Would you like some salmonella with that backrub, baby?

This weekend two wonderful, fabulous friends of mine drove all the way up to Mulletville to help me pack. There was just one problem: They were rearing to go; I was not. Yes, there’s a for sale sign in front of my house and yes, we are moving, but the distance between getting ready to move and actually starting to move is, like, from Connecticut to Tokyo.

They were persistent fuckers, though. They grabbed cardboard boxes, markers and tape and attacked my built-ins. As they packed, the questions started:

“Do you really need a bottle of sand…

…Christmas napkins from 2006?

…a Zagat’s Restaurant Guide from 2005?



After a while, I started to feel like I was on that TV show Hoarders, and that I was being called out. I admit it: I’m a crammer. If I don’t know what to do with something, I cram it into a drawer or closet and I never look back.

I happen to be a neat crammer though. If you ask me, it’s an underappreciated skill. Not everyone can cram without unsightly overflow. My cram never bulges. It’s well contained and often well organized. I even throw in scented candles so it smells nice.

Who’s better than me?

My friends weren’t buying it. They set aside a box and labeled it “junk.” Good-bye sand in a bottle.

Then: “Mrs. Mullet. What.Is.This?”



“Aw! My Great Aunt Maryann made that for my wedding. She made it.”

"Clearly." They rifled through it. “It’s empty.”

“I never got around to putting pictures in it,” I lied. The truth is, the album always reminded me of a pretty toilet bowl seat cover—the kind that would itch your ass if you had to sit on it. The album would never hold pictures. It might, however, look nice in my bathroom...

“Toss it!” they chanted.

“But she had arthritis when she made it! And she was half blind. Look at the lace and beads! It’s a labor of love!”

“Toss it!”

They were animals, I tell you. Like something out of Lord of the Flies.

I didn’t put up as much of a fight over this sign:



Though it is catchy. Or this, a bottle of massage oil Chuck bought me 10 years ago, when the word massage was actually part of our bedroom repertoire.



The cork top is crusty and crumbling, and there’s algae on the herbs. It should keep the Connecticut Department of Public Health busy for a while.

When my friends left at 7, I was exhausted—and we'd only packed up half of the living room. I think part of my exhaustion (the part unrelated to working full-time, having a toddler, being pregnant and watching Jersey Shore) comes from knowing that no matter how well I purge my own home, there's a new house waiting for me that is full of even more stuff.

See, my parents are crammers too. My clothes from fifth grade are waiting for me when we move into my father's house. Remember, he's the same man who hid the legless people and the lesbian in his basement for 30 years. And my mother, in addition to giving us furniture, is also giving me 30 years of stuff she's crammed into boxes. Like my Bunsen Burner license from eighth grade.

I can't seem to escape myself. Literally. This move out of Mulletville is supposed to be about new beginnings; instead it's like watching "The Life of Mrs. Mullet." It's kind of creepy. I don't want to be Albert Finney at the end of Big Fish just yet.

Oy vey.

What about you? Are you a crammer or a purger? Did you inherit the trait? Would you like the weed sign? It's really cute...bought it in Colorado...

Please don't spit on my child

If you’re dying to know how Junior is doing at preschool (I know you're on the edge of your seat, folks), you’ll have to ask Chuck. He’s been handling drop-offs. From what he says, they’ve improved from kicking, screaming and leg clinging to mere whimpering. That comforts me, but part of me does wonder if everyone—including Junior’s teacher—is lying to me.

"Suuure, honey, Junior skipped away as he cried. He skipped!"

"Suuure, Mrs. Mullet, Junior had a blast after Chuck left. A blast!"

It’s the abundance of enthusiasm that makes me nervous. Kind of like when you ask the waiter to reheat your spaghetti and he comes back to the table and says, “Here you go, ma’am, the cook was thrilled to reheat it for you. Thrilled!” Meanwhile what the cook really did was floss his ass cheeks with the spaghetti and finish it off with some saliva.

Sometimes it’s better not to know I guess.

