So I'm Ferris Bueller's sister. The poor girl had a point

I just spent the loveliest weekend with a British girl named...

Um...er…eerr...

Give me a second, it’ll come back to me.

My brother Ted invited her to the U.S. for the week because he was feeling a little blue about the finality of his Christmas dump fest. He and the woman became friends years ago during his pre-college stint in Europe—which, incidentally, my parents funded, along with a welcome-home Nissan Pathfinder, rent expenses and tuition for golf school.

Know what my parents funded for me? One-third the cost of a piece of shit, rusty Subaru, circa 1972. One-third! It couldn't make it up hills!

Wait, where was I? Ah yes. Catherine. The British chick’s name was Catherine.

Ted invited her to the good ole US of A so he could get to know her better (i.e., see if he wanted to have sex with her). Why he couldn’t have met someone at a bar and come to a similar conclusion is beyond me. Then again, I'm the kind of person who settled for a Subaru with a hatchback that didn't close all the way. Of course I'd think parochially.

(Bitter? Me?)

By day four, Ted decided that no, he didn’t want to schtoop Catherine. According to him, she talked too much, and interpersonal relations were like “humping a cardboard box.” So sweet. He also decided that he didn't feel like taking her on the whirlwind tour of New England he’d promised, so he brought her to our house.

Because nothing screams “I’ve seen America” like boarding with a tired married couple, a train-on-the-brain toddler and two obese cats in Mulletville.

Poor, poor girl.

Amazingly, she made the best of it. While my brother slept



she oohed and ahhed over Junior’s Thomas the Train collection (she’s British, she loves that stupid train), watched every trash TV show she could find (Kendra, Housewives of Orange County and Jersey Shore) and asked if she could take a “proper” shower (which I learned involves washing your hair).

She also ate like a horse. In two days we ordered pizza and Chinese three times and made multiple runs to Krispy Kreme. She couldn’t get enough donuts. She ate six in one sitting. An hour later, she was torn about being too full to try the six assorted donuts left in the box, so she took a bite of each one.

The crazy part is that it all went to her boobs. All weekend she wore a tight black t-shirt with pink hearts on each breast; by the time she left, the hearts were the size of footballs. Chuck was like a giddy school girl. Even I couldn’t stop staring.

And Junior? Junior was in love.

Within five minutes of meeting her, he'd invited her up to his bedroom to see his Thomas the Train bed. By Sunday, she’d seen it 12 times and he was calling her his “big girl friend.”

I was a little sad when she left. Could she be our British nanny? Could she forgive us for the fop that is my brother? I mean, what the hell, Ted? You bring your British fling to our house, and we’d all bonk her. Can't you take one for the team?

I can’t keep going on like this. When do I get to ride in a Nissan Pathfinder?

And so the issues begin...

Have you seen the email forward that's going around called "Parenting isn't for everyone?" I expected to see a bunch of bored parents at a playground, but instead it was pictures like this:



I have a better name for the email: "Parenting classes are for everyone."

I want to thank you all for your supportive comments and suggestions on my last post. I have an appointment to speak with the daycare director in person this afternoon. We spoke on the phone briefly yesterday. I learned that she's 22 and works at a bowling alley after work.

Which may explain the daycare's affinity for hallway bowling.

[Insert pathetic Mulletville joke here]

He's so outta there!

I'm a virgin. Would someone take me to daycare third base, please?

I don't know what to do. But then I do. And then I don't.

Junior’s been going to pre-preschool for two days a week for about a month now. Even though the staff were a bit zombie-ish it seemed ideal. The school is next to my office. I can check on Junior whenever I want, also known as Operation 007 Daycare. Junior makes friends. Chuck gets time to look for a job. It’s a win-win for everyone.

