I almost went next door and bought a loaf of bread. But no nuts. Please no more nuts

I’m not angry anymore, even though yesterday morning upon waking Chuck grilled me with “What time is it do you really not need anyone why haven’t we had sex on a picnic table?”

Sweet Chuck.

But nope, I’m not angry. Instead, I am hung over. Miserably. And it’s all because the fondue restaurant I went to last night served bread crumbs with its $40 fondue samplers instead of bread chunks or meat, like the menu promised. There was more food floating in the damn sangria. Which is why I chose that as my meal.

I ended up spending the night at my friend’s house and making the Drive of Shame back to Mulletville this morning.

I may have been driving a little too fast, but that was because I thought I might throw up and because I looked so horrendous I didn’t want people to look in my window and see me as they were driving by. That would have caused screaming and violent swerving.

Mr. Policeman didn’t care about any of that. He was having a bad morning, too, and could have given two shits about the reasons why I went through a light that was clearly no longer yellow. But there’s always that hope that if you say the right thing the clouds will part and Mr. Policeman will shake his head and laugh and tell you you can hit the road without that $300 ticket he was going to give you.

So I reached into my grab bag of “perfectly acceptable reasons why I shouldn’t get a ticket” and came up with this: “Mr. Policeman, I passed the point of no return.”

I have been waiting to use the perfectly reasonable “point of no return” for 17 years. Ever since my high school Driver’s Ed/gym teacher, Mr. Narache, shared the gem with me during a Driver’s Ed driving lesson. (Side note about Mr. Narache: His pants were so tight that when he sat down, one of his testicles was forced to the other side, thus forming the dreaded and unsightly uniball. For this reason, he was known as Mr. Na-crotch-y. Understandably, this made driving lessons even more awkward and uncomfortable than usual. I mean, driving around with your gym teacher is bad enough without the looming uninut flashing in your peripheral vision like a neon sign. And sometimes it was so close to the shifter! What if my shaky hand accidentally missed the knob and whacked his bulbous flesh balloon? The horror!)

According to The Crotch, if you were approaching a stop light, you were supposed to pick an object near the light and dub it your point of no return. Once you hit that spot, you were free and clear to blow through the light—even if it turned red—because slamming on your brakes would mean that everyone in the car lurched forward, which would cause the uniball to balloon up even more from the pressure.

And no one wants that.

Sadly, the point of no return logic was lost on Mr. Policeman. He wasn’t familiar with the term and he didn’t want to be enlightened. The good news is that he didn’t give me a ticket. I think when he saw the apple chunk stuck between my teeth, my raccoon eyes and Mulletville address he thought, “Get this rednecker the hell back to her dirt mound.”

And here I am. Going to bed. At 7:30 p.m.

For more Mrs. Mullet uniball stories click here. If you've had enough uniball stories you can relax, I only know one man and one goat that suffer from the condition. So I'm done.

Maybe I'd be nicer if I were waking up next to Bill Murray. Nah

I'm pissed off so if you're all sunshine and hearts right now then shoo, go read this.

Why would I be pissed off on a Friday, you wonder? Or maybe you aren't wondering—maybe you already left and I'm talking to myself at this point. If that's the case fine, I don't need you, I don't need anyone. (Do you know I actually said that to someone once? I was drunk and on a date and it wasn't even appropriate, I just wanted to say it for dramatic effect. We had just had sex on a picnic table near the Family Dollar. Yah, that's right, I had sex on a date and it wasn't in a bed. Now you know that Mrs. Mullet is also Miss McSlultlet. Ooooh).

Anyway. Life is starting to feel like Groundhog Day and it's all my husband's fault. Every morning—and I mean every—begins with this: "What time is it?"

For fuck's sake, the man needs to get an alarm clock that affixes to his forehead. I'm sorry his vision is 5/-25000, but that's not my fault. It's the fault of his hunting and gathering ancestors. When they were stalking lions and picking berries and they couldn't tell a boulder from a bush, they should have been eaten or poked in the eye by a branch instead. Then his wretched eyeball genes would have died.

Though shit, that means he wouldn't be here. And we wouldn't have our kid.

Ok, fine, scratch all that. My point is this: If he asks me one more time upon waking "What time is it?" I am going to perform lasik surgery on him myself with some gin and a wire whisk. Can't he at least make it the second thing he asks me in the morning? What's wrong with yawning and scratching and "Hey, how did you sleep, honey?" or "Would you like breakfast in bed?" and then "What time is it?"

