The downside of self-introspection and pretending to be someone you’re not

Something I wrote is going to run on a certain website in the next few weeks. I’m psyched, but also disappointed. I submitted the piece under my nom de plume, Beth Brown. It’s hard to watch someone else who is really yourself get all the credit for something you did.

You, of course, know me as Frogmama. Until recently, I’d been using the pen name for pretty much everything. But it conjures up all kinds of weird images: a small human, for example, with an enormous amphibian head. A head so large that the poor frogwoman can’t stand up without falling over. That bothers me. One can’t parent if one can’t hold up one’s head.

You may also know me as Mrs. Mullet. That doesn’t quite ring true either. I used to live in Mulletville, but I fought hard against assimilation. I don’t have a mullet, therefore how can I be Mrs. Mullet? I should be Mrs. Anti-mullet.

So, I thought about it and settled on Beth Brown. Beth because it is my middle name, brown because it is my favorite color (unless it’s the color of a face mask). Also, you can’t get more functional/oatmeally/sturdy shoe-ish than a two syllable name like Beth Brown (no offense to anyone who might actually have this name—I bet you’re a hell kitten).

Some days, I love Beth Brown. She is what my life needs: a no-frills fall guy. She professes her parenting failures without regard for recourse. She admits she can’t breastfeed and that she doesn’t want to be supermom, all without shame. Her mousy hair is short and poker straight. She has a little pudge but she doesn’t care. She’s solid.

Beth Brown nails it.

Other days I resent her. Even though she affords me a safe little umbrella under which to write, the bitch gets all the credit for this blog. (By “credit” I mean the $40 a year I make from BlogHer and the trickling stream of traffic. Damn that Beth Brown!) She’s the one who has the guts to be out there alongside the bloggers who have put their real names and photos on their blogs.

If I wasn’t worried about getting dooced and losing my job because of my blog, I’d come clean with my true identity in a heartbeat. I’d love to just be out there, like red lacy underwear flapping on a clothesline. I’d love to out myself to my Facebook friends. To post a status update of “I AM BETH BROWN/FROGMAMA/MRS. MULLET!”

Then, of course, I’d have to deal with my sister-in-law learning how I really feel about her dick husband. Vag would know that I thought of him while getting vagged. Would my conservative Bob Villa-esque father really want to read about my water breaking at work? And the children. What about their privacy?

And let’s not forget about Mulletville Corp. Good God, they’d probably sue the pants (and red lacy underwear) right off me for outing the staff and their incompetencies. I’d be cast out into the parking lot and egged as I drove away. My name would be scum.

And where would Beth Brown be? Hmmm? I’ll tell you where! Smugly polishing her shoes and avoiding my phone calls, that’s where. She didn’t write “How to poop at work” now did she? She didn’t make an ass of the Marketing Head. She didn’t hate her babysitter for using too many dryer sheets. Oh, no, she’s above all that. I made her do it.

I enabled her.

It’s complicated I tell you, this relationship I have with my secret identity, which is also my public identity. Com-pleee-ca-ted. And I’ll just say this once: If Beth Brown starts sleeping with my husband Chuck, I’m going to clock her with one of her shoes.

Luckily for her, those red lacy underwear are well hidden.

(Sigh. I know Chuck, I know.)

When self-indulgence makes you sick

If your child complains of feeling nauseous at dinner...

And even if you put him to bed without incident...

If you yourself feel a wee twinge of not-so-goodness after doing the dishes but swear you won't succumb to the bug (I'll go down fighting!)...

And even if you want to relax and treat yourself to a little "spa" time in your bathroom because you put said child to bed without upchucking...

If you stumble upon a free sample in your cosmetic bag...

And even if you think Perfect! A mini facial...

Do not use this product:



You will gag upon application.



The minty, earthy smell will not prevent you...



from hurling after the picture is taken.

Sick mothers of nauseous children really should be doing more product testing before this shit gets put on the shelf. Can I get an amen?

Important bedtime discussions

Every time my mother comes to Connecticut to babysit the two kids, she spends the night. It's just the way it goes. She lives a few states over. The poor woman can't spend her life on the highway.