Except for me. I’m a wreck. My log of my stealth missions reads like this:

February 24, 11:34 a.m.: Escaped work and crawled through parking lot. Thinking of taking up smoking so I have better cover for break-outs. Crept to side of building. Stood under window. Overheard teacher shout, “PARK IT! NOW!” to children. Where is Junior???

and

March 3, 2:12 p.m.: Escaped work and slid across parking lot. Hid behind bush. Overheard teacher yell, “They’re like VULTURES! They’re ANIMALS!” Snack time? Are they eating remains of zombie grandma? What the hell is going on?

Every day it’s something. One day I found Junior crawling on a floor that was caked with mud. Another I arrived as Junior was getting yelled at for spitting. Should he have been spitting? No. Should the teacher have been shouting at him like he was a cretin undeserving of life? Hell no. He’s a child.

Even worse, there’s little educational interaction. The only singing I hear is when I arrive, squeeze Junior and hum “Let’s get out of here, let’s get out of here, I’m picking you up, taking you home, let’s get out of here right now...” (Sung to the tune of “99 bottles of beer on the wall.”)

Obviously, I’ve been thinking about taking Junior out of there. But he likes it. I'd even say he loves it. I keep waiting for an indication that he doesn’t want to go back so I can yank him but so far, nothing. And trust me, Chuck and I accost him with questions.

You know, just a few...

"Are you happy there? Did you have a fun day? Do you like your teachers? Did you sing/dance/walk/talk/eat/sleep? Did you laugh/cry? Do you want to keep going there? Do you like school? Did you make friends? Do you like your friends? How’s the air quality? Do the teachers seem happy? Do they seem engaged? How can you say you like it? Dammit, Junior, how?"

Then today, I got an email from a co-worker:

Just wanted you to know that yesterday as I was leaving work, the kids were outside at a picnic table. I heard a teacher yell, WE’RE ALL DONE. She slammed her hand on the table, shouted I SAID WE’RE DONE, and threw something over the fence. Not sure if your kid was there or not????

Well, let’s see, was Junior there? Let’s refer to yesterday's super happy write-up from the teacher which reads "Junior loved digging outside":



Yep, looks like Junior was happily digging and avoiding flying objects. What a multi-faceted approach to education! Motor skills practice and tactical maneuvers all at once! It’s perfect—

—ly unacceptable.

So there. I have my answer: We need to pull him. I shouldn't be worrying about him picking up bad habits from adults. And they couldn't even recruit a decent grandmother. What kind of place botches a free granny?

Right? He's outta there? Agh. I suck at this.

Random Tuesday Thoughts: The countdown

You'd think after taking a few days off from blogging I'd feel refreshed. Instead I keep looking at that horse picture from my last post and feeling, well, ew.

Since I wasn't blogging over the weekend, I had plenty of time to make cupcakes for my dad's birthday.



Mmmm, right? If you want the recipe, I have to forewarn you: It's not for amateur bakers. It takes real finesse to craft a crumbly cupcake that won't hold frosting. And look, achieving that "this is so greasy how can I possibly be choking on it?" surprise ending is no easy feat. But go ahead, ask me for the recipe. I dare you.

Yesterday was Women's Day. I wasn't sure how to celebrate it. I felt like I should do something involving my vagina, but I couldn't find any listings on CTcalendar for vagina-themed events in Mulletville. That was really disappointing.



I stole a Time Out New York for Kids magazine from my doctor's office. I felt kind of bad stealing it. The magazine was a hot news item in the local newspaper: "Mulletville doctor has urban literature."

According to the magazine's Back Talk section—"advice from a mom (Antonia Kidd) who knows everything"—evil walks among us. It's none other than Frenemom. Gasp! Yes! Frenemom is a frenemy (friend + enemy) who's also a mom. Hold me.

Are you as sick as I am of words that have morphed with "mom" lately? Every time I turn around someone's birthed a cute new mommyism. It makes me want to gouge my momballs out with a hot poker—or at least set fire to my momputer. What the momfuck?

Five months ago, I wrote that if nothing in my life had changed and I was still whining, I’d stop blogging. I have one month to make some serious changes. Unless Frenemom gets me first. Maybe I can ward her off with my dastardly momcakes. I mean cupmoms. Shit, I mean cupcakes.

