ABOUT ME

About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby 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.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

Confirmed: It's a man-gene. Shall we march?

I asked Everett, my 5-year-old, to put his gloves back in the glove holder. This is what he did:



So close, right? And yet, so far away. It reminded me of this (from a post in 2010, appropriately entitled, "Put your pants in the godamned basket"):


Those are my husband's jeans. Apparently tossing his pants just a mere inch farther was too much effort.

Truth be told, I've loved every minute of this parenting journey I'm on with my boys. I've loved the glimpses it's provided me into the male psyche. I love that I know more about the male species than I ever intended to. Boys are more sensitive than I ever knew, and more caring and compassionate than we ever give them credit for. And to all the clothing companies that design clothing for boys, boys don't only care about footballs, skateboards, cars and lizards (if at all, hello). Boys like graphic novels, paintbrushes, mud and potty talk, thank you very much.

They also loves their moms. Fiercely.

But this. This male gene for almost-in-the-basket or almost-in-the-glove-holder needs to be discussed more. There needs to be some kind of psychological summit to discuss its ramifications because, if you couldn't already guess, there are continents of women who are bending over more than they have to and putting things where they belong more than they have to. And all that bending and tidying is robbing us ladies of precious time, time we could be spending doing more productive things.

Things like, oh, I don't know, fighting world hunger or negotiating peace treaties. Or making yogurt! I mean, that's what I do when I have some down time.

For those of you who would like to respectfully disagree with this post, I give you this photo, texted to me just days ago by my bestest friend. Those are her boyfriend's pants-again, mere inches from the hamper. She wrote this:

Why can't he get it into the basket? Whhhhhhyyyyyy?


Why indeed, gentlemen. Why indeed.

Have an evidenciary photo you'd like share? Send it my way. The only way we're going to get through this is together. I mean, I'll organize a march if I have to.

As soon as I get done picking this bathrobe up off the floor and putting it in the....hamper.



Sigh.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

When your child's first word is "#$(*^#&%@#*&@*()#!^*@" because you've lost all of your brain cells

I went grocery shopping today. Yes, clap for me, I know you're happy.

My two older boys were on a playdate with Chuck, so it was just me, Cam and his behemoth car carrier. It was cold out and I was feeling lazy so I left him in his carrier and plopped him right into the shopping cart.

I only needed a few items and I had coupons—yes, coupons!—but we all know how that goes:

Crap, I need granola bars.
Oops, coffee too.
And dammit, eggs.

By the time I got to the checkout, Cam was surrounded by a teetering tower of groceries.

I chucked everything onto the belt and reached for my coupons.

My pockets were empty. I had left the stupid coupons in the car. Even worse, my store card wasn't working so I wasn't getting any of my precious Bonus Bucks.

"Just take your receipt and coupons to the service desk," the perky clerk told me. "They'll take care of you."

The bagger stood there with the bags. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, nodding at Cam, who was occupying all the room in the shopping cart.

"Heck if I know," I joked. He didn't laugh.

I swung the 50 bags over my shoulders, like the shameless packmule I've become, then pushed Cam and the cart out to the car and unloaded the groceries. I grabbed the coupons and pushed Cam and the cart to the service desk.

"Can you honor these coupons?" I asked the clerk.

"Sure, I just need the receipt," he said.

I reached into my pocket. Then the other. Both empty. I remembered the last thing the clerk had said to me: "Do you want your receipt in the bag?"

"I'll be right back," I told the clerk.

"#$(*^#&%@#*&@*()#!^*@"

I pushed Cam and the cart out to the car and opened the trunk. I grabbed the receipt from the bag and pushed Cam and the cart to the service desk.

"I have the receipt," I told the clerk. "And here are the—"

I reached into my pocket. Then the other. Both empty.

"Omigod, I'll be right back."

"#$(*^#&%@#*&@*()#!^*@"

I pushed Cam and the cart out to the car and opened the trunk. The coupons were there, lying on top of a loaf of bread. I grabbed the coupons and said aloud, "I have the coupons. I have the receipt." I pushed Cam and the cart to the service desk. I was sweating like a pig.

