Call RotoRooter! My $80 face is in the drain!

I'm sick. I spent yesterday lying in bed. The entire day. I cannot remember the last time that happened. Maybe the year I was born. Or the year I dated a gymnast. Though that wasn't really lying. More like letting someone practice his front handsprings on my thighs.

Ah, the limber days of youth.

As hard as I tried, I could not get off the QVC channel. The spokespeople are so fricken convincing. They get you in some kind of mind meld. You find yourself standing in front of the TV shouting "yes! yes! It is magic!"

Before I knew it, two hours had passed and I'd ordered $80 worth of make-up. Now I'm nervous. I don't know how to apply make-up other than the rudimentary slapping on of foundation and mascara. I can make up my face, but whenever I go for night time glamor/drama/glitter (you know, once every decade), I look more like an uptight hooker (I have a fatal wardrobe condition known as always-dressed-like-it's-a-workday).

I told Chuck about my purchase and how 2010 will be the year I look more polished and do you know what he said?

"Don't! You'll only look uglier!"

My husband. It's a wonder I ever let that gymnast dismount.

Chuck quickly backpedaled, saying that women who wear make-up 24-7 look extra horrible without make-up because you forget what they look like au natural. He said he likes my natural beauty. Blah, blah, blah. I guess I forgive him.

But I do not forgive the people who created this:



Ignoring the irony that's ravaging my insides (extra ass in our thin-obsessed society? are you kidding me?) I must ask: Am I the only person who doesn't know about this product? I almost fell out of bed laughing when the commercial aired. Between all the padded products on the market (like the Victoria's Secret Miraculous™ push-up bra, which adds two cup sizes), you'd think we were a bunch of flat chested, bony-assed stick figures.

(Obviously we're not. According to the American Demographics journal, the average American woman is 5'4" tall, weighs 145 lbs. with a dress size of 11 to 14, has a 36-37" bust, is about 29" around the waist and close to 40" around the hips.)

I want to know: What happens when you meet a guy and decide to get horizontal? What happens when you remove your undergarments and you have no ass or breasts? I want to be a guy for a night just so I can witness the metamorphosis. Just so I can say, "Is it just me or is all your booty on the rug?"

I guess in a way it's like washing off make-up. Like, "Is it just me or is all your pretty in the drain?"

Wow, man. Daytime television gets you thinking—about incinerating your TV.

Happy New Year! I hope you—and your booty—have a great night.

In hindsight, coming home smelling like fish would probably suck. Oh, and sorry about all the bags and asses

I have a nasty case of the post-holiday blues. Apparently they’re pretty common, seeing how the world is ending in 2012 (why, John Cusack, why?) and it’s no longer good enough to overhaul just certain aspects of your life, like your snaggly cuticles or inability to stand up to your boss. No, now you must change everything:



Talk about pressure. I like how the Yankee magazine people added “for the better!” Just in case you weren’t sure. Just in case you thought this was an article on how to royally fuck up everything.

EVERYTHING.

The year 2010 is particularly traumatic for me because I am turning 35 on January 4. I had assumed that self-reflection would help smooth my descent into 2010 and close-to-middle-age-dom. You know, a few days of Who am I and how did my ass get so big? But after Googling “dying inside after Christmas” I stumbled upon an article that said not to peer inward.

According to Susan Battley, PsyD, PhD, a leadership psychologist and clinical associate professor at State University of New York at Stony Brook: “If you keep looking back at the old year—especially last year—you will get into a downward spiral.”

(I'm curious what the "old year" might be if it's not "last year." 1982 maybe?)

Battley believes in something she calls Three BAGs Full. A BAG is a Big Audacious Goal. She says that three is the absolute maximum and that one might be more realistic. I like the idea of only having one to three goals, but I absolutely detest the word audacious; why not Big Ass Goal?

Alas, the BAG acronym is her brainchild, not mine.

The perky Battley is nice enough to provide suggestions for people’s BAGs. I was nice enough to provide my responses:

• Learn a second language. No. I don’t feel like it.

• Volunteer. I already do; every night I volunteer that night’s culinary disaster to the garbage can.

• Make more money. Bite me.

