I just wanted a new dress. Is that so wrong?

Last night, I went to the mall with Junior and my mother, Linda. I was on a mission to find spring clothes, but after two hours, I hadn’t found anything. Between the geometric shapes, horrid colors, flimsy fabric and strange cuts (maternity wear, anyone?), I decided I’d rather make my own clothes with a glue stick and sandwich baggies—blindfolded—than to buy the crap they are trying to peddle as fashion.



Who are the clothing designers dressing? Forty-five pound pregnant, color blind math enthusiasts?

Fuckers.

By 5:30, we were hungry, so we took Junior to the Rainforest Cafe. For those of you who haven’t ever been, it’s a chain restaurant designed to look exactly like, duh, a rain forest.



Pre-Junior, a children's place like this made for excellent birth control.

Wait staff dressed in khaki safari gear meet you at the door.



As does a crocodile with a guttural growl (he's hidden in a moat that hisses steam). The restaurant itself is a conglomeration of screaming kids, thunder storms, roaring elephants, talking trees, slithering snakes, huge fish, chest-pounding gorillas and cackling birds.





It’s perfect for small children who are going through the scared-of-monsters stage. Just perfect.

We were greeted by a bubbly woman with a headset, who gave us a number and told us to wait for our server, Darnell. As Darnell walked us to our table, Junior wrapped his ankles around my side in a vice grip.

“That elephant is angry at me!” Junior cried.

Where did Darnell sit us? Right next to the elephant.

“Could we possibly sit somewhere else?” I asked nicely.

He nodded. “Safari party of three wants to move,” he said into his headset.

He walked us over to another table, this time next to the gorillas.

“Those gorillas are scary!” Junior cried.

“I’m so sorry,” Linda said. “Can we possibly sit by the fish?”

Darnell frowned. “Safari party of three wants to move. Again.”

By the time we got to the fish, the lights had flashed and the thunder had roared. Junior was crying. “I want to leave!” he screamed. “I want to go home!” Darnell nodded towards our seats. Linda and I stood there stupidly.

“I’m really, really, sorry,” I said. “I don’t think we should stay.”

Darnell sighed. “Safari party of three is leaving,” he said into his headset, then disappeared into the jungle.

We walked to a sandwich shop but Junior, being the bipolar, schizophrenic, fickle toddler that he is, starting wailing, “I want to eat at the Rainforest Cafe! I want to eat at the Rainforest Cafe!”

“But you were scared,” I said calmly.

“No I waaaaaaaaaaasn’t,” he blubbered. “I want to go back. I want to go back, Mommy.”

Deep breath.

My mother, being the doting grandmother she is, suggested we give it one more try. We walked back to the Rainforest Cafe.

The bubbly greeter smiled brightly before saying, “Safari party of three is back” into her headset. At that point I felt like saying, “My name is Mrs. Mullet and clearly we are not on a safari.”

This time, though, was better. We sat at a table that was, for all intensive purposes, in the gift shop. Junior marveled at the animals and started coloring. He ate a big dinner. I drank a big beer. My mother didn’t hump anything. Life was good.

Or so I thought.

At 12:45 a.m. Junior woke up screaming. And when I say screaming I mean SCREAMING. Something tall and big was in his room and there was no way in hell he was going to sleep in there.

I brought him into bed with me and Chuck, but he wouldn’t sleep between us. He wanted to sleep on top of me. Again. All 35-pounds of him. It hurt my ribcage.

As soon as he’d fall asleep, I’d creep gingerly back to his room and put him into bed, but he’d wake up and start crying again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Finally, I put him in bed and offered to sleep on his floor, which I did—holding his hand. It was 4:45 a.m. by the time I got back to bed. Fifteen minutes away from 5 a.m.

One thing is clear. The safari party of three won't be going back to the Rainforest Cafe until Junior is 21. The clothing options in 2029 better be a hell of a lot better.

Irate, incredulous wordful Wednesday

Did you read that? You really must.

