I think I kind of look like a Gouda Gold

Damn you, snow! We were trying to throw a New Year's Eve party but now the people who were on the fence about driving up to Mulletville have climbed down off the fence and snowshoed back to their cozy homes to ring in the new year without us.

The cheese stands alone in Mulletville, my friends. So...very...alone.

Back to New Years. Since I don't do resolutions, I have four simple requests for 2009:

1) That it stop snowing so damn much.

2) That my birthday, which is in three days and for which Chuck and I have planned a date night, is more titillating than Date Nights I and II. (Would you rather have a quick synopsis? Date Nights I and II involved beer, Lens Crafters, Hell Boy and an 80-year-old named Corky. If we don't top that, well, I can't even go there. We will top that.)

3) That Junior start using the "l" when he says clock and the "r" when he says fork, lest people start to think he is being raised by perverted truckers.

4) That Chuck heartily accept his new role as a stay-at-home dad and that he greet me at the door with homemade dinner whilst wearing something sexy. And by sexy I don't mean skanky (there's a huge distinction, you know). And he better not start complaining about how we never talk anymore while I'm trying to enjoy my after dinner brandy. So annoying.

I think that about covers the necessities. If you find yourself up this way (we're just past the goat farm and grain store), feel free to stop in.

Happy New Year!

I love when Life gives you a good ole bitch kick

Remember how I wanted to break up with the nanny because I hated her slipper obsession? Well, I decided to try the old adage "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." So I got these for Junior:



Then Chuck, being the smartass he is, gave me these for Christmas:



(Those, too, are slippers. Is it any wonder that Junior cries, “Cookie! Cookie!” while trying to attack my feet because he thinks I am trampling the face of his favorite puppet?)



I even got Chuck a pair of slippers! (Normal LL Bean slippers, I swear).

We were all going to be one big, happy slipper-wearing group. Happily Podiatry ever after.

But Life had a different adage in mind, didn't she? Mmmm, yes, the ever popular "careful what you wish for." Chuck's boss gave him the pink slip today* which meant I had to have THE TALK with the nanny after work (I get home first and Chuck, well, he's a talker and a sucker which means he might have given the nanny a raise instead of ending things).

Aside from the heavy sighs and wistful looks, she took it well. As she packed up her cheese and—yes!—slippers, I kept wanting to tell her that it was us, not her. That with a little time things might work out differently and we may still get back together. We need a little space right now and yes, we need our keys back.

Sigh. I was really starting to like her (again). She brings her double stroller and she puts her own kid in the front carriage and tucks Junior safely in back so he's not dangling into the street. Who does that with someone else's kid?

I want her back! We can make it work!

I'm going to shoot some Jager and cry into my Cookie Monster slippers now.

* Sorry, honey. You'll make a great stay-at-home dad.

Are you a modern woman?

It’s over. It’s finally flippin’ over. Twenty people. Chez de Mullets. Heartburn. Headaches. A life-size Elmo. Old faces. New friends.

Well, I wouldn’t call them friends exactly.

My grandmother brought her new boyfriend, John. When I offered him coffee he shouted, “We finished eating. I don’t know why the hell we’re still here.” (He’s actually an improvement from her last boyfriend, who tried to charge my dad for a turkey he brought for Christmas—a turkey he’d gotten free from work.)

Aunt Flo decided to pop in and visit my niece, Sarah, for the very first time. She didn’t take it well; in fact, she and her mom left early because of it. Sarah was worried people would see the Kotex wrappers in the waste basket and know they were hers. I offered to casually announce that they belonged to me—as in, “Hey everybody, if you, um, happen to notice Kotex wrappers in the bathroom they are totally mine please pass the potatoes”—but she wouldn’t have it.

It’s funny how you forget the weight of those early coming of age experiences. Why, after Sarah left I realized I had completely blocked out that muggy afternoon in Maine when my cousin and I were at my aunt’s house and I butterflied into the vibrant, oh-so mature woman I am today.

I believe that when I came running out of the bathroom that fine day in 1987, my aunt was slinging one of my training bras across the room at her parakeet, Hank, who, incidentally, could whistle “Oh, when the saints.”

“Is this your Band-Aid?” she asked me.

After I sheepishly shared my news, she told me I could find a box of Tampax under the sink. When I politely asked her for a maxi pad, she told me that modern women didn’t use pads, they used tampons. Coming from a woman who lived in a double-wide in the woods of Maine—a woman who toted a 6-pack of Bud under her arm—this statement struck me as odd.

Nonetheless, I looked under the sink and found the Tampax, right next to my uncle’s collection of Hustler “magazines.” He may have been rolling joints on the kitchen table while I dutifully read the Tampax instructions; this is where my memory grows hazy…

…because using a tampon for the first time is nerve-wracking! There’s sweat, shaking hands, fear you’re going to mess up and end up with a tampon sticking out your nostril. What if you puncture your kidney? What if you can’t get it out? What if you just lost your virginity to a wad of bleached cotton?

Never mind a stoned uncle, heckling aunt and whistling parakeet outside the door.

I would have been thrilled with a Kotex and an aunt who offered to take ownership of my stupid little wrappers. Thrilled I tell ya!

Anyhoo.

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday. I like how WYM ended off her post-Christmas post: “Don't forget. Appreciate. Breathe in your life, hold it in and allow it to nourish your heart.”

And banish those horrid relatives who scarred you in your impressionable years to the bowels of hell!

Amen.

Wordless till the weekend

It's almost time for Junior to hang up his reindeer hat. Happy holidays!

I can make the runner stumble

Well fricken well.

Not only did I announce to the blogosphere that my friend Jen has a bun in her Easy Bake Oven, I also announced it to mutual friends who read my blog unbeknownst to me (you sneaks!).

What’s worse is that one of those friends happened to mention to Jen that her wonderful, faithful, darling friend moi has been featuring her for the last week.

Thankfully Jen was very understanding this morning—perhaps because I complimented her good looks so profusely. Heh, heh. But I do feel I owe her an apology. To make amends, I’d like to tell you why Jen rocks my world (am I a butt kisser? Maybe).

When Jen and I shared an apartment many years ago, we were very poor (this is the year she ate microwave popcorn for dinner), so we took a job catering a Christmas party in Greenwich for some extra money. The party was held at the home of a former Talbots catalog model and her very handsome, cowl-neck-sweater-wearing husband.

While Jen drove to the party, I drank the Mr. Boston Blackberry Brandy we’d picked up at the package store. When we got to the party (sprawling mansion doesn’t even begin to describe it), Jen slipped on the ice as she was pulling up her thigh highs (don’t ask) and fell into the wooden clothes drying rack she had in her trunk—eye first.

So there we were, me reeking of cheap booze and Jen holding one hand to her slouchy thigh highs and the other over her eye, which was bright red thanks to all the broken blood vessels. In a word: smokin!

I don’t know about you, but when I start to drink I like to keep going (especially if I am offering cheese puffs to very wealthy people), so we hid a bottle of brandy behind the magazines by the toilet (apparently rich people read in the can, too). In between ogling women’s Christmas diamonds and prepping brie bakes, we would take turns sneaking to the bathroom.