• Join a dating service. Ok, but I’ll have to check with Chuck first.

• Change careers.

Aahhhhh, change careers. Now there’s something I can dig my teeth into. Why, just yesterday as Junior and I were watching the sea lion show at Mystic Aquarium, I was thinking that exact thing. I marveled at how active the sea lion trainers were; how their jobs were so hands-on and varied. Then I thought about my own job and how I spend 35 hours a week sitting on my ass.

Why? Why did I choose such a sedentary career? Why, when the high school guidance counselor separated us into groups of those who’d like to sit for a living and those who’d like to stand, did I pick the sitters? If I’d played my cards differently, I could be tossing raw fish into the mouth of a 600-pound sea creature and paying my bills all at the same time! Just me, my perky butt and fish.

Heavenly.

So, that’s one of my BAGs. In 2010 I’m going to change careers. At the top of my list are: belly dancing instructor, Mulletville investigative reporter and professional dart-ist (don’t laugh: the average salary for professional dart player is $73,000). Wouldn’t that be sweet poetic justice?

My second BAG is to learn how to stuff stuff into stuff. Like these:



and these:



Yep, that about does it. The new me: a belly dancing, food stuffing dart thrower. Aim high, Mrs. Mullet, aim high.

(Admit it. You want me—even in my 35-year-old faded glory. You do!)

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 fiancée, 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!)

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Beards

I recently learned that my aunt shaves her face with a razor and that my cousin had eyebrows tattooed on because she plucked them off and they never grew back. I wish I'd known that before I bought their Christmas presents. Shaving cream is a lot less expensive than electronics.

My brother’s ex-fiancée Holly came over last night. She brought a bottle of wine and fancy cheese. I fed her tator tots. I guess that qualifies as our second date.

Holly now knows the relationship is officially over because my brother set his Facebook status to "single." Fucking Facebook.

Things were going great (well, better) until my brother called my house phone and left a message. She cried when she heard his voice. I jumped up and gave her her Christmas present—I thought it might cheer her up.

“I love it!” she said. Then she burst into tears again. Turns out the colors in the scarf I’d given her—turquoise and pink—were going to be the colors in her bridal party.

Brilliant.

She’s only 22 but she knows she loves my brother. She also knows she wants to settle down and have kids. She said she’s known since eighth grade, when her teacher asked everyone what profession they wanted to pursue and she answered “I want to be a mom.”

Do you know that the teacher wouldn’t accept her answer? She made Holly pick “an actual profession” (the teacher’s words).

Blasphemy.

Holly's present is the only one I've bought so far. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for. Maybe for things to be 100% off. Oh wait, that's shoplifting.

We're having 20 people for Christmas Eve. I'm terrified. Last year my gravy looked like simmered brain in mud sauce, and we all know what happened the last time I tried to cook meat.

If you read about a family that spent Christmas Eve in the emergency room, you'll know they belong to me. Except for the bearded woman. I'm not ready to admit I know her just yet.

It's a scientific fact: Connecticut is Hell on Earth

When we woke up this morning we couldn't open our front door:



Those are our cars (we don't have a garage, so Chuck covered them with tarps):



And this is Chuck shoveling:



If you could hear him now, he sounds something like this:

"F**ing snow. F***ing winter. F***ing cold. F***ing Connecticut. I hate Connecticut!"

Chuck's not alone. In fact, he's commiserating with a fellow shoveler as I type:



The fact is, everyone's talking smack about Connecticut. It recently ranked number 50 on a list of the states ranked highest for happiness levels. Number 50. New Jersey ranked higher.

New Jersey.

I think this article says it all. I'd summarize for you, but Chuck's lying in the middle of the road right now and I think I should ask traffic not to run him over.



Sigh. If we lived in Jersey, this would never happen.

The real truth is that women are more obsessed with breasts than men

I’m going to switch gears now. I’m sure you’re devastated that I’m leaving my sexy reindeer boots behind but trust me, it’s for the best. If I kept going on the boot topic, I’d eventually confess that I have an entire fleet of sexy animal boots. Then you’d probably break up with me.

Yes, now I'd like to talk about work. Specifically my co-worker Sarah, who came back to work today after her three-month maternity leave.