According to the preschool teacher, Junior’s little book of pictures has really helped soothe him. It was the ECE director’s suggestion. Basically, I jimmied up a pocket-sized picture book of trains, family photos, and photos of our fat, wretched cats so he could feel close to home whenever he needed to. It saddens me that Junior takes comfort in the sight of those mangeballs—I was hoping to “lose” them in the move—but hey, it’s a victory nonetheless.

The teacher, bless her heart, turned around and made Junior her own picture book. It has photos of the school, classrooms and classmates. He can look at it when he’s home and on the way to school.

So for preschool comfort we’ve got:
1) a stuffed dog
2) a Mom-made picture book
3) a teacher-made picture book
4) a special granola bar for the ride to school (build those rituals)
5) a lollipop for the ride home (ibid)
6) a He-Man action figure (generously donated from Junior’s Uncle Ted, for when Junior needs to feel brave)



and 7) a handle of Jack

That last one’s for me. Even if I can’t drink it, I can lick the glorious little bubbles of whiskey-esque condensation that form under the cap. Shoot it with some Coke, and it’s almost enough to catch a buzz.

Fine, no it’s not. Not even close. Not even if I snort it. But even if I did catch a little buzz, I wouldn’t be alone. According to the New York Post—an incredibly reliable publication—“More pregnant women are raising a glass of wine without guilt.”

So now I'm really curious, did you? Are you? Have you ever? Will you? Do you think it’s wrong?

At least her bowel was in her body, Dad

No one’s ever tried to fix me up with anyone. Sure, it would be awkward now that I’m married (and pregnant), but it saddens me that no one cared enough after meeting a handsome beefcake to stop and think, “Hey, Mrs. Mullet might like to jump on this.”

And they call themselves my friends.

Me, on the other hand, I am always thinking of who should be paired. Since my basis for linking people tends to be alcohol-induced and completely unreliable, I never act on my matchy-matchyness. Except when it’s my father.

Mwahahahaha.

My dad’s a great guy. He’s in his 60s and still has all his hair. He goes to the gym. He reads. He’s hopelessly old fashioned. He’s a catch! But lately his chick radar is honed in on his National Geographics and the History Channel instead of on the ladies, and my family, being the pushy busy bodies we are, have pounced on him.

Even his own mother—his 94-year-old mother—won’t leave him alone.

For months my grandmother told him about her nurse, Barbara. How nice she was. How attentive. How lovely her fiery red hair was. And so on. After being hammered nonstop with Barbarisms, my father finally relented and went on a date with Babs.

The date consisted of watching a movie at her house. After she hit play, Babs said she was going to slip into something more comfortable. She changed into a one piece spandex leotard. If you’re J.Lo, this is a good thing. If you’re an out-of-shape 60-year-old with spiked magenta hair and a visible, distended bowel, this is not.

He could see her bowel.

Halfway through the movie, she tried to put the moves on my father. He recoiled. Just as he was about to make an exit, someone knocked on the door. It was the FBI. They believed her son was a big-time drug dealer; they wanted his laptop.

As my father sat on the couch and Babs wept in the hallway, the FBI ransacked her son’s room. (Isn’t my dad a great guy? He actually stayed through the ransacking.)

There was no second date and obviously, my father’s a little gun-shy now when people mention the word “blind date.”

But.

When Chuck and I listed our house with a gray-haired realtor named Cheryl who was a) in her 60s and b) not sporting a wedding ring, I couldn’t help but think of the possibilities. She was sweet and cultured and best of all she offered to help me weed my front walkway. Who does that?

I formulated the perfect plan: While Cheryl helped me weed, Chuck would call my father and beg him to bring over his belt sander.



My father, being the Tool Time fool he is, would agree.

Did it work? Well, kind of.

Twenty minutes after Chuck called my dad he did come over. Instead of his sporty little Camry, though, he was driving his buddy’s rusted van to help with his move. You know, the kind of van you envision when you hear the words “child molester.”



And instead of his typically neat attire, he was wearing an inside-out shirt with paint splatters, ripped shorts and sneakers (yep, moving). Even worse, he smelled like he had spent the better part of the morning rolling around with sweaty farm animals.