I don’t know about you, but when I start to drink I get belligerent (especially if I am offering cheese puffs to very wealthy people), so I started taking too many trips to the bathroom (you know, salve to my pauper wounds, blah blah). When the caterer asked Jen if I was all right, Jen sweetly told her I had a “killer period” and needed to frequently change my female products.

This is the best method for shutting people up: Offer them more than they want to know.

But the horrible woman was on to us. Maybe it was my slurred words or the fact that I stopped taking no for an answer when someone didn’t want a coconut shrimp. (Yah, I kind of just stood there awkwardly and swayed. Rich people hate that!) She banished me to the door and put me on coat duty.

Which is when I had the pleasure of taking the coat of Jen’s daytime boss, a man who’d have a hissy fit if he discovered Jen working an extra job because people would call him miserly, and we all know that people in small towns talk.

So Jen and I did what any drunk, cycloptic, faux-menstruating duo would do: We lifted a bottle of tequila and got the hell out of there.

Is it any wonder I love her so? Jen, this is for you.

Mission Monday

Welcome!

If you haven't already, click over to Jay at Halftime Lessons and Deb at Dirty Socks and Pizza and enter the Mission Monday Grand Prize Giveaway!

Finally, spam for women

Chuck just told me that today is Global Orgasm Day. Didja know that? Huh? Huh?

There's a whole website devoted to it, in which they explain that the day exists to "effect positive change in the energy field of the Earth through input of the largest possible instantaneous surge of human biological, mental and spiritual energy."

Uh huh. They also take donations. The currency is VISA, my friends, not um, a global moan. The donations allegedly support Global Orgasm for Peace. Holy crap, and I thought the Goodwill was important.

So get off the computer right now and support peace by schtooping your loved one (or whoever the hell you want).

But wait! One more thing. Did you hear about this?



Yes, according to Health magazine, a new drug called Libigel (ew, how unsexy) has helped women experience a 238% increase in satisfying sexual experiences.

Is that number even mathematically possible? I can't help but picture women rocketing through their roofs, shooting to the moon (note the black bars because this is a PG site).



The only thing is, who exactly told Chuck about this important day? It's not a guy conversation. I mean really, which one sounds more plausible?

GUY: "Hey Chuck, today's Global Orgasm Day bro! Pound beers! Yah!"

GIRL: "Ooooh, Chucky wucky, today's big bad Orgasm Day. Ooooh."

See, it's totally a chick line. And he did have that thing with a bonbon.

Hi, Jack Shit? I'm Mrs. Mullet

Today my newly pregnant friend Jen—if you don’t feel like reading the post below, Jen’s hot and the Russian mafia know it—texted me that she is an emotional wreck.

She wanted to know if that’s normal and when it will stop. I told her yes, it’s normal, and that she’ll probably start feeling better when her baby is six months old and starts sleeping through the night.

To which she texted back: "I hate you!"

That went well.

I thought about telling Jen that she is going to hate a lot of people in the next nine months: the nurses who weigh her, strangers who touch her belly and tell her she's "huge!", non-pregnant friends who can drink and stay up past 7:30 p.m., the postman, her fiancé, Kathy Lee Gifford (for the mere fact that she's so fucking annoying), and yes, probably me.

But that was way too much to text. I had no choice; I had to write this: "It'll be fine."

You might think, so what? People say that all the time. But you don’t understand. I was going to be different!

The whole entire solar systemic reason I started this blog was to share honest observations about pregnancy and childbirth. I fancied myself a kind of resource, if you will; a no-holds-barred, give-it-to-me-straight source of expert advice. (Are you rolling on the floor laughing? Cause I sure am.) I mean, one of my very first posts was this.

When I was pregnant, I loathed mothers who patted me on the shoulder and told me everything would be fine. I knew they were lying because I knew I wouldn't be fine. I had to expel another being from my body and then I had to care for that being.

No one can be fine.

I promised myself that I was going to be different. No lies, no sugar coating. I was going to be the woman who told THE TRUTH.

Here! Here!

But it’s not that easy is it? A friend who is freaking out because she cried about being out of dog food doesn’t necessarily need to know that this is just the beginning and that nine months from now she’ll wish an empty dog bowl was her biggest concern. She doesn’t need to know that she is an ant standing before that Empire State Building known as motherhood and that she will never, ever be the same.

Nope.

After Jen texted back “thanks” I opened up wide and swallowed my blog in one entire bite.

I.know.jack.shit.

The child should request to switch wombs

I am in the best mood ever, and I haven't even been drinking! First, they closed my office at noon because of the impending snowstorm.

Second, my mom babysat this morning and she brought a baked ham with her. I'm terrified that one of these days she's going to fall in the street and all her little baked goods are going to roll out from under her and that people will laugh. Until then, bless her for feeding us.

Third, I got the most amazing gift from Juicy Alligator. He's the silliest eggplant man I've ever seen. I'm even more in love with him because he has a moustache. And he’s all mine! (I feel like I'm talking about one of the Golden Tickets from the Willy Wonka wrappers, but I can't help it.)



It's called the Edward Murphey Award; it's for any blogger who frequently finds that if anything can go wrong, it will. I’ve been running through the list of blogs I read and while plenty of them make me laugh, no one embodies Murphey’s law like my friend Jen.

Jen doesn’t blog but she should. In the 10 years we've been friends, Jen has:

• had her car stolen twice

• gotten into 11 car accidents

• had her identity stolen by the Russian mafia

• had her Facebook account hacked

• been forced to move from an apartment because the upstairs bathtub fell through the floor

• dumped a man who days later became a billionaire thanks to a dog toy he invented that sold, well, billions

• quit her job and sold her condo to see the world with her traveling nurse boyfriend only to catch him in the arms of another man (yes, man) weeks before departure

• been burned by a tanning bed bulb and begun litigation

• spent a year eating microwave popcorn for dinner, which enabled her to lose 20 pounds (losing weight is glorious, but not being able to poop sure isn't)

• asked to be moved away from a chatty co-worker only to be seated next to a compulsive whistler

I think that's it. Before you start feeling too bad for Jen, consider this: She is so good looking that one morning, her boss was trying so hard to catch her attention as he passed her on the highway—by waving, shouting, changing lanes—that he hit the car in front of him.

I'm not saying physical attractiveness trumps the mafia, but when you're the one responsible for 10 of your 11 car accidents and you only get one ticket—and it's a phony ticket containing the officer's phone number and an invitation to dinner—the sun is shining on you in all the right places.

But back to the eggplant man, I’m going to print him out and put him in a Christmas card for Jen. She needs all the help she can get. Especially since…drum roll…she just found out she’s pregnant.

I'm nervous for her.

Juicy Alligator, can we get a mini eggplant please? And maybe a horseshoe to go along with it.

Junior has spoken

And the winners of the sage green Snuggies are...

Temple and C-3PO.

Not only will these two spectacular people be receiving Snuggies in time for Christmas, Temple said, "I will totally wear it and send you a picture of me posing as the old Obi-Wan! I may even try to get Matt to be a sand creature..."