As much as I appreciate the free (and loving) childcare, having my mother hunker down with us two or three nights a week gets old really fast, especially since we don't have a guest room. When she starts rubbing her eyes at 8:45 pm and unpacking her pajamas, Chuck and I retreat up to the bedroom.

If we were a horny pair of 17-year-old virgins, the last part of that sentence would have ended with Wink, wink. (Or heavy petting followed by wahooooooo! Again!) Sadly, we are a somewhat middle-aged pair of stressed out, exhausted parents who are leaking hormones left and right.

Instead of rockin' the roost, we have conversations like this one:

Me: Why don't we like horses? Shouldn't one of us like horses?

Chuck: I don't know.

Me: Some people really like horses. What happened to us?

Chuck: Um, I don't know.

Me: Should we go to a stable and try to like a horse? You know, brush one or something?

Chuck: If you want to...

Me: People who like horses seem to like to brush them. Maybe that's what happened: We never got into grooming a horse.

Chuck: Could be.

Me: Would you go to a stable with me? If I suddenly became obsessed with horses? Even if we had to get up at eight in the morning and drag the kids? Even if it was the last thing you wanted to do?

Chuck: I guess.

Me: What do you mean, You guess?

Chuck: I mean, sure.

Me: It's that kind of ambivalence that's going to lead us straight to divorce court.

Chuck: [Sigh] Really? We're going to divorce because of a horse we don't even know if we like?

Me: Stranger things have happened.

Chuck: I think we should go to sleep.

Me: What about the horse thing? Shouldn't we make a decision? Like, are we horse people or not?

Chuck: We're not! Shut up and go to sleep.

Me: I guess you never read Black Beauty as a kid...

Chuck: Goodnight...

Me: You're not even going to try to get with me?

Chuck: All the horse talk kind of killed it.

Me: If this marriage is going to work, you're going to have to love me and my horse.

Chuck: Please stop talking.

Me: Would it help if I said, 'Ride me?' "

Chuck: No.

Me: Do you want to brush my long mane?

Chuck: NO!

Me: FINE! Sheesh.

Chuck: [Rolling over] Do you think your mom would ever sleep in the garage?

Why my driveway has the traffic of a room-by-the-hour motel parking lot

My jaw hurts. No, not from that. Gawd, didn't you read my last post?

My jaw hurts from cradling the phone in the crook of my face—yah, I got crooks—while drawing big Xs on my calendar.

It's Sunday night, baby. It's time to firm up the week’s childcare playbook (aka "The bain of existence for working parents who decide to rely on somewhat senile/overly accommodating grandparents and a fickle 25-year-old for childcare."

Shorter title? "I'm going to go play in traffic now."

Tonight's pre-game upset is that the babysitter forgot she had a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday and wanted to know if she could switch days with someone.

In a moment of sheer stupidity, I said sure. (Important side note: I didn't even say sure in a deadened, annoyed way. It popped out as a sunny, chirpy sure, which still pisses me off.)



I called my mother, who babysits two days a week despite living in Assachusetts. Could she switch her babysitting days of Thursday and Friday for Wednesday and Thursday? She said no, then apologized 50 times. She volunteered for Meals on Wheels, and if she rescheduled again, the director was going to kill her. But I should call her if I got into a jam.

I called Chuck’s mother. Could she come? Yes, but not until 11:30 am. She’s a quasi-retired nurse who is still trying to get off her night shift hours. Before 11:30 am she’s a zombie. She swore she’d remember to bring the booster seat so she could pick up Junior at nursery school.

Did I still want her for Friday? Wait, I said, I thought I booked my mother for Friday.

Oh yes, she said, she was looking at the previous week on the calendar. Sorry!

(It's always reassuring when the person who is scheduled to watch your children doesn't know what day it is.)

I called my father. Could he come from 9 am to 11:30 am Wednesday morning and watch Everette while Junior was at nursery school? Chuck’s mom would meet him at the house with Junior. He said he’d love to, but he needed to call my aunt to see if she could take my grandmother to the doctor’s instead. If I didn’t hear back from him, Wednesday morning was fine.

(Also not reassuring.)

My mother called. She had just called Meals on Wheels and explained the situation. The director didn't want to kill her. Wednesday was fine.