According to 5 Simple Steps to Take Your Marriage from Good to Great by Dr. Terri Orbuch, to resolve a conflict, a woman needs to gauge the ideal time to reach out to her husband—via phone or email (as opposed to the popular, face-to-face "You jerkoff!")— and make an appointment.

On the flip side, a man is guaranteed to get laid with a paltry "I'm sorry."

Thank you, Dr. Orbutt. I really needed a laugh today.

It's going to be a long summer

My neighborhood is weird. It looks nice because there are a lot of big old houses, but a lot of the houses are broken up into apartments, so we don’t know anyone. The only person on the street we know is Peggy, who rents the apartment next door. When I first met her—after the masturbating environmentalist moved out—I thought her brains were full of caterpillars and marshmallow.



I still kind of do.

Peggy cares full-time for her grandson, Luke, who is four. We can see right into their living room, and the television is always on. She’s a single grandmother who works at home, so I know she’s doing the best she can but literally, the TV is always on.

On Friday, in preparation for my STD-ridden date night, I played hooky from work. My friend dropped off her three-year-old daughter for a few hours so she and Junior could play outside. After a few minutes I heard:

“Hiiiiiiii, Junior and Junior’s mom. Whatcha doin, Junior? Hiiiiiiiiii. I’m inside……..are you playing outside? Hiiiiiiiiiiii.”

I’m not an unfeeling asshole, at least not all the time, so I invited the boy over. He doesn’t have a yard and from what I’ve seen (yes, of him sitting on his couch), he seems like a decent kid.

So there we were.

Yep.

Three kids and me.

………

……….

Omigawd.

They were like little bees on speed. They were bored with the sandbox. They were hungry. They were thirsty. This one had too many turns blowing bubbles. One had to pee. The other had to pee. They were hungry again, but not for peanut butter. This time they wanted cheese. No, not that kind of cheese. Nooooooooo! Not that kind!

Agggggggggggggh!

Finally, I gave them some LEGO people and told them to shut it.



My friend’s daughter picked up two LEGO people and started a pretend conversation: “Do you want to go in my pool?” “No, I’m going to the store.” “Okay, well, good-bye.”

Luke looked at me and shouted, “WHAT is she doing?”

“Playing, sweetie. Do you want to—”

—“WHO is she talking to?”

“The LEGO people.”

“Why? WHY is she doing that?”

The more she made pretend chatter, the more Luke freaked out. I was starting to freak out. I knelt down and explained that she was playing make-believe. She was pretending and using her imagination. But he kept on with the “WHY is she doing that?” And he was, quite clearly, in shock.

Had nonstop TV turned his brain to caterpillars and marshmallow, too? Was it possible that a child couldn’t understand pretend play? I wanted to ask an expert, but the next available person was Chuck.

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“Wait. Pull my finger.”

Morale of the story: Stay inside, but with your shades down and your windows open. Wide open.

I don't want to get gonorrhea from a California Roll

Last night, my friend and I spent the night at MGM Grand at Foxwoods. Ain't it purdy?

Before we hit the craps table, we decided to grab some sushi. Little did I know, I was about to experience foodgasm part II, though for entirely different reasons. In the year and a half since I'd last been there, the sweet little sushi restaurant known as Shrine had become...

...a wanna be strip club.

Holy bustiers and ass huggers! Holy boobs and crotch shots! The waitresses were popping out of their outfits. And when I say outfits I mean plunging bustier-halter thingies and "skirts"



The waiters, on the other hand, were dressed conservatively in black dress shirts and pants.

As we ate, couples stood by the door and perused the menu. It went down like this: Woman looks at menu. Man starts to look at menu but is distracted by flesh parade. Man grins and gets really, really excited about menu. Man grabs woman's elbow and quickly ushers her into restaurant.

Such sushi enthusiasts, these middle-aged men.

Now look, I'm no prude, but my friend and I breathed a sigh of relief when we got a male waiter. As my friend put it, "I feel like the waitress wants us to look THERE but I don't WANT to look there."