(Does Matt know he's got a rockin' Star Wars-themed night ahead?)

And C-3PO promised, "If I win the green Snuggie and pose with it, you will post the pictures for all the world to see and for my humiliation forthwith."

You heard it here. Public humiliation, Snuggie-style.

May the force be with them.

Oh shut up! I had to say that!

(If you are new to this blog, I swear I do more than peddle as-seen-on-TV products. I swear!)

Screw you and your damn gingerbread houses

Well, my pets, soon two lucky people will be in Snuggie Heaven. While you hem and haw over who those two people might be, take a fricken gander at this.



Dinner. Voi-la-fuckin-la.

NPR, this is all your fault.

I was washing sippy cups this fine evening—now my favorite pastime—when a program about childhood obesity came on. While I was listening and scalding my hands, visions of people’s blogs started running through my mind—more specifically, blogs belonging to women who are posting pictures of their homemade advent calendars, cookies, lemon bars, and crafty what have yous. The stuff is pretty and the women know it, otherwise why would everyone and their mother be writing about them?

For God’s sake.

Anyway, one of the people who called in to the NPR show started talking about how all these poor fat kids are coming to school with prepackaged lunches and how the lack of parental meal planning is a major contributor to the extra pudge.

And that’s when I saw him: Junior, 2018. A 500-pound third grader who can’t bend over to tie his own shoes. His nickname: Junior Whopper. All because I don’t know how to cook and I send him to school with Oscar Meyer Lunchables. Day after day after nitrate-ridden day.

I threw down the sippy cup and picked up the eggplant that’s been sitting on my counter for an entire week and I thought, tonight is the night. Chuck’s working late, I’ll surprise him with homemade eggplant. I’ll channel all the crafty maternal know-how that’s percolating in the blogosphere and I’ll make it work.

Alas.

Halfway through my eggplant endeavor, I started drinking and stopped giving it my best. Maybe it was the rising smoke or the succulence of that third Otter Creek Copper Ale. Maybe I just couldn’t shake the vision of my baby lumbering down the hallway, getting pegged in the head by spitballs spat by other people’s children—children of parents who can bake, macramé, and Chia pet. Yah, that’s a verb (I swear to God if the Chia pet people read this and send me samples I will scream!).

So fine, I can’t blame it solely on NPR. Clearly the eggplant people should start labeling their damn produce with cooking instructions. Or maybe Oscar Meyer can start doing Velunchables made from carrots and green beans and save me from having a catastrophic meltdown.

Speaking of meltdowns, I have a pan to soak and a 6-pack to finish. Oh, and I need to wake up Junior so he can pick a winner. I'm surprised he slept through the smoke alarm...well, tonight's smoke alarm anyway.

Giveaway: You'll be the talk of the town. Literally

Here's Chuck modeling one of the samples we got from the Snuggie people (I swear he's in there!):



I cannot wait to play Obi-Wan Kenobi later tonight.



If you, too, would like to spice up your sex life—I mean, ehem, stay warm while having your hands free to talk on the phone and pick your nose, now's your chance to win a Snuggie of your very own. Just leave me a comment promising me that if you win it, you'll wear it. (Also leave me a way to get in contact with you.)

I have two sage green Snuggies to share, along with an accompanying book light. I'll put all the names in a hat and let Junior pick two.

A word of caution: This thing is a static electricity monster. As I was taking it off, I stopped to turn off a light, and I almost electrocuted myself. Also, if you're not going to sack out on the couch in your Snuggie, you're probably better off with a good ole bathrobe. Walking around is cumbersome and your buns get a serious chill.

Good luck!

This is open to U.S. residents only. Leave your comment by Tuesday, December 16, 9 p.m., EST

Kathy Griffin, watch out!

The Snuggie people are sending me samples so I can share them with you, all the beautiful people who mocked the Jedi get-up while at the same time expressing a secret, hidden desire to wear one. Move over Furminator! I may not be sharing Prada and Dolce and Gabbana but by golly, the "as seen on TV" wares are still hot.

Something that's been on my mind lately: I haven't listened to Ani Difranco since college, mainly because Chuck and Junior are music hogs so we spend way too much of our time listening to Irish jigs and Raffi, but guess what? Difranco's a mom and she has come out with a new song about it. It's turned up on a bunch of blogs and 95% of the comments have been "made me cry," "how beautiful," and "it's simply transformative."

I guess I'm abnormal because my first reaction was ick. I tried to feel moved by the lyrics, but I haven't been able to muster anything beyond blech. I don't feel more beautiful because I'm a mother. In fact, I started to feel more attractive when I lost the baby weight and bags under my eyes and started to look less like a new mom and more like my former self. I mean that literally: not my new-and-improved mom self, my former self.

I want to know: do the lyrics below move you to tears or closer to grabbing the barf bag (or somewhere in between)? Be honest.

Present/Infant

lately i've been glaring into mirrors
picking myself apart
you'd think at my age i'd of thought
of something better to do
than making insecurity into a full-time job
making insecurity into art
and i fear my life will be over
and i will have never lived unfettered
always glaring into mirrors
mad i don't look better

but now here is this tiny baby
and they say she looks just like me
and she is smiling at me
with that present infant glee
and yes i will defend
to the ends of the earth
her perfect right to be

so i'm beginning to see some problems
with the ongoing work of my mind
and i've got myself a new mantra
it says: "don't forget to have a good time"
don't let the sellers of stuff power enough
to rob you of your grace
love is all over the place

there's nothing wrong with your face
love is all over the place
there's nothing wrong with your face

lately i've been glaring into mirrors
picking myself apart

Phew. Now that we are done with those sappy lyrics, I am going to pour myself another beer. I took the day off so I could bring Junior to visit his great-grandmother in the old folks home and I am wiped. Plus, I am obsessed with Entrecard and I've been away from it for a few days.

I know, lewser. Big fat lewser. I know. But I have Snuggies and sexy reindeer boot pictures to share! Who's better than me? (Collective "everyone"? Yah, I thought so.)

Dear John, I absolutely hate your stupid effin slippers

I think I want to break up with the nanny. Little things are starting to bother me, like the fact that as soon as she walks through the door she takes off her shoes and puts on fluffy slippers, ala Mr. Rogers. Then she puts even fluffier slippers on her son (I’m not exaggerating: His feet look like they’ve been engulfed by navy Sheepdogs).

All of this slipper wearing makes Junior’s socked feet look very naked and small. Which makes me feel neglectful and guilty.

To compensate, I’ve started layering Junior on top. Sweatshirts, afghans, Snuggies—whatever’s handy. So when she glances at Junior’s barren feet, that little voice in my head (not Winona, not Dudley Moore, this is more like Janice Dickinson) relaxes.

“Yah, bitch, my kid’s roasting from his neck to his waist! Suck it!”

Oh, hold on, Dr. Phil wants to interject.

“Mrs. Mullet, could your resentment towards your nanny’s slippers also be caused by the fact that another woman is getting cozy in your home? Don’t you, perhaps, envy her domesticity?”