"Here are the coupons and the receipt." I said proudly. "I also need my Bonus Bucks."

"What's your phone number?"

"It's 860-xxx-xxxx."

"I don't have an account for that number. Last name?"

"Mullet. M-U-L-L-E-T."

"Nope, nothing."

"Can you try my husband's number? It's 860-xxx-xxxx."

"There's an account but the name isn't Mullet."

"Is it Lucky? Chuck Lucky? That's my husband! I didn't change my last name when I got married."

He didn't look up. "We'll mail you new cards."

"Thank you."

I pushed Cam and the cart out to the car.

"I don't #$(*^#&%@#*&@*()#!^*ing believe it," I told Cam. "All of that." I ripped off my winter coat, wiped the steam from my glasses and got into the car. Then I looked down at my receipt.



 

I burst out laughing. Hysterically. Loud and side-splitting, like a crazy woman. 

"#$(*^#&%@#*&@*()#!^*@"

I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Then, because I have had three children, I went home and changed my pants.

Saturday, January 2, 2016

I have no idea what day it is. Plus, quit bitching about your gift cards

First, there was Thanksgiving. I think I ate something at some point but with three children and family in town, I can't actually be sure. I do know that my mother stole dinner rolls from the restaurant we were at and that she shoved them into Cam's diaper bag because I found them wedged into a side pocket—and I ate one the next morning for breakfast.

Then, Christmas. Everett choked on a popcorn ball, and my brother Ted gave him the Heimlich. I cleaned up the vomit; he went back to eating. Ho, ho, ho! I tried to give my mother her gift:



Isn't the wreathe beautiful? My mother—who is impossible to buy for because she already owns everything that's pretty in the world—fell in love with it at an antiques store nearby, but there was one catch: I had to buy the door it was hanging on too. Ask me how much fun it was to teeter through the antiques store, Everett in tow, trying to get a door out the...door. Now ask me how long this door will sit in my living room because my mother drives a compact car and lives three hours away.

Rather, ask Chuck. He's ready to set it on fire.

Then, Everett's birthday. He turned five. My God, five. We had a small party for him at our house—kids, watch out for that door!—with friends from school. They raced around the living room, playing hot potato with balloons. We had a pinata. Pizza. Cupcakes. They left. I popped two Advil and went to bed at 4 p.m.

Then, New Year's. We put Cam to bed at 8 p.m. and sat down with a bowl of popcorn—Everett, please chew this time!—to watch the celebration in Times Square. Big mistake. BIG mistake. We jockeyed between ABC and NBC. We weren't safe from the smut, even on CNN (in case you missed it, Kathy Griffin disrobed). D'oh! Jenny McCarthy was "turned on" by her co-host at 8:15 p.m. Why waste time? Not like kids are watching.

After a few minutes of watching some musical performances, Junior wanted to know why women "always sing and dance in bikinis, but not men."

"Because women don't believe enough in their talent and capabilities to not sell their bodies."

"Oh."

"Please marry someone who keeps her clothes on," I begged my boys.

I fell asleep at 10 p.m. Chuck woke me up at 12:15 a.m. and lovingly wiped away the drool. Oh, shut up—everyone drools.

And now, my birthday. Number 41. Quite honestly, I don't even care at this point. I'm dying to get back into my routine of work and school so the days can stop seeming like one giant blob of naps and breakfast at noon and pajamas at 3 p.m. and "where's the dog?" and eating cheesecake for lunch and stepping on Paw Patrol figurines in the shower. I feel like an ass, bemoaning the fact that there's yet one more thing to celebrate, but I don't even think I can get drunk at this point.

Guess what though? Because I love vodka and because Chuck got me this kick ass shot glass—"For you," he told me affectionately, "my intoxicated Wonder Woman"—I will rally.



And then I will collapse. But I won't have dishpan hands. Not me, not ever.*

*I will, however, probably still have a door with a wreathe on it in my living room. And you bitch about gift cards—hah!