I want to be clear here. I wasn't offended. I'm a big girl and I understand that having half-naked waitresses means you'll sell more sashimi. But Jesus, I'm so sick of smut. Every day I thank my lucky stars I don't have a girl. Riding the pole seems to be the new cheerleading. Girls' role models are hussies. I worry I'll be splattered with bodily fluid when I flip past MTV.

Where was I? Ah yes, sushi. As we were leaving, we asked the waiter why the hookers were fastidiously dressing the tables and setting out food.

"VIP party tonight," he said.

"Who? Who??"

"Kelis," he said.

"Kelis?" I asked.

"The milkshake song," my friend groaned.

How fucking fitting.



P.S. Ted, if you're reading this, I wrote that old post when I didn't know Holly so well. As you know, I really came to love her.

Slimy, wordful, disgusting Wednesday

RIP you sons of bitches asparagus. We both knew when I bought you that I had no idea what I was going to do with you. Bake you? Boil you? Pick my nose with you?

Instead of googling recipes I let you die a slow and painful death in my fridge. In a word: vegecide. And now you'll meet your maker via a composter, right next to a moldy acorn squash. What you two do in your final hours is between you and your slimy pokey parts.

Ew.

Random Tuesday Thoughts: The Underwear Chronicles

Grrr. It's Tuesday.

I'm feeling sickish. When I looked up my symptoms on the Internet, I found a site called the Symptom Checker. Their web address is symptoms.wrongdiagnosis.com.

At least they're honest.

How many pairs of underwear is it normal to own? I counted my underwear (oh quiet, I was cleaning out my top drawer) and I had 82 pairs. Is that, um, the usual amount of underwear to own or do I have issues?

We're going on a boat tour of the Thimble Islands for my friend's 35 birthday in a few weeks. We get to bring our own food and drinks and watch the sunset. Listening to gulls while eating a weenie and slugging red wine seems idyllic. It makes me think of my own 35th birthday, for which I was covered in vomit and dabbling in suppositories.

Oh wait, no it doesn't.

I wish Athleta had never started sending me their catalogs. I want everything they make, including their asscheeks.



I'm finally embracing my curly hair. I'm going to ween myself off the blow dryer. Using a 1875-watt hairdryer for 12 minutes a day equals more than 500 lb of CO2 emissions annually. But honestly, that's not why I'm quitting it. I'm tired of pissing away 20 minutes every other morning so I can have straight hair. I work in Mulletville for fuck's sake.

Should I also embrace the tankini? It seems inevitable.

Did you know that a blog with 15,000 visits a month has a yearly CO2 emissions of 8 lb? Since I get 18 visits a month I'm in the clear, but if you're up there with Dooce or Schmooce or Lickagoose, this company will plant a tree on behalf of your blog if you click this link.

Be honest. You're dying to go count your underwear, aren't you?

I really hate Mondays

That's it. That's all I wanted to say.

For Kate. I hope this helps you poop

I’d like to tackle a subject that’s been on my mind lately, ever since my co-worker Kate told me she drives to McDonald’s to poop instead of doing her business at the office. It got me thinking about how there might be more people who, like Kate, would like the convenience of pooping at the office without the embarrassment.

The fact is, given that most of us work 40-100 hours a week, pooping on the clock is inevitable. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but let's be honest, you don't ever want anyone to know you're pooping. I’m going to show you how to discreetly poop at work, so none of your co-workers will ever wonder again, “Was she just pooping?”

Yay.

I’ve tailored this to people who work in larger office buildings, like myself. If you work for a small company with one bathroom, you’ve got your own unique set of issues. Also, if you're a man, Chuck says this doesn't apply because "men don't obsess about anything and chicks are freaks."

Gah.

So here we go. It’s 9:45 a.m. and you’ve just finished your coffee. You also ate a bran muffin. There’s no turning back. You’ve got to go.

First, your goal is to find a bathroom that’s not being used. The basement or top floor bathrooms are obvious choices, but everyone goes there. They’re the building’s dirty little secrets. Look elsewhere. Do some laps, stick your head in doors, check for feet, etc. Don't choose a bathroom that a co-worker is exiting. If she happens to circle back around in 5-10 minutes as you’re leaving, she will know you’ve been pooping.