Hmmm. Could it be about more than slippers? Could it be that she gets to play with Junior during the day while I dress up as a reindeer?

But wait! It’s not just that. Otherwise, why would her freakish preoccupation with our cats make me want to spit? Like, after we did this to the really fat one





she kept pestering me: “Isn’t he cold? He doesn’t look very happy.” I wanted to knock her lights out.

(Personally, I think he looks ecstatic.)

It didn’t stop there. She even said something to me about the kitty’s anxiety in the can. Hello, I know why the cat is having difficulty relieving himself: There’s a woman with fluffy hair and feet staring at him! Haven’t you ever heard of the website www.cantpoopbecauseweirdpeoplearewatching.com? (Not to be confused with www.cantpoopbecausenormalpeoplearewatching.com.)

I will gladly listen to observations about Junior’s stools; I will not, however, have someone feeding me commentary about my cat’s bathroom habits. For the love of all that’s holy!

So yah, I guess this is the crux of it: She’s over-mothering my household. Apparently my home—which is cold, slipperless and poopless—needs some fixin' by Mary Poppins-meets-Dr.-Doolittle.

Oh, great, Paris Hilton wants to say something: “Mrs. Mullet, your butt is, like, way hotter.”

Gosh. Do you really think so? Cause I have never, ever, ever thought about the fact that my perky buns outshine her dumpy U-butt. Not once.

The family that wears blankets together stays together

This is quite possibly the most asinine advertisement I have ever seen. The Snuggie looks warm as hell and yes, I'd probably wear one seeing as we keep our heat at a balmy 61 degrees because we, um, can't afford to set the thermostat any higher (I just ordered 10 panels of the ever-luxurious thermal curtains). But would I ever wear it out of the house and risk looking like a pajama-clad monk? I mean, the shot of the family in the stands is priceless if only because they look utterly ridiculous.

(I must confess: Part of me can't wait until Junior is in high school and Chuck and I can put on get-ups like this and wave to him from the stands. "Hi, sweetie!")



I have one question though. Is it like a hospital gown in the back? Because that would really, really suck to get a southerly breeze when you're frying eggs in the front.

Ahoy! I bring word from King Peckerhead

I was absolutely tickled to get a personal message today from none other than Ruane Nipple. Mr. Nipple and I go way back. I was delighted he reached out to me before the holidays. I hope and pray that his mother, Bertha Buttcheek, will be able to bring her famous fruitcake to Mulletville this year. Little Sammy Sphincter must be getting so big.

Imagine my surprise when Mr. Nipple neglected to give me updates on his darling family and instead wrote the following:

Show your sweetheart how much you love her!!!
Only today: CLICK HERE

His company. It was high time to get rid of him. A smile with mount. Now, said the general, dropping rapid travelers had the habit of regarding his consequences). From the vedic point of view, virtue of all these monsters and it was not without an.

Dammit! This man lied. He promised that if I turned off my comment verification setting I would not get spammed.

I.Am.So.Gullible.

Although.

I must admit I am intrigued by this cryptic prose smattered with poor grammar and unfinished sentences. I want to know more about this fast-paced fleet of nomads dropping an unspecified substance. What could it be? LSD? Powdered sugar? And what’s with the vedic stuff? The vedic was one of the first White Star Line ships to be sent to the scrap yard in the 1900s. Did that upset the monsters? Were they spooky old sea monsters with four eyes that swallowed ships? ’Cause that’s kind of what I’m envisioning. Tentacles with suckers and fangs gnawing on rickety wooden boats as little seamen screamed for their lives.

Speaking of seamen, I’m sure you can guess where the “click here” takes you? Yup, a virtual candy store chocked full of Cialis, Viagra and EnhanceRx Capsules.

I don’t get it. Can someone explain the reason for the crappily written story? And while you’re at it, can you forward me the Nipples' new address? The Christmas card I sent to 456 Titty Terrace never made it.

Thanks.

I'm way behind on thank yous for the awards and mentions I got from some awesome bloggers (though they may be rescinded after that post), so here goes:

Thanks to Two Greyhound Town for these awards:





C-3PO over at Football said the "Most Freakin' Sexy" alum award was coming my way, but it never did. I guess he's still too busy on his back to get around to sending it.




She Lives gave me this awesome nod:



And I've been tagged with the Bookworm meme by My Funny Dad, Harry. That is next on my to-do list.

In the spirit of the upcoming holidays, if you haven't gotten an award please take one (or two, if you're greedy like me). When you post it/them on your blog (a) be sure to tell me and (b) be sure to tell everyone Mrs. Mullet gave it/them to you.

The proof is in the...antlers

Fine, fine, I tried to gloss over the whole reindeer thing. I thought Rico would keep your minds occupied. Lord knows he's alive and well in mine.

Sigh. You want pictures? Here:



It's the photo we had taken for the office holiday card. I'd show you my face, but I'd like to retain some of my dignity.

The card is the pre-cursor to the office holiday party next week for which it has been suggested (i.e., mandated) that we wear red sweaters, brown skirts and "sexy" reindeer boots (this is from a boss who made me wear her hooker heels, remember?) to accompany our antlers and red noses...

I sent the photo to my friend. This is what she wrote:

"It's sad and funny at the same time."

I love getting kicked when I'm down. On all fours.

How many Ricos do you know? Hmmm?

This is going to seem like it’s coming out of left field, but we have a new janitor at work. And his name is Rico.

Every time I hear his name it takes me back to winter 1996. Picture it, if you will. Chuck and I had just gotten our first apartment together in Portland, Maine. I had a job as an editor at a gourmet food magazine, which is pretty surprising since I once tried to use turkey breasts to make chicken parm. Chutney? What the hell is chutney?

We got an apartment on a hilly street in Portland (if you’ve ever been to Maine and have experienced ice storms, you know that this was a bad idea). The rent was cheap, only $375, but there were concessions. Not only did we have plastic on the windows, we had Styrofoam under the plastic. We could see the basement through the floor boards in the living room, which was actually convenient because I didn’t have to walk downstairs to see whether or not the washing machine was free. The next door neighbor liked the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz so much that she jimmied little men out of aluminum cans and hung them on her porch. A fleet of them. Cold, clanging tin = really fucking annoying.

Chuck hates the winter, so he bought himself a few LLBean thermal underwear suits (you know the kind where you can unbutton the ass?), and I would torture him with my cold hands. Amazingly, he stayed. Ah, young love.

Our landlords, who lived above us, were Carol and Rico (aha, so here's where Rico comes in). They were both chefs at a restaurant downtown, and when they stayed in and cooked, the smells that used to waft down their stairs were amazing. Chuck and I would sit by their door with our mouths wide open and wait for morsels of food to blow across their kitchen floor.

Fine, that’s an exaggeration but not by much. Remember how I said I wanted to birth a banana nut bread? That’s nothing new. Our cupboards were stocked with fancy sauces and rubs (I was the new products editor so people sent me samples all the time) and I didn’t know what the hell to do with them. We were so close to being culinarily satisfied. So….close…

Thankfully, wine saved us.

