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About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, 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?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Happy, um, holiday wrap-up. There's some cheer in here, I swear

After having a buttload of company this last week, I feel like the parade has kicked me off the float and continued down the street without me. Luckily I’ve been feeding my face so much that I have the extra padding to support a fall. A very long fall.

God, I hate holiday pudge.

I couldn’t help it though. I’m a nervous eater, a social eater and a solitary eater. I also eat when I see someone crying into his food instead of putting it into his mouth—like my brother. He barely touched his food. Instead he spent four days at my house sleeping and playing online poker.

He’s decided not to get back together with his ex fiancĂ©e, Holly, but he still missed her, and so did I. Not just because she puffs, but because I am now the cheese that stands alone again. The sad, little cheese amidst a family of sausages (more specifically, my single father, my brother and Chuck). Sausages that fart too much, have a tendency to be sexist and who blame perfectly reasonable rants on fluctuating hormones.

Bastard sausages!

Poor Mrs. Mullet.

The last family trip we went on to France (pre-Junior, in 2004) was so traumatic I can’t even look at the pictures. Well, no, the reason I can’t look at the pictures is that I look like absolute shit in all of them. My testoster-filled company gave me no lead time in the morning. They’d wake up and want to jump right into the car. There was no time for primping or preening or even showering.

Even by French standards, I don’t think a shower every four days is unreasonable.

Not only that, they wouldn’t let me read the map. They wouldn’t let me drive. They wouldn’t even let me play darts at the pub! I was so furious about that, I got drunk, grabbed a dart from my brother’s hand, hucked it at the board and yelled, “How’s that for someone with tits?”

(I’d like to lie here and say I got a bull’s-eye but the damn dart hit the board and fell to the floor, confirming my dickhead family’s assertion that I couldn’t throw darts. I did, however, catch the attention of an Irish man who liked my bravado and wanted my number. Too bad dumb Chuck was standing next to me.)

Knowing this, you can imagine my complete lack of interest in a Sausage and Cheese family trip, part deux, which would now include a toddler.

A male toddler.

Holly, will you marry me?

(Pssssst, Chuck? This is why your Christmas gift of a GPS was lukewarmly received. If I want to use a map—which I am perfectly capable of doing—I will use a godamn map!)


Pricilla said...

Men are stupid. Although the male person came through on the Farm this year.
In previous years he has completely forgotten the publicist's birthday and for Christmas he gives her appliances. *sigh*

I am sorry you are out testosteroned. Do you want Abby? She has horns....

Lindy said...

Is one of your labels for this post deodorant? As shower in France...need deodorant?!

I love that.

Otter Thomas said...

We used to use the term sausage fest to describe a crappy party. I guess the term still refers to a crappy party even in your married life. Sorry you lost your cheese.

SLColman said...

Ugh too much testosterone is sooo not fun!

Mary@Holy Mackerel said...

Men are stupid, I think 4 days is more than enough w/o a shower, and that sucks that you stand alone once again.

Just remember, 2010 is a new year, and who knows what wonderfully horrendous things will happen?!?!!! Always remain positive, is my motto...

Jeanne said...

The first time through, I read your second paragraph as "I hate holiday fudge." And since I was, at that moment, stuffing a piece of incredibly delicious peanut butter fudge into my maw, I felt a tad exposed.

But, since it's just the after- effects you hate, and not the fudge itself, we're good.

(BTW -- you're totally on target about tripping with the boys. Don't do it.)

Working Mommy said...!!! I would want to marry Holly also!!


Frogs in my formula said...

I'll take Abby. How soon can you have her to CT?

Keely said...

I'm not girly at all, but a GPS? Yeah, I'd be lukewarm too.

Chuck owes you a spa day. Possibly you could take Holly.

Ms. Salti said...

"Bastard sausages" is by far the best line I've heard in a long time! Sorry the trip was so lame... maybe you and the Hubs should go on a Eurotrip by yourselves...

Mad Woman said...

Move to Utah. Marry Holly. Go to a spa. Almost a win/win. Almost.

Men. Dunces. All of them.

Frogs in my formula said...

Can I bring Abby the goat to Utah?

Ess Bee said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Sandra Elle said...

Thank god for grappa to get a lone cheese wedge through a European sausage fest.

Grand Pooba said...

I need more cheese in my life too, I suffer from sausage overload. I'll marry you.

marybt said...

My husband gave me a GPS too!

He never lets me read the map until AFTER he has gotten us hopelessly screwed up. Then he hands it to me 14 feet before the exit we need and hollers when "we" proceed to miss said exit. Usually one in the middle of Oklahoma where the next exit is 234.9 miles away.