Once you’ve found an empty bathroom, your next obstacle is to choose a stall. If your bathroom has stall doors that reach the floor, consider yourself lucky. You’ve been given the gift of anonymity. If you don’t, be aware that people will be able to recognize you by your shoes. Ergo, the best days to poop are those that you’re wearing black boots and black pants because everyone in an office wears that.



Red shoes with flowers and bells are a dead giveaway, unless you can poop with your legs in the air—in which case, you are a pooping maverick.

You could play it safe and choose the stall on the end, but again, that’s everyone’s first choice; chances are it stinks in there. Be brave and choose the stall in the middle. You’ll ward off fellow poopers, because no one wants to sit next to someone they believe might also be pooping. Co-pooping is an extremely awkward and uncomfortable ordeal.

Now that you’ve selected your bathroom and stall, it’s time to get to work. You’re in the clear. Unless...

...Someone walks in.

Don’t panic. Your insides will tense up. You’ve actually got several choices. You can:

1. Abort the mission, which is painful and uncomfortable but sometimes necessary
2. Poop so fast the person won’t even notice
3. Vigorously shake the sanitary napkin box and/or toilet paper dispenser
4. Outstay the other person(s) and hope she is oblivious to your feet

I recommend option 3. Slam the sanitary napkin box lid a few hundred times and rattle the toilet paper dispenser. Loud noises scare people off. And really, isn’t it better to have a co-worker think “Omigod, she’s having the worst period ever!” or anger management issues than “Gross, she’s pooping!”?

Yes. Yes it is.

Option 4 is risky. If someone walks into a bathroom where there might be a pooper, she will generally hurry the hell up so she won’t have to overhear anything, but others are downright confrontational. They might apply mascara or talk to themselves, in which case you will have to leave the stall and meet them eye-to-eye at the sink. All the while knowing what you’ve just done. Don’t be naive: these people enjoy your discomfort and will go back to their department and tell everyone you just dropped a huge stink bomb.

Another caveat to option 4, you may be in there for hours. It’s a total crapshoot.

So those are the basics on becoming a star office pooper. Just remember, your success can easily be squashed by bumping into someone as you're exiting a bathroom that reeked before you entered. Don’t take the blame for someone else’s poo.

You're better than that.

Any questions?

The one mommyism that makes my ears bleed

I know that's blurry, but can you see what it says? No?

It says, "Mominatrix."

That's right, Mom + Dominatrix.

Why did we have to go there?

I already blogged about how much I dislike all the mommyisms. I thought we would have maxed out on them by now but nope, Kristen Chase has written The Mominatrix's Guide to Sex. Allegedly, her book will inspire you to shake things up in the laundry room.

Know what would make my laundry room a whole lot hotter? If my husband actually did a damn load of laundry. Then, instead of hating him, I'd actually want to jump him. Or get my hair cut. It's a toss up.

Anyway, I guess the world needs tips from a mominatrix (gag) because, according to the May 2010 issue of Parenting magazine, "58% of readers say their sex lives are more routine than an annual checkup."

Giddy up spin cycle, giddy up.

Nothing says lazy Sunday like dodging stones

If you're a parent in southeastern Connecticut and it's a beautiful Sunday and you're wondering, Hmmm, is there a place my friend and I can take the kids that has lots and lots of rocks so we can spend the afternoon saying "Please don't throw rocks?" instead of actually making adult conversation, I have just the place for you: Rocky Neck State Park.

Get it? Rocky Neck. There are rocks as far as the eye can see.



You're practically guaranteed a day of "Stop throwing rocks!"



"Please, please, don't throw rocks...I don't want to have to say it again."



"Dammit! Would you stop *&$%ing throwing rocks?!"



But hey...at least when Junior was busy throwing rocks I didn't have to keep answering his concerned "Why is she naked? Is she naked?" questions about the girls in bikinis.

Why do they have to notice everything?