Rico also liked wine. And gin. And vodka.

And every Sunday night, Carol would let him go downtown and get as hammered as he wanted, as long as he took a taxi home.

So there’s me and Chuck our first week in the apartment, quivering under blankets, looking out our only non-Styrofoamed window, and what do we see? A drunk Rico sliding down the driveway, cursing the ice and snow, tripping on shovels, yelling at the tin men to “shut the fuck up already!”

I’ll never forget his bobbing head. Chuck and I would just stop and stare. After a few months though, it wasn’t such a sight. It started to feel like, this is the way things are supposed to be. Like the fog horn and annoying tourists and rocks through the new Starbucks’ window (remember when people actually hated Starbucks?): It became part of the Portland landscape.

So today, as my boss was telling the office that we have to dress up as reindeer for the company Christmas party (oh fricken joy!), I was looking at Rico as he emptied my recycling bin, and all the while I was trying to think how the following conversation might go:

“I knew a Rico once…”

Christmas list: one foil hat

Forget the Rose Petal Cottage Butt Playhouse. What Junior really needs are some hand restraints.

His favorite new trick is smacking Chuck and me and scratching! Who is this demon child and what is his return address?

So far, nothing we’ve tried has gotten him to stop. Not the firm but calm “no.” Not the gentle restraint of his hands accompanied by the purposeful yet stern gaze into his eyes. Not even the loving affirmations (e.g., “I love you despite the fact that you have left claw marks on my fragile winter flesh”).

Nada.

You’d think my prior experience would help. My brother, Ted, was the most difficult child ever birthed. He was already into his terrible ones when I was nine, so I have vivid—nightmarishly accurate—memories of him in all his toddler fury. You know how dogs can smell diseased cells in humans? Ted had that same kind of extra sensory perception. If he even felt that there was something you wanted him to do, he would put up a fight.

The only way to guarantee success was to mask your brainwaves with a little foil hat.

I’m kidding. Though I would have tried that just to get him to concede. Just once. I swear, battling him was like trying to pop a blimp with a matchstick. He left me no choice but to resort to sisterly measures: I knocked him around, tied him up, broke his toys, tried to push him off cliffs.

Sadly, Chuck won’t let me do any of those things to Junior. He’s all Mr. Mom: “We have to set a good example, blah blah, rainbows and rose petals.”

Fool. When did dads get so nice?

To appease my sap of a husband, I spent a fair amount of time online today looking into child-friendly remedies.

The first site I found suggested I keep a log of Junior’s outbursts to see if there’s any trigger. Yah, here we go:

“Wednesday. Let Junior push buttons on microwave. Over and over. Praised him as he repeated the word “moon” again and again and again and again. Listened to Sesame Street soundtrack for hundredth time. Turned on Noggin network. Unscrewed bottle of wine. Watched Yo Gabba Gabba. Drank straight from bottle. Fell to floor as Gabba Gabba creatures infiltrated fatigued brain and attacked compromised brain cells. Got smacked by Junior.”

Nope, no patterns I can see.

Site #2 said:

Be prepared to be hit or bitten repeatedly. If you feel you are beginning to lose your cool, separate yourself from your child. Tell the child "that’s enough hitting, now I need a break." Then remove yourself from the room.

Come again? “That’s enough hitting, now I need a break”???

Yah, mommy’ll be back in five, but don’t you worry, after that she’ll be ready for another smack down.

Child psychology experts my ass!

Tell me, reassure me, hold me—this is a phase, right?

Junior, Junior, let down your hair. Your frog prince is here to refill your Windex.

Do you hear someone shouting from the rooftops? It’s me.

IT’S ME IT’S ME IT’S ME.

Look! There’s a little boy vacuuming.



He’s playing with the iPlay® Home Vacuum Cleaner. And the vacuum is blue. Not hussy Barbie pink.

I found this progressive lad when the Young Explorers catalog was accidentally delivered to my doorstep. I’m happy (enough to take a picture, obviously) but…

The copy says the vacuum sounds just like “mom’s upright.”

Come on. Young Explorers, I was willing to have your love child until I read that. (I still might be convinced, but it would take a lot of heavy petting.)

At least it's better than the Rose Petal Cottage Playhouse by Playskool.

Do you see what it says? Here, I'll read it to you:

“Every girl needs space to call her own…”

Is that supposed to be some kind of demented spin-off of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One's Own? I really hope not. Because I believe Woolf was referring to the need for women to have a space of their own for self-expression, exploration and growth. Not—I repeat, not—for folding socks or baking muffins.

You rat bastards.

The fabulous marketing copy continues: “…and this fabric-covered playhouse gives little imaginations a place to roam free…and help little homemakers feel right at home. [You can even] slide the halves together to form a one-room dwelling!”

How fabulous! Nothing like instilling in your daughter a sense of domestic strangulation.

Mommy, Mommy, the walls are caving in and I haven’t added the fabric softener.

Playskool can bite me. They make Motrin look like Gloria Steinem.

Wanna guess what Junior's getting for Christmas? One Rose Petal Cottage Playhouse please.

Pukers and nose jobs and beer, oh my!

I’m finally sober.

I think.

I’m betting that the two people who puked aren’t. Maybe the girl who threw up at 8:30 p.m. Probably not the girl who was down on all fours in front of the toilet at 11.

I want to personally thank them for making my 15th high school reunion last night so memorable. There’s nothing quite like seeing one of the popular girls—one who looks like she does Pantene/ Crest White Strips / pilates commercials—hugging the bowl in her designer jeans as her friend brings her a puke bucket. I wish I hadn’t seen her wiping up her own mess and apologizing for being in the way. It kind of made her likeable.

Kind of.

The other puker? She sent out an email this morning saying how sorry she was for ruining everyone’s reunion. I wanted to write back, Oh honey, you enhanced it. Someone beat me to it.

Our class president had traded her striped tights and hot pink hair tips for a sunny disposition, a cardigan and jeans. She thoughtfully made name tags using our senior year yearbook picture. I actually had forgotten what mine looked like because many of my wonderful friends wrote “pearl necklace” all over it, to the point where my face was buried under ink. (That wasn’t my nickname gutter dwellers, I made the unfortunate mistake of wearing pearls that day and having an uncanny number of perverts for friends.)

Eric Rothbaum did not keep his sexy blonde curls; he was sporting a shaved head. And a gut. The boy I first kissed in eighth grade was also bald. I didn’t get close enough to his mouth to tell whether his nickname “wet sock” was still appropriate (as far as first kisses go, I so deserve a refund). His wife had too much to drink and started a fight with his best friend. Why do people bring their spouses to these events? The bar looked like a doctor’s waiting room: all those men, bored as hell, yawning as their wives reminisced about their favorite cheerleading poses.

(For the record, I was not a cheerleader. High school is tough enough without getting mooed at at football games. Besides, I was too busy shotgunning Golden Anniversary beers behind the band entrance before us marching band folk took to the field. Come on, you think I’m hot, don’t you?)