Or what about yawning and hugging and then "Would you like breakfast in bed?" and then scratching and then "Should I buff or shine your shoes?" and then "What time is it?" Switch it up a little. Give me some variety before I douse myself in lighter fluid and jump off the roof in a ball of bright orange flames.

Doesn't someone write scripts for this type of thing? No? Fine, I'll do it then. I will write the "How to find out what time it is when you can't see the clock but you don't want to drive your wife crazy with the repetition of your question" manual.

And I'll do it myself because…

Wait for it…

Just one more second…

I don't need you, I don't need anyone!

(Do you feel gypped because I said that even though we haven't screwed under the fluorescent lights of the Family Dollar? Don't. When she was in her late teens, Miss McSlultlet was also Miss McGetitoverwithalready).

How to make friends when you're the new girl

Lisa. New secretary at work (not mine—I'm not that important). Straight out of college. Attacked the file cabinets with a vengeance. Labeled a drawer this:



Marlene. Her boss. All day: "Lisa, can you do me a favor and get me a file?"

Giggles. Guffaws.

The speed oglers ain't got shit on this file cabinet.

I'm Tina Fey's stunt double...for when she's gettin' some McMullet

I have a confession to make: I have no idea why I’m on Twitter.

First, it seems kind of pointless. Second, it’s hard coming up with a catchy line. Increasingly I find myself embarrassed by the asinine ideas I have for twats, I mean tweets. Why I think anyone would care about my striped socks or Thomas the Train phobia or the fact that I just drank a glass of water is beyond me.

And the Twitten’ crowd is intimidating. Everyone seems to be abnormally attractive. I don’t know if it’s because everyone went and got their photos taken at Glamour Shots or if Twitter has some kind of hotness policy I missed in the fine print, but I find it unnerving. (If there is a cuteness pre-req, I’m not sure how my angry cartoon woman got in. Maybe the bar is lower for drawn people.)

Anyway, all of this got me thinking about:

a) how I want to break up with Twitter and

b) how even though I know what so many blog people look like, no one knows what I look like. And that’s not fair now, is it?

But what to do? Out myself? Hell no. There was only one option: meld together all the "hey you look just like..." comments I've gotten over the years and put together a composite just for you.

So, um, voila. According to other people, this is what I look like:



Mary Poppins meets Orphan Annie meets Tina Fey meets romance novel cover woman. Aren't I fine?

I'll break it down for you. The Mary Poppins comment happened this night. I hear Tina Fey all the time because I wear glasses and sometimes snarl at people.

I got Orphan Annied after my boss hired me. She told me she’d always wanted to work with someone who looked like Little Orphan Annie. (It was humid the day of my interview and my hair curled up, but that’s all I have in common with a 10-year-old with freckles—thanks.)

I got the wench comment pre-Junior, when a man at a bar told me I looked like a woman who belonged on the cover of a romance novel. I’m still not sure what that means, as I’d left my billowing frocks at home and I’d yet to cling to a rippling man with my I’m-saying-no-but-my-eyes-and-bountiful-cleavage-are-saying-yes expression (if you’re looking for that in a lipstick try Nars’ Fire Down Below).

So there you have it. I really hope if you see me on the street you'll say hi and not call the authorities (you didn't know Mary liked Cardinals on her shoulder best, did you?).

P.S. Is it just me or is it absolute kismet that I found a romance novel with the word mullet in it? Special thanks to the other Mary for writing this incredible Tour de Loins.

It felt so wrong and yet so right

The plan for Sunday night sounded good: Our longtime friends Ron and Sandy would drive to our house with tequila. We’d whoop it up. Order take out. Maybe watch a movie.

They’d bring their nine-month-old and three-year-old.

Screech! What? A sleepover with four adults, three kids and two cats? What kind of freaky sitcom is this?

I’ll tell you what kind: a very long, tiring one in which two couples beat down by the New England winter and childrearing desperately cling to each other in the hope that frivolous fun can still be found.

It can’t. Especially not in Mulletville (I spent Friday’s lunch break eating a Burger King burger in the parking lot of TJ Maxxipad—that was my big outing and that’s how little this fucking town has to offer in the way of fun. Would it kill the mayor to put in an eatery other than the 99? Can we get a Banana Republic already?)

Anyway.

In all fairness, the four of us partied hard from the time the last kid’s head hit the pillow at 7:30 p.m. to the time the first adult’s head hit the pillow at 9. Chuck was the last man standing at 11. I think he went down to the neighborhood bar just to, you know, keep up appearances. That would explain why he crawled into bed at 2:30, which was just about the time the low moans and howls started.

