I took Junior to the park in Mulletville yesterday. What stood out: A man who was losing his pants dashed across the playground to stop his seven-year-old from pulling down his pants and taking a tug (too late). A mother yelled at her daughter for $#%*ing touching the fence because it "had bad shit that could kill" you. Another woman snuffed out her butt on the edge of the swing set.
I felt depressed.
Today my father and I took Junior to visit my brother, Teddy, in Boston. Chuck was home suffering from a condition I'm not supposed to blog about (he's having surgery on Wednesday). We took Junior to the park. What stood out: A nicely coiffed man and his toddler son let Junior play with their inflatable ball, which was covered in pictures of cheery animals. A woman played pretend airplane with her kids and didn't use the words "youse" or "fuckhead" once. A group of smiling mommies befriended me and after talking to them, I felt the opposite of depressed.
Junior, the time to trade your mullet locks for a proper haircut is getting really, really close.
P.S. I know there are flashers, spitters, cussers and germaphobes in Boston, too, but this is my pity party so for now let's just pretend the sun shines everywhere else but in Mulletville? O-freaken-k?
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.