The food at the reunion looked wonderful but overdrinking and not eating worked so well for me at my wedding reception, I thought I’d give it another whirl. Apparently a lot of other people did that too because conversations morphed from polite inquiries—“Tell me more about your advanced accounting degree”—to loud postulations and pointing: “That wasn’t a deviated septum! That was a fucking nose job. And she’s still fat and ugly!”

Yes, things started to feel so familiar, I almost forgot 15 years had gone by. Until it was time to leave and a group of people said they were going to the casino—the one right next door to Mulletville.

Rip!

I’ve grown so accustomed to Mulletville being my unmagical kingdom I actually forgot that people come here on purpose. People from the outside world. People who knew the former me but don’t know Junior or Chuck or My Grown Up Life. When my brain tried to meld the two it exploded. Again.

Thankfully the puke bucket was still handy.

P.S. I rocked the Dutch Boy. Oooohh yeeeahhh.

It all makes sense...

Of course! The urge to blog about the cool moms at the estrogen fountain? The dream last night that my friends went to lunch and no one stayed behind to wait for me? The ruffled bloomers outfit I was wearing as I stood at the cafeteria entrance?

It can only be one thing. HSRS...High School Reunion Syndrome.

I can't fricken believe it.

Self, repeat after me: You are being ridiculous.

I wish I could offer you something more memorable, like a recap of our Martha Stewart Thanksgiving, but it involved an abscessed tooth (my brother's; his face swelled to the size of a basketball) and a friend's sheltie that tried to hump Junior every time he sat down. Oh, and my former prison guard uncle who showed up in his clown outfit.

No one knew he was a clown. I've never eaten turkey with a clown. Or had a clown take a nap on my couch.

I hope you had a great holiday. And I can't believe Aunt Burty came back as a sheltie. It's nice to know that in the afterlife she's still, you know, feisty.

Could've been so beautiful...could've been so right...

I brought Junior to the park this morning because I took the day off and it was 45 degrees out, which felt like 80 after the cold spell we had last week.

The park in Mulletville is a nice enough place. There are some swings and a duck-laden pond. The local high school track team practices there so sometimes we get to watch skinny, out-of-breath pimpleheads run by (Where’s Waldo? always seem to come to mind).

There’s also a fountain by which moms congregate.

I don’t like the fountain. There’s something intimidating about moms who clump together and pass around Cheerios. For a group that’s supposed to be so nurturing and supportive (I’m grossly generalizing here), they can be downright snarky. They size you up, size your kid up, whisper, etc. It’s enough to make you feel like you’re back in your fifth grade cafeteria.

Needless to say, I’m not an infiltrator; I’m more of a fringe hanger.

I’m also a heckler. As Junior and I made our way to the path so we could avoid the bustling matriarchal fountain, we passed a chain of four moms doing lunges and Mountain Poses as they pushed their strollers. Ick. Blech. Stroller yoga? I don’t want to watch anyone’s spandex creep up her ass as she reaches for the rising sun. Don’t pretend you live in California; accept the fact that you live in a gray, barren state and do your muscle communing indoors.

So back we headed to the fountain.

And that’s when I saw her. Pale skin. Long, black hair. No rat tail. Fit, but not neurotically so. Standing away from the crowd, watching the ducks with her toddler son. Quiet or anti-social? It was hard to tell. The sunbeams reflecting off the fecal-encrusted pond caught her earrings and I thought Would you be miiiine? Could you be miiiiine? Won’t you be…my neighbor?

Ever notice how trying to befriend a fellow mom can feel like you’re picking someone up at a bar? I mean, you both have kids but so what? You both have arms and yet you don’t go out in public and strike up conversations about that.

“Hi, I, uh, noticed you also have a limb with a hand attached to it. How’s that, uh, going for you?”

Nonetheless, she had a smokin’ rack so I pushed Junior’s stroller closer. Junior, in his social vomiting way, yelled, “Hiyeah. Moon. Uh-oh. Illy. Dada. Hiyeah. Mama. Happy. Nose. Juice. Eye. Oh no. Hiyeah.”

Her son, who was sitting on the ground eating Cheetohs straight from the bag, gave me a blank look. That should have been my first clue, but the woman kind of nodded, so I did that thing where you wear a perma-smile so as to convey the fact that you’re sunny, approachable, sketchy. She smiled back.

Bingo!

“The ducks look cold,” I offered.

Idiot! A) It was practically warm out and b) how about, “Hi, my name is Mrs. Mullet and we both have kids so why don’t we talk about the one thing we have in common in that sardonic, fatigued way moms do?”

I can’t understand why the mothers at the park aren’t begging me to join their elite Cheerio circles.

She snickered and picked up her kid. “If I was a duck, I’d only fly back to Connecticut to take a shit.”

Well, there you have it. Clearly we would not be sipping hot chocolate together as we discussed our children—or our appendages. Though as I walked back to the car I did realize our mutual disdain for this state could have been our saving grace.

If only...

Is that a drumstick in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Is there someone special you think of every Thanksgiving? Someone, perhaps, who knit you a warm, fuzzy hat with your initials or who baked you a blueberry pie even though blueberries weren’t in season? How nice.

Well—Marcia, Marcia—I’ve got someone I think of too.

Aunt Burty, God rest her wrinkled soul, was my second cousin’s twice removed aunt, or something like that. You know those fake eyes you hot glue to crafty projects? The eyes that don’t line up and have a mind of their own? Now put those eyes behind bottle glasses and add red lipstick and a newt. That was Burty.

She was engaged to an opera singer in her twenties, but he died. She never left her parents’ house after that; she never loved again.

I’m not sure how exactly Burty ended up at our house that Thanksgiving of ’95. She looked as surprised to be there as we did having her there. Whoever dropped her off must have told her she was going somewhere divine because she arrived in a fur, pearls, and heels.

Sadly for her, the festive ambiance at the table was limited to my brother Teddy’s armpit farts.

For a 98-pound geezer, Burty was surprisingly agile. She plopped herself at the end of the table, and every time she wanted something she’d pull the tablecloth towards her so she could reach it. Which meant as soon as you saw your plate moving you’d have to grab on to it.

And, um, did I mention that when her hands weren’t busy with that they were navigating Sud de Burty?

Yes, she and her giblets had a grand old time. As soon as her hands crept yonder, my mother would try to come up with reasons for her to keep her hands above the table, like could Burty please pass the salt? Hang a picture? Show us the lovely embroidery on her sleeves?

Alas, if someone wants to dial her rotary phone, nothing is going to stop her—not even a request to applaud Teddy’s armpit performance (do you have any idea how difficult it was for my mother to ask him to “play” a song so everyone would clap?).

Yes, my loves, nothing quite beats eating turkey while an old woman soaks the whisker biscuit and your brother’s sweaty, pubescent armpit deflates.

Norman Rockwell, if you’re up there, I’d love to see your rendition of this.

P.S. All that paddling the pink canoe must have been good for her health because Burty lived to be 93.

P.P.S. If you’re ever at a loss for slang terms for strumming the banjo, check this out.