I told her I didn’t need her. My father was coming Wednesday morning, then Chuck’s mother.

But, my mother said, she could come down Tuesday night and sleep over so my father didn’t have to drive all that way for two hours. What if it rained or snowed? What if he was tired? Could Chuck’s mother babysit Friday too? That way, if my mother slept over Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, no one would have to cover 9 am to 11:30 am until Chuck’s mom got to the house.

I relayed all this to Chuck, who frowned. That was an awful lot of pajama time with my mother. But since he’d be on the road for most of it, he left it up to me.

My father called on the other line. I clicked over. We were all set for Wednesday morning. My aunt would drive my grandmother to her appointment. I thanked him and hung up.

I clicked back to my mother. I told her we were all set for Thursday. I meant Friday. I meant Wednesday.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” I wailed. “Who am I even talking to right now?”

She snorted and told me to read back what was on my calendar. “Babysitter for Monday and Tuesday. My father for Wednesday morning. Chuck’s mom for Wednesday afternoon. You for the rest of the week.”

She laughed and said she’d see me Thursday morning. Everything would be fine. We’d manage this changing of the guards somehow.

"Hang in there, kid!" she said.

I smiled and hung up the phone. Maybe it would be all right after all.

Then I saw I had a text. It was from the babysitter.

“Tried calling u but couldnt get thru. So sorry! :( Dr. appt is Tues. Can I switch that day?”

I won't lie. I thought about texting her horrible, inappropriate things. Most of them started like this, "You little [expletive, expletive, expletive]... Do you have any idea how much I want to [expletive, expletive, expletive] you...Why don't you [expletive, expletive, expletive] yourself and your doctor."

But I am an adult. A mature, 37-year-old mother. I wear turtlenecks for fuck's sake.

I refrained. Instead I texted her "no" and turned off my phone.

I have to say, it wasn't very satisfying. Not like, say, shouting it while holding a sledgehammer would have been. But a no nonetheless.

It's a good word.

Things I want to say

To the babysitter: Please stop using so many dryer sheets and/or fabric softener. You smell like a godamned vat of Bounce. When I come home from work and hug my children, I don't want to smell you.

To Chuck's mom: Thank you for buying me my very own stethoscope so I can listen to the kids' lungs when they're sick. But do we have to bust it out every time you visit? Sometimes I misplace the damn thing.

To my mother: The kids are fine. Please stop calling me a day after you've seen them and asking how they are.

To my underwear: God, you're pathetically functional lately.

To Junior: I'm running out of nice ways to ask you to please stop talking. How your tongue hasn't run away from your mouth is a mystery to me and the town of Mulletville Lite. Just zip it.

To my twitchy eye: I get it. I need to get off the computer. I get it!

To Chuck: The fact that you now go into the other room to clear your throat—like I've asked you to for years—just saved our marriage.

Screech! Wait, I actually did say that.

(He was unimpressed.)

Ehem.

Addendum to Chuck: The fact that you now go into the other room to clear your throat—like I've asked you to for years—means you're getting lucky tonight.

Chuck? Chuck? Honey?

Addendum to my underwear: False alarm girls, false alarm. The man is out cold.

The angriest people ever

Connecticut should be called the Ire State. Screw the nutmeg. People can't even read an article about a snowstorm without getting pissed off.

I logged on to wtnh.com to find out how much snow we're getting and burst out laughing at the comments.



You can practically hear the handguns being loaded.

One of the commenters does have a point: Does six inches of snow really warrant live team coverage? We live in New England. White shit is supposed to fall from the sky from time to time. Then again, if the news team is out meticulously measuring snow with their Livebreaking Storm Team Tracker Gadgets, doesn't that mean it's a really slow news day?

And isn't that a good thing?

So come on, you Connecticut assholes. Go outside and make a boobalicious snowman. Pour some more Baileys into your hot chocolate. Grab your toboggan and sled down a landfill.

By the time night falls, the news team will be back covering the things to which you've grown so accustomed: Quik-E mart robberies, home fires, state employees stealing from the Food Stamp program, the piss-poor economy, the high price of gas, and cuts in our healthcare benefits.

Now who wants some nutmeg?