A date should come with more legs

I know this picture is gross, but it makes me think about modern society and how cheap it feels lately. There's no context. No meat. It's all tweets, texts and twats and wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. Text me! Friend me! Give me your status update!

Communication's been whittled down to a stuffed stump on a metal pole—and the worst part is that my own greedy-for-Junior-news mother has become part of the machine. She's on Facebook.

She's holding the bucket, folks, and she wants the goods.

I blame Miley Cyrus.

And I'm taking the weekend off from this damn computer. Maybe Monday, too.

Pay attention to me! I only had two glasses of wine. Me, me, me!

Well, I did it. Or rather, my zit and I did it. We got up and gave our marketing presentation to a group of 100 people. For those math buffs out there, that’s 200 eyeballs. All staring expectantly at me and my flesh colored bump.

I was doing fine until I realized there was no podium. It was just me, a microphone, a glass of wine, and a projector. Have you ever tried to hold handwritten notes and a microphone and gesture at a slide show while guzzling wine? Mmmyah. After 10 seconds I ditched my notes and ad-libbed.

I don’t remember anything after that. Anything.

Chuck was there. He said I spoke for 21 minutes, which was shocking to learn. What the fuck did I ad-lib about for 21 minutes? If I hadn’t seen the pictures, I’d swear aliens came down and abducted me during my intro.

Oh yes, there were pictures. I made the Mulletville rag. See?



The good news is that I learned something invaluable about public speaking: It’s a transient beast. Worrying about it is stupid. Half the people in the room probably forgot about me midway through my speech—right about the time they realized the linguine was giving them gas or they’d forgotten to feed their dog. I bet if you went to their homes right now, knocked on their doors and said, “Can you tell me a little about Mrs. Mullet’s presentation?” they’d say “Who the hell is that?”

I don’t often reference Dr. Phil because he’s turned into a self-promoting, crass, sensationalistic manbot, but I once read something his dad said, and it’s really stuck with me:

"You wouldn't worry about what people thought of you if you knew how infrequently they did."

Bingo! Essentially, I was addressing an empty room.

And more good news: According to the February issue of Psychology Today, the fact that my pimple was on the left side of my face was my saving grace. I quote, Don’t worry about that zit on the left side of your face; the right side is the one people notice most. Why? “Primates innately look first at the top left of their visual field. Once identity is established, why keep going?”

Mammoth-sized zits and social anxiety. Why keep going, indeed? Tomorrow’s post: How to make hand puppets out of your leftover lasagna and pantyhose.

You're welcome.

Not to be confused with the Nebraska Newt

One semester at grad school, something terrible happened. I grew a zit on my chin that was the size of an elephant. (I just googled “pimple” so I could insert an appropriate picture. After seeing what came up, I want to vomit. Whatever you do, don’t google “pimple.”)

My darling grad school friends dubbed my zit the “Vermont Zit”—because our school was in Vermont. You’d think people in a creative writing program would come up with something more…creative, but I understand. They were busy working on novel titles, not pimple pet names.

The Vermont Zit was so big that people actually came up to me and told me they liked my Sarah Jessica Parker mole. I toyed with the idea of coloring it in with brown eyeliner pencil, just to give it some distinction. But it was the middle of summer and I worried about sweating it off; no one likes a mole with a muddy trail. Not even those nature-loving Vermonters.

It took me a few months to get rid of that damn zit. Two months and 102 tubes of Clearasil.

Fast forward five years to RIGHT NOW. I’ve sprouted the Vermont Zit just in time for my presentation. And I’m pissed. I thought turning 35 meant no more pimply pimples. Given my last post—in which I begged God to save me from my public speaking self—I have to wonder, what the hell? Other than blinding people with the light reflecting off my zit as I stand at the podium, I can’t think of any divine reason for this zit’s existence.

Except that I’ve just blown 30 minutes blogging about it instead of practicing my presentation in front of the mirror. But can you blame me?



I'm horrid.