I never thought I'd say this, but Jessica Simpson is the only one who can save me

When I was in college, I had a roommate who did what every woman contemplates but often doesn’t have the nut to carry out: She took a pair of scissors and hacked off all of her blonde hair. She was beautiful enough to get away with it. And skinny. And glamorous. Blah, blah.

Every time I thought about it—and even got as far as bringing the scissors close to my head—I heard the voice. No, not Winona. This voice was more like Dudley Moore narrating a very sad children’s book: “She had been such a pretty girl. And then she went and ruined it. And sat home every Saturday night until her hair grew so long around her it eventually swallowed her whole. The end.”

Despite the knowledge that I could never pull off a jagged self-coif, I have always, always wanted to hack it all off. Especially lately. Long hair takes forever to blow dry. Ponytails give you pattern baldness (it’s true!). And Chuck, being the bald man he is, has always encouraged/bullied me into changing my hairdo because he has hair envy and let’s be honest, there’s only so much you can do with facial hair. (Though if I were a guy, I would totally have a handlebar moustache. Why the hell not? It’s badass!)

So, um, yesterday morning I went to the hairdressers and said “Chop it off!”

And now I look like this:



Just in time for my high school reunion this Saturday.

Lesson? The voice, whoever the hell it sounds like, is always right.

We're off to the fat farm

Dentist: "Mrs. Mullet, you're a wimp and your teeth are going to fall out."

Pediatrician: "Mrs. Mullet, your terrible cooking has turned your son's intestines into the badlands."

Vet: "So you don't have time to walk your cats, Mrs. Mullet? Well, do you have time to give them injections for the feline diabetes they're going to have because they are both morbidly obese?"

Did she have to be so mean about it? It's not like I feed the cats cinnamon biscuits and pound cake. I'd have to successfully bake those to feed them to someone. And did she really have to give me a worksheet?



The whole reason we got cats is because they self-maintain. They're supposed to be like stuffed animals that occasionally move and make noise. We've been duped!

But hey, look, I got a rockstar award from this hot mama because I'm "all business up front and party in the back!"

Fat, toothless, poopless wonders saved by the mullet. This is why I have a blog.

A weekend-long vegetable orgy is in order

Does this sound like you? Peel back the cover. Fondle the goods. Yawn. Stick it in. Tap your foot. Count the seconds until it’s over. Clean up and live in dread of the next time.

Yah, me too. It’s kind of what happens when you microwave one too many Morningstar Chik Patties and you look over at your child and he’s already shaking his head saying, “Nooo, noooo” like a frightened peasant woman who’d rather eat yak than another godamn chik pattie.

You have to understand: Chuck and I are Cereal People. The staples of our diet have been Special K, Honey Bunches of Oats, and beer. I did deviate one year when I ate a lot of frozen corn (Chuck was doing his own thing with General Tso’s chicken), but we have been remarkably content with food stuffs that float in milk.

Which is why one of my bridesmaids gave me this for my wedding present:



And why she inscribed it with this:



Well, isn’t that cute of her. She who can cook! She who can go into a supermarket, randomly select ingredients, go home and whip something up. Something that people will eat instead of pushing it around on their plates then politely suggesting pizza.

Want to know what I made Chuck the first night we lived together? Chicken parm. It was easy: I baked a few turkey breasts, slopped on some American cheese, then doused it with jarred spaghetti sauce. The next night I fried up some Italian sausage in butter then tossed in undercooked pasta and Italian salad dressing. Don’t forget the side of candied carrots.

Cereal, as you see, was just a natural progression.

Do you know how I yearn to breeze into my kitchen and successfully use exotic things like cumin and leeks and capers? Some days I daydream about the nanny coming over to find a counter full of freshly baked goods sprinkled with Juniper berries and Cardamom and shichimi-togarashi, whatever the hell that is. She’d stuff her face all day then go home and tell everyone she knows that Mrs. Mullet feeds people the right way. She’d say how satisfied she and her kid and Jager are. And I’d feel satisfied.

See, that’s the crux of it—I want to be culinarily fertile. I want to leaven a lasagna, birth a moist banana nut bread, souse a Succotash.

But more than anything, I want my son to go “mmmm” when he eats something I made. Not something from a box. Not even from a recipe. But from La Cucina de Mrs. Mullet, dammit.

Do they make a chik pattie patch? Gum? They’re just so springy!

Shield yourself: It's all coming out

I beg to differ with WYM: Bodily functions are NOT fun. They are not fun at home and they are certainly not fun when you take Junior to the grocery store to buy Tylenol and he upchucks on his slippery winter coat and starts sliding down your slippery winter coat and the two of you look and smell like alleyway rats trying to engulf each other in a horribly awkward embrace.

Yes, no sooner had I finished writing about Junior's Raisinets® woes than he decided to give us the gift of every bodily function possible, along with a fever. But you have your own kids; you certainly don’t need the grimy details of mine.

I want to tackle a tag I got a bit ago from TAWM. I feel kind of Marcia Marcia for doing it, but I kind of still smell like puke, so indulge me?

I’m bored with the generic seven things so I’m changing the tag. Ready for my rebel roar? Here are the 7 important things I’ve learned because of blogging:

1. I don’t have to have a vagina to be a good writer (scroll past the creepy photo to BS Sunday).

2. People are in need this holiday season. This mother needs underwear.

3. I should never call myself a bad mom because this person has already claimed the title.

4. Mom fashion is regionally elitist. You’re only a cool mom in your bunny boots if you live here.

5. I should be a better person.

6. Dads are people, too. Lovable, in fact.

7. Stuffing your pants full of weed, cigarettes, crack pipes, and condoms will get you in trouble.

If you think some of those are strange, check out this woman who sports a monkey in her spare time. (Yeh, that's shameless self promotion but I told you I was having a Marcia Marcia moment, didn't I?)

Here's some information you might want to sit on. Or you could sit on Hugh Jackman

I was never one to talk about poo before I had a kid, and I swore I wouldn’t do it after, but you really can’t help it, can you? Especially when you have friends over for a round of Wii and everyone puts down their joysticks to watch the real match: Junior vs. His Large Intestine.

Despite our best efforts (vats of stewed prunes, moon howling, pear juice), Junior just can’t seem to produce anything larger than what might come out of a rodent. In a word: Raisinets®.

So this morning, I took him to his pediatrician, Dr. L.

Depending on the visit, Dr. L. is either charming or churlish. He looks like House; he acts like House. He is more apt to talk about Hugh Jackman’s enviable physique than cater to my paranoid questions (in all fairness, they’re not that paranoid). He asks us every appointment if we like his bright yellow Audi. He doesn’t appear to change his socks.

The funny thing is, he thinks I am crazy. When I asked him whether he thought Junior would be developmentally happier in daycare or at home with a nanny and a playmate (the question came out more like “should I give him his daycare wings and set him free?”), he patted my shoulder and said in all earnestness, “Mrs. Mullet, your son is not a caterpillar.”

Today, Doctor L. listened patiently as I described Junior’s symptoms (a tomato-red face, popped blood vessels, grunting) then told me to sit down.

“Junior has CMD,” he said.

“What’s CMD?”

“It’s pretty serious.”

“What? What is it??”