Dear Buzzkill: Thanks for coming so quickly

Well, well, well. My children repaid me for my weekend away by getting sick. Today was the first day, in fact, I was able to make it into the office. I joked with my boss that I've missed so much work I should double check my inter-office mail for hidden explosives.

She laughed, but it was one of those "That's a great idea!" laughs. Not to be confused with the "That's so not going to happen!" laugh. (You know, the kind you give your partner at 10 pm when his/her hand crosses over into foreign territory and you've already started to drool on the pillow.)

I know you don't want to read about vomit and fevers (Lord knows I don't want to talk about them), so I'll write about something much, much sexier: my neighbor.

I can't stop watching him out the window. He's unattractive and scrawny. His nose is pinched and his forehead is too large. He wears a large fur hat. His voice is nasally and whiny at the same time, but I can't stop daydreaming about him.

Why? The man is a workhorse.

He diligently cleans his gutters. He rakes. Bags. Drags to the woods. Before Hurricane Irene he moved his patio furniture inside. Tied things down. He paints. Tidies. He erected an arbor. He sweeps. He sprays. He wipes down his grill! Every time!

And this is all before 7 am.

Now look, I love my husband but:

a) he's an absolute slob. He leaves empty wrappers and boxes in the cabinets and fridge on a daily basis.

b) he's a reactor as opposed to a planner. His Hurricane Irene emergency plan consisted of putting peanut butter and batteries on the grocery list.

c) he has been away a lot for work. A lot.

A handyman who is:

a) home and

b) compulsive about said home is very, very attractive—even if his physical appearance makes me want to puke.

Crap, sorry, I said I wouldn't talk about puke.

Not to mention, I myself am compulsive and lately I've been wondering: what happens when two compulsive people get together? Would we be the most efficient couple in the world? Would we take over small countries? What if my partner tidied alongside me, instead of in direct opposition to me?

To dream!

And what is sex between two compulsive, efficient people like? Downright tidy, I imagine. I bet, like me, he'd hop into bed having already brushed, flossed, gargled, moisturized, serumed, anti-wrinkled, peed and picked out his clothes for the next day. I bet he'd have a post-coital beverage waiting for me before I knew I even wanted one.

It'd be a mad race to the bedroom, not to disrobe but to turn down the sheets and dust the night table. We'd frolic with Pledge.

Small countries I tell you! Small, dusty countries!

I should go to Northampton again, shouldn't I?

(Say yes, say yes.)

I DID run away

I really did.

I went to Northampton, Assachusetts and spent the weekend with my two best friends. Because it was my birthday—did I mention I turned 104 a few weeks ago?—I got my way for two days straight.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

Ordinarily I'd worry that I sound like a brat when I say that but if you read my last post, you'll understand that before this trip I was on the verge. The mere sight of my home was enough to send me running. Literally.

And birthdays? What the hell are those? I have two children under the age of five—a good birthday for me is one for which I get to poop alone.

Having two entire days of me, me, me was decadent. I slowly walked through stores and thoughtfully examined items I might like to buy. I didn't have to carry Cheerios. I sat and chewed my food.

I even said no to a menial household task. My friend asked me to fill her ice cube trays and I said I couldn't. Actually I said, "Please don't make me do that." That might sound crazy and selfish but she had four ice cube trays and I just wanted a day where I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to.

That may have been the highlight of my trip.

No wait, sleeping until 10 am was. Or was it the no-kid-in-the-bouncy-seat-or-sitting-on-the-toilet-seat shower I took? Maybe it was when I sank into a leather chair at a bar and had a beer and caught up with my friends. Or maybe when I got fitted for a bra and found out I'm really a 32 CCC.

Fine, fine, I'm not all that, but the girls did get out and no one's in trouble for it.

Yes, my weekend was all that and then some. I'd forgotten what it feels like to relax. To be at one with yourself and your toilet. To just sit down.

If you're reading this and you have children I have one word for you: RUN. Go away for a weekend. Pack your bags and don't look back. Indulge in every wonderful mundane activity you didn't know you should appreciate before your children ate your brains.

They'll be waiting for you when you get back. Trust me.



P.S. No, I am not married to George Dubbayew.