use their guest room, which was generous of them, but the minor caveat—that Chuck and I had to push twin beds together if we wanted to sleep together—was a major pain in the ass. Nothing says personal hell like sleeping in the fucking crack.
Even though Chuck promised he wouldn't push me into the crack, it's where I spent most of my time. I kept telling him that it wasn’t imperative we spoon, but he chose this weekend to get all soft on me.
“I’m not sleeping apart on a holiday weekend!”
Silly Chuck. I guess he hasn’t referenced his Nuptial Manual lately. It clearly states that on holidays celebrated with heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, you spoon. On holidays celebrated with explosives and fire, it’s perfectly acceptable to sleep wherever you want as long as you get a good night's sleep.
By the second night I was scoping out other places to crash, like the bathtub and roof. A hotel room was also an attractive option, though our friends wouldn’t hear of it.
Oh how I wanted to hear of it.
Did I mention that our friends forgot to mention that their other friends were also staying with them? Junior bunked with us, which meant he had a bird's eye view of us from his Pack 'n Play.
He woke up at 6:10 both mornings.
“Hi, Mommy! Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? What's that? Bird’s fyin’! Juice, mommy? What’s Dadda doin’ Mommy? Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? I took a nap. Dadda's sleepin'. I want some juice, Mommy. What's that? Juice, mommy? What’s Dadda doin’ Mommy? Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? I took a nap. Bird’s fyin’! Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? Juice, mommy? What’s Dadda doin’ Mommy? Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? I took a nap.”
After I pulled myself out of the crack, Chuck and I walked Junior to the beach so he wouldn’t wake up the rest of the matchbox. You know who else is at the beach at 6:15 a.m.? Other parents of kids who wake up too early at their friends' beach house.
We made some nice friends; I think next time we’ll stay with them.
Note: In all the hubbub I totally forgot to mention the winner of the numbers! Congratulations, Baby News.
My husband Chuck, our son Junior and I live in a forgotten town whose local attraction is Rodney's Buffet. Chuck made me move here. Junior's 23 months. His buddies call him Jager. I'm jealous: My friends call me Nutjob (though Good Housekeeping did call me snarky). When Chuck's not busy as a stay-at-home dad, he dresses up as a Viking. When I'm not busy putting out oven fires or hating my dentist I blog at http://motherverse.com/blog.
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