“Colonic Motility Disorder.”

“What?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Junior is extremely constipated. And now they have a fancy name for it.” He waited for me to laugh.

And he waited…

And waited…

I might have laughed had I not had a similar experience with my dermatologist, who told me he couldn’t remove the mole above my eyebrow because I would forever have a permanently raised eyebrow. He warned me I would always looks suspicious, or rather, that would people would feel I was always looking at them suspiciously.

For years I kept the damn mole. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I made an appointment and said I would risk the suspiciousness—just please get the damn thing off my face—and he burst out laughing.

He had been kidding.

What’s with all the doctors who think the you’re-dying-just-joking shtick is funny? I’m thinking of starting a petition called “Raisinets® have feelings, too” and bringing the dipshits down.

Mwahahahaha. Are you with me? I swear I won't look at you funny.

(If you want to read more about CDM because you think you might have it—ew—read about it here.)

How do you recover from the most exxxciting night ever? You do the Macarena

Yawn. Stretch. Crack.

Is it really after 10? Does my brain really feel this clear and mountain-fresh clean?

Yes. Yes it does.

Last night was our first childless night since March, when we let loose and did this. If you don’t like happy little cookie people, I'll give you a quick synopsis: Chuck and I hit Lenscrafters and downed a 6-pack in the mall parking lot for Date Night I. Do I even need to tell you that expectations for Date Night II were much higher? I mean, through the roof higher.

So hold on kiddies, here we go:

Venue #1: Mulletville’s version of a lounge bar
After dolling ourselves up, Chuck and I walked to downtown Mulletville and had some sliders. And beer. And Red Headed Sluts. I ran into the publisher of the local paper. Apparently my editorial board contributions have been completely unremarkable because I had to re-introduce myself for the 15,000,000th time. Chuck and I befriended an octogenarian named Corky, whose wife left him to clean his dentures in some Sam Adams while she played Black Jack at the casino.
Time of departure: 6:45 p.m.
Tab: $38.72


Venue #2: WalMart
Chuck bought the new Hellboy and I bought Woolite. For shits and giggles I threw a Glamour in the cart. Just to, you know, keep up appearances.
Time of departure: 7:25 p.m.
Tab: $31.86


Venue #3: Mulletville’s version of an Irish pub
After we pulled into the driveway and realized it wasn’t even eight o’clock, we decided we were utterly pathetic. So we walked back to downtown Mulletville and hit one last bar, where we had more Red Headed Sluts and I ran into a co-worker dining alone. Apparently my graphic design contributions to my company have been completely unremarkable because I had to re-introduce myself for the 15,000,000th time. The cure for his contrition? More shots.
Time of departure: 8:44 p.m.
Tab: $40.11

Venue #4: Home
Chuck popped in Hellboy and I promptly fell asleep. Can you blame me?

Ok, so we have become the lamest couple on the planet. But you know what I've learned? A night without Junior is good for the noggin. And I've still got it: Corky thought I was cute. Really, really cute.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve already missed a wedding ceremony this morning, and I don’t think blogging is an acceptable reason to miss the reception.

The oh-so-long road of self-suckitude...made better only with German engineering

No sooner had Chuck and I moved on from my residence in his ass than he finds out he’s not getting the pink slip—at least not this year. After.all.that. Of course, I came home from work and shared the good news with Diana, who got all teary and told me she’s so relieved because she’s never been happier nannying for someone, blah blah. She went on for a good 10 minutes. When she was done she said, “Now you know how much I like you guys. I hope you feel the same way?”

Fucking A. It hit me that in the three months she’s been in my home I have not once said, “Great job!” or “Thanks for liking my kid and my cats and my crumbling front walkway and my Mulletville neighborhood and my psychotic mother.” Not once.

The woman drives more than 45 minutes to come to my house. She brings educational toys and homemade hummus and an uncanny amount of cheese with her. She didn’t get angry when we brought her son’s gingerbread cookie man toy to Cape Cod and I accidentally spilled rum and Coke on it and changed its song from “Let’s make cookies!” to a sticky, creepy “whah smake wookieeeens.”

I like her. And I never even told her. I mean, I told her today but still, I feel like I should send her a card. Or flowers. Or a sweater made from my cat’s fur balls (it was Pablo Guero’s idea.)

Folks, if you have a nanny, put down your mouse and call the woman (or manny) and tell her how much you adore her in a nonsexual way. There should be a freaken nanny holiday. That way dipshits like me would stop for a minute and appreciate the sweet set-up they have.

I think I’ve covered my atonement for the month? Though there is that poor boy I devirginized back in ’92…oh God, and my gym teacher. And that Boy Scout.

Screw the Furminator. Only a 535i xDrive BMW Sports Wagon in cherry red can save me now (5-speed, please). I promise I'll send loving thoughts to all I've emotionally maimed as I'm driving...I swear!

Carrie Bradshaw's voice makes self introspection feel icky

So you like pictures of hairballs but not of a frog and a bear canoodling in secret. Interesting.

I didn’t arrange them like that; when I went to put Junior down for bed last night I caught them red-handed. Then I called Chuck in to have a peek and he laughed—probably for the first time in awhile.

The mood in the house has been downright shitsville, and I have myself to thank. I thought I had gotten to the point with my husband where I understand the concept of space. Normally when something is bothering him—like an impending pink slip—and he holes up in his Man Room until the wee hours of the morning saving the world (excuse me, playing video games) I don’t linger in the doorway. I let him do his thing.

But lately, as I’m lingering in the doorway, my mouth is spewing out this:

What’swrongwhat’swrongwhat’swrong?

I can’t understand why he avoids me.

The thing is, I know that the more you push, the more someone retreats. But I can’t help it. I’m like a chainsaw going after a melancholy bunny rabbit with a broken leg. If I could just catch it, we could get this over with.

This morning it finally came to a head. Chuck yelled, “Is this what Junior’s wearing today?” The TV was on and I was blow-drying my hair so it sounded like “Wha wha wha wwwa waaaaaa wawawaaa?” (that’s a Peanuts rip-off, I’m aware). I calmly stopped what I was doing and shouted back about four gazillion decibels louder “I CAN’T HEAR YOU WHEN YOU SCREAM AT ME!”

Why didn’t I just say, “I HOPE YOU SHRIVEL UP AND WASTE AWAY YOU VILE CRETIN”?

Sigh. That’s what happens when your husband interrupts an internal conversation you’re having with him while taming your frizz; a conversation that goes something like this: “Please, for the love of God smile and let’s move on with our lives!”

I apologized, but on the way out Chuck spit on my car, then backed into it.

That Chuck!

No, really, he called me at work to apologize for being in such a funk. I was immediately contrite for how I have been trying to cheerlead him into sunnier pastures instead of letting him wallow in his muck. (Really, I’ve been downright annoying.)

After we hung up, I got to wondering (ew, how very Carrie Bradshaw): Why is it so much easier to apologize after someone else has done it first? Why do we needle our partners when we know they need the opposite?

And why, oh why, didn’t the frog and bear just tell me they had a tawdry thing going?

When stuffed animals go bad