"Hey, Bill, must be sexy in here..." Snort, snort

It’s been pretty warm here in Connecticut. I’d thought I’d dress in light clothes for work today, seeing how it’s spring and all, but management decided to blast us with arctic air. Have you ever been so cold at work that your knuckles turn white? I covered myself in paper fresh off the copier just to keep my limbs warm.

I didn’t realize quite how cold I was until I went upstairs to the mailroom and one of the younger workers said, “Must be cold in here.” I looked down and realized my headlights were pointing straight at him. I might have well have had tassels on them.

But that’s the chance you take when you wear a white sweater without a padded bra when it’s -50 degrees, right? So I smiled and said—with all the bravado I could muster—“Indeed!” (Nothing says “Don’t fuck with me” like erect nipples and a chipper, can-do attitude.)

I was annoyed, but willing to let it go. Then, after lunch, the HR head called me down to her office. It turns out one of my co-workers overheard the comment and reported it on my behalf. The mailroom offender had been reprimanded and would have to attend a sexual harassment workshop. Even worse, HR wouldn’t tell me who filed the complaint for me.

I was livid. Who had nominated themselves as the nipple police? I was about to start lighting things on fire when co-worker Michelle stopped by. Michelle is the kind of person who, after having two children, started shitting sunshine. Life is one long Barney episode for her. She gave me a sheepish shoulder shrug and asked if I was mad.

I should have known.

Before I could say anything, she said, “I had to say something to HR! It’s not appropriate to make comments about people’s genitals.”

After I got over the shock of hearing Michelle say “genitals” I diplomatically let her have it. I told her that breasts aren’t genitals. I said that I’m a big girl and that I don’t need people filing sexual harassment reports on my behalf. The mailroom people can ruin you. Packages can disappear or be sent late. You always bow to the mailroom people. Dammit, Michelle!

“But you wouldn’t say anything about anyone’s penis, would you?” she asked.

She had a point, but besides the whole banana-in-your-pocket line, what is there—really—to say about a co-worker’s penis? We don’t have many office flashers. And it’s not like I’d notice if someone’s baloney pony were affected by changes in temperature. Unless it was 50 feet long in 75 degree weather and 2 inches in cold. As far as I know, the turtle effect isn’t easily detectable in dress pants.

Agh!

I took a deep breath and thanked her. Then I asked her to please stay out of my business. “Okay?” I asked.

She nodded no. “I did what was right. Sorry.”

I have mixed feelings about the situation. On the one hand, I admire her for sticking to her guns. On the other, this isn’t a playground and I don’t need her to intervene on my behalf. They're my headlights, ergo it's my business. Isn't it up to me to decide whether or not I perceive something as harassment?

Where your path takes you

We're still drying out from last week's flood. That picture above is/was my dining room. Somewhere in there a leftover Christmas poinsettia is being attacked by mold spores dragged up from our basement.

Mwahahahha.

Just when I thought my house couldn’t possibly get more cluttered, my father stopped by. He lives in Mulletville Lite a few towns over, and his basement flooded too. While wading through the relics in his basement, he found some crap from my childhood—and decided to reunite me with it.

Some of the things are in good shape. Like this Fisher Price Play Family A Frame House, circa 1974.



Love A frames.

And the 1970 Fisher Price Parking Ramp Service center, now deemed vintage.



Ehem.

Junior's been having a blast playing with the legless family. They've been driving all over town. For them, life was new and exciting all over again.



Then, the inevitable happened. Junior inched them closer to the tracks. No! Not the tracks.



And announced that they were going to the Island of Sodor.



I can only imagine their disappointment. Thirty years in a basement only to end up there? Or maybe I'm projecting. Onto little plastic people with no discernible limbs or genitals.

Don't judge me. It's been a long month.

Why do they have to make it so complicated?

Dear National Kidney Foundation,

Two questions. Where's the kidney stone branch of your foundation, cause that's the one I really care about. And second, under the "donate" section of your website, where's the box for "live person"?



I just drugged my husband; he's propped up in the car. I've only got 30 minutes to get him to you for analysis—or whatever it is you'd like to do with his ample supply of kidney stones—before he comes to and starts groaning again.

Please. End the groaning.