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.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.