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.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will...encounter something from her past (dun dun dun)
The environs of Mulletville are duping me! I keep wanting to write snarky posts about the mini trips I take to its hot spots, but the experiences keep getting lovelier.
Yesterday, my friend and I went on Buttonwood Farm's hayride through the sunflowers. No one wheezed or got poked in the butt (at least not that I'm aware of). The hayride wasn't crowded even though it was a gorgeous Saturday. You can buy bunches of sunflowers after the ride for $5 and the proceeds benefit the Make-A-Wish Foundation. (How great is that?)
The best part? During the ride you can get licked by cows. Yipee!
They come right up to the tractor and eat hay out of your hands. Their tongues are rough, purplish and disgusting. If you try to put your toddler's hands close to their tongues, your toddler will shriek, "Nooooo, Mommy! Noooooo, Mommy!" at such a loud, bloodcurdling decibel you're certain DCF will be waiting for you after the ride.
On the way back to Mulletville, my friend and I stopped at an antiques store. Which is when I found this:
It's ugly right? It took me a minute to figure out why it looked so familiar, and then it hit me: It was my mother's. When my parents divorced in 1983, my father kept the house and my mother moved out. Whatever she left behind, he sold in a tagsale (ah, memories). This picture, my friends, has apparently been touring the Connecticut circuit for 26 years. My mom's initials are actually on the back of the frame.
When I was a kid, the picture gave me the creeps. I thought the picture was of a caveman baby (cavebaby?) and its bearded father and that they were somehow related to us. Why else would my mother hang a picture of cavepeople over the kitchen table?
The toothless antiques dealer who sold me the print for $1.50 corrected me: It's a baby and its mother (yah, I shared my cavebaby story with him). The "fur" is just a shadow.
I'm not sure where to hang it. I could put it in Junior's room and continue the cycle of cavebaby torture, or I could let it collect dust under the bed alongside our other unhung treasures.
What about you? Has anything from your past ever made its way back to you when you least expected it (exes not included)? And where the hell do you think I should hang it?
This is my second installment of "When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will..." series, which will chronicle my adventures while my good-for-nothing husband frolics in the woods all week. Jerk.