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.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Random Tuesday Thoughts: Pssst, I got da stuff
My co-workers have had plenty of questions about my beauteous eyeball. Oddly, a lot of the questions involved Chuck. The accounting guy asked, “Did your husband do that to you in bed?”
“My wife,” he explained, “rolls over and knocks me in the nose with her elbow while she's sleeping.”
Sure she does. Can’t you just picture his wife calmly eating dinner, counting the moments until she can crack him one while she “sleeps”?
Zzzzzzzzzzzz. BOOF! “Ouch!” Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. BOOF! “Ouch!” Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
It’s got a nice rhythm. I bet there sex life doesn’t.
Last night as I was walking by Junior’s bedroom, the door creaked open and a small finger poked out from the darkness. “Mommy,” he whispered. “I have a booger for you.” Sure enough, a ginormous green blob clung to his fingertip. I took it, and the finger disappeared. I stood there for a minute. Parenting is unlike anything I ever thought it would be.
Saturday—before the bees came—Junior and I went to our friend Krista’s for a play date. Krista’s little girl is only two and she’s already potty trained. Junior’s not quite there yet, but I lied and said he was. While Krista was in the bathroom, I ripped off Junior’s shorts and changed him as fast as I could. “Hurry up!” I said to Junior. “We have to be fast!” It wasn’t a proud moment. I have nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, on Sunday Junior spent the entire day (in public) without a diaper.
I need to take a serious fucking chill pill.
Do you know about this site? I love it. I made the Mexican enchiladas, and they were delicious. If I can make them, a blind-folded limbless dog can. Seriously, you know what I do to food. Remember this poor pig? And this petit disaster?
Chuck’s mother found a book in her attic that lists the name of her family’s descendants—all the way back to the 1600s. She asked if Chuck and I would consider some of the family names. “Sure!” we agreed. Then she listed a few: “Thankful” and “Remember.” As much as I’d love to tell my mother we’re naming Boy #2 “Remember” and see her eyeballs bulge to the size of elephant testicles, I just can’t.
Unsightly eyeballs should be limited to one per family.
My 60-year-old coworker is retiring next month. She said that when she and her husband were just starting out, they had a choice to live in Mulletville or Oregon. For reasons I’ll never understand, they chose Mulletville. Then she said, “It’s been a good life.”
It hit me: I want to be the kind of person who says that, too. Even though Mulletville is a town of blight, homelessness, joblessness, missing teeth and unfortunate hair, I’ve met some silly little people who have made life more colorful. They’re nutjobs, really, but as long as I can still say with confidence that I haven’t been absorbed by the Mulletville mother ship (I’ll go down fighting, you bastards!), life is good.*
*The superstitious part of me needs to add a disclaimer to that last line, in case the universe is listening and wants to send me a big ole bitch slap for being so cheery. How about, “Life is good except for the fact that I don’t want to make love to my vacuum cleaner”?
Head on over to the UnMom for more random booger stories.