We lay there and listened.

And listened.

And listened.

No, we're not perves. It was Junior. On the monitor. Gurgling and grunting and—wait! Junior doesn’t make those noises anymore.

“It’s not our kid!” I cried with joy. “It’s their monitor. We’re picking up their monitor. It’s their baby! We can go back to sleep! Oh, Chuck! We can sleep!”

Suddenly I was struck by the horrific mental picture of Ron and Sandy in the guestroom with a crying baby and cranky pre-schooler. Rubbing their eyes and wishing they hadn’t done tequila shots. Yawning and tired and wanting to lie down and sleep and have their children sleep and sleep and sleep and oh wonderful sleep.

And oh sleep was wonderful after I turned off the monitor and climbed back into bed. In a year and a half, that’s the only time I’ve been able to shut off the noise coming from the other end and not feel guilty. And holy shit, I was giddy. I still am. I’m all juiced up to play another round of turn off the monitor. The power! The rush! The fricken euphoria!

(Are you wondering about my fun barometer right about now? Cause I’ll admit it, the Maxxi Pad lunch break was a new low, and I am worried I won't be able to climb out of this sandtrap.)

Until next time, Mulletville.

V Day recap. Enter at your own risk

I hate Valentine's Day. I don't need a calendar to tell me when I should get all googly over my husband. Nonetheless, after weeks of seeing everyone's cherubic treats, I started to have delusions of culinary prowess (I swear, it comes on like PMS lately).

So after dinner last night I made this for my luv4ever man:



If it's not glaringly obvious from the photo, it's an angel food cake. Light and fluffy my ass. The thing had so many rolls it folded into itself. I didn't even coat it with anything. I just served it dry and crusty to my husband. If you're wondering if he ate it, the answer is no. Our pet raccoons did.

Thankfully we have our love on which to binge and multiply. And the good news is that the bar for next year is very low. Like, in the basement low.

Maybe they'd let me if I tickled them after I caught them?

Today? Bleh. Yesterday? Bleh with a shot of tequila.

Yesterday I had the day off so I brought Junior down to see his great-grandmother. She lives in a small senior complex. I like taking Junior there because all the old people come out and poke him and pinch him and either say he’s adorable or fat.

The complex is about 20 minutes from my mother, Linda, so we all met there and went out to lunch.

Why do I keep falling for this again and again? I mean, it’s finally occurred to me why I seem to be able to eat like a horse lately and not gain weight. It’s because at some point, the ritual of abandoning my uneaten food to chase Junior around the restaurant’s perimeter became the norm.

I no longer see restaurants and think dining. Instead I think laps.

I’m actually worried that when I join my adult friends out for dinner I’m going to suck down my food and want to chase them around.

(Would they let me?)

After lunch we took Junior back to my grandmother’s. Her windows face a large cemetery; I can’t figure out if that’s incredibly cruel or a kick in the ass reminder to savor the last few years. She doesn’t mind it, but that’s because she looks at all of her pictures instead of out the window.

Until…dun dun dun—you knew there was a dun dun dun, didn’t you?—yesterday.

Days before, the maintenance guys had replaced her windows and painted the walls. She had had to take down all her pictures and knick-knacks; with the walls finally dry and my mother and me there to help her, she figured her place would be back to normal in a snap.

Except for one thing: She couldn’t remember where anything went. Anything. My mother had the brilliant idea of having her lay the pictures out on the floor to jog her memory, which went down like this:

Grandma: “I think Cousin Fred was on the top right.”

Linda: “Great. Should I nail him up?”

Grandma: “Or was it bottom left? Let me put Aunt Mabel above him and see. Or was it Uncle Roland?”

Linda: “Looks good. Hand me the hammer.”

Grandma [standing back]: “Or was it Estelle? Oh, Christ. I just need to see it from this angle.”

Me: “Junior! Noooooooooooo!”

No sooner had my grandmother played a successful round of floor Memory then Junior would wrestle his way out of my arms and upturn the row. My grandmother, determined to get it just right, would begin the process all over again, only to have Junior foil her. Over and over. It didn’t matter where he was in the apartment—locked in the bathroom, tied up in the closet—he found his way to those damn pictures.

Toddler = nemesis to onset Alzheimer’s Granny.

We left soon after. I think I heard my grandmother tell my mother that if she lived with Junior, she’d be dead in a day. Forget the sappy “You’re special, grandson.” Where is that on a greeting card?