Three piddly months.

In the five years I’ve been at my job, I’ve seen a lot of new mothers come back to work. Some look chipper (it’s true, they’re overly happy to see you); others have that wide-eyed, freaked out look. The look that says Where’s my baby and how can I get back to him? Judging from the size of Sarah's bulging eyeballs, she was the latter.

When I ran into her, she was in the breakroom. She was hunched over, making herself a cup of tea, minding her own business. I was about to ask her how she was doing when a swarm of women burst through the door and started firing:

“Are you breastfeeding? I did for a year. Is the baby sleeping? I let mine cry it out. You should, too. How was your labor? Mine was 46 hours. Did you deliver vaginally? I did. Did you get stitches? I did. Have you pooped yet? I cried when I did. Split me right open. Are you going to have another? Mine are nine months apart. Get it out of the way. Who's watching your kid? Did you put him in daycare? Are you breastfeeding?”

I don’t know Sarah very well but judging from the way she was shrinking into her sweater, she’s not the kind of woman who would hold up a sign like this:



I wanted to grab her by the arm and whisk her away to an underground cave. Or at least fart or belch or pee on the floor—anything that would draw people’s attention away from her.

I understand that some people are genuinely curious about how a new mother is doing, but it seems to me (based on my own experience and that of my friends), that a big part of motherhood/parenthood is inquisition and subsequent verbal annihilation. Think I’m exaggerating? After our children were born, my friend and I were going to write a mommy book. Some of the chapters were:

Why do you care if I breastfeed? Really?

Don't hate me because I get out of the house a few days a week

Does hurting me help you?

Take your homemade organic, gluton-free, farm raised, free range, sugar free baby food and shove it

Motherhood: This shit is hard enough without your two cents

Now look, maybe my friend and I are hanging around with the wrong people or maybe we’re overly sensitive fuckheads who don’t know our leaky breasts from our stitched up anuses, but I was in flashback hell watching Sarah field questions then defend her parenting choices.

Why does this keep happening? When did the word "mother" become synonymous with "interrogate" and "judge"?

And holy divulge! Did Sarah (tired, overwhelmed, shell-shocked Sarah) really need to hear about another woman’s experience with cracked, bleeding nipples? Is the verbal vomit born out of a desperation for female camaraderie? Is it the equivalent of the locker room ass smack? If if is, I think we can do better. I’d give a million dollars to a woman if I saw her smack a new mom on the ass instead of hear her ask, “Are you breastfeeding?”

“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”

It’s like we’re all trapped in a little tornado of verbal vomit serum and we keep circling and swigging, circling and swigging.

Right down the drain.

Sexy reindeer boots. Remember, you asked to see them

Okay, this is what they look like:



I Photoshopped out my legs so you wouldn’t be able to guess my true identity (you already have the top of my head from the post below; what more do you need?).

They were expensive, but well worth it because they really dress up a boring skirt. Drawbacks are that they're a little clunky on stairs and sometimes the smell of reindeer is off-putting. And you can't sneak up on someone—the jingling bells give you away every time. It makes surprising your partner (or random guy at the bar) nearly impossible. Which kind of sucks, because who doesn’t want to be surprised by a woman in thigh high black patent boots with reindeer hooves, bells and stuffed reindeer heads?

I mean, really.

I was lucky enough to have bought my sexy reindeer boots as part of the 2008 Sexy Reindeer Holiday Collection, which included a sexy reindeer whip and a free canister of lube.



Yes, I said canister.

You're jealous, I know. And you're probably asking yourself, Where can I get a pair of my own sexy reindeer boots? I'm sorry to say, I have the only pair on planet earth. I bought them from QVC while tripping on acid—at least, I think it was QVC—and I haven't seen another pair since.

But wait! If you're interested in a sexy reindeer boot knock-off, check out this site. These puppies come with "spring loaded cloven hooves." They can't touch my plushy, jingling temptress boots, but it looks like you wouldn't need a whip. A swift kick to the forehead might yield the same result.

Maybe.

Can we all move on now?

(If it wasn't for this blogger, this post would have died a quick death, which probably would have been better.)