“Voila, Cheryl! Your chariot awaits.”

I was still hopeful. Even though he appeared to be a deadbeat molester-type who didn’t own clean socks or soap, love can be blind, right?

Wrong. Despite congenial conversation whilst weeding (isn’t he a great guy? He actually helped weed)



Cheryl made a mad dash for her car as soon as the last weed had been plucked. I think she was on to us. As for my dad, he told us to call Home Depot the next time we need a power tool. Then he peeled out in his smokin' van.

These 60-somethings are one pissy, ungrateful lot, I tell ya.

What about you? Do you match-make in a one piece spandex leotard or have you been match-made?

If I wasn't so addicted I could end the odoriferous cycle

Every morning I slather this on my pregnant mound:



And every morning I feel like I've taken a big whiff of these:



Cocoa butter formula my ass. They're using old toes and slippers, I tell ya! Surgical stockings and BENGAY! Bunions and oatmeal!

Tell everyone you know! Tell your neighbors and your postman!

Tell...your granny.

Did you google rhinoceros penis just to see? Didja?

There’s a reason Junior’s meltdowns at preschool are bothering me more than usual. Yes, having your kid suction himself to your leg during drop-off isn’t pleasant, but you can recover from it. You should recover from it.

Instead I’ve been lying awake at night worrying. Why? Because in a matter of a month, life has gone bananas. Big, rhinoceros's penis-sized bananas!

First, my mother Linda put her house on the market. She’s lived in this particular house with my step-father for 25 years. It’s 45 minutes from Mulletville. It’s where Chuck and I got married, and where Junior has had all his birthday parties. Lots o' history.



She’s closing on Friday.

Second, my father put his house on the market. He’s lived in this particular house since 1979. It’s the house he and my mother bought when they got married. It's the house I grew up in; it’s also the house he got in the divorce (along with me). Barrels o' history.

My father is closing on Friday.

And finally, there’s me and Chuck. There’s a reason I asked if you’d want to know the true identity of Mulletville. It’s because—duh—we are getting the hell out of here. I’m still in shock; I didn’t think this day would ever come. I thought I’d be 85 and that I’d still be blogging about Mulletville—that somehow I was fated to spend a lifetime here paying penance for a sin I’d committed in another life.

And I’m not even Catholic.

Where are we going? That’s where things get interesting. Over the next two months we’re moving...

...into my father’s house.

Even though I’ve called his town Mulletville Lite, the ratio of mullets to people is 1:5,000 instead of 1:1. It was named one of the best towns in Connecticut in which to live. We get to raise our kids in a town that doesn't have belligerent drunks loitering in front of the library. I can stop worrying about the street-talkers and the nuns. The Park and Rec Department knows how to spell.

The interesting part of this is that my mother is moving into a smaller house and is giving me a lot of her furniture. Furniture that would have a lot less mileage had it stayed where it was 30 years ago and not moved into a new house with my step-father.

Father’s walls: “You again? Didn’t you leave here? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Mother’s dining room hutch: “Hell if I know. Jesus, are you still beige?”

Chuck and I will probably host Thanksgiving and Christmas since I'll be barge-size with Kid #2 by then, which means my darling parents will again be reunited in the house that holds so many delightful memories.

At least everyone will know where we keep the extra forks. And hand towels. And bottle openers.

God, I need a drink.

But look, after I recovered from envisioning all the bizarre and surreal ramifications of what Chuck and I are about to do, I was struck by something. This move is a gift, in a million different ways. Chuck and I have a chance to make whole a house that has, for many years, symbolized a lot of pain, sorrow and emptiness. I have the chance to metaphorically repaint. (As soon as I throw a dropcloth over my mother's dining room hutch.)

Greener pastures await!

I just hope Junior sees it that way. In the next few months he's experiencing a new preschool, a new house for his grandmother, grandfather and himself, and a new sibling. Is it any wonder he’s having issues with object permanence (fine, I have the Early Childhood Education Director on speed dial) or that he wants to stay home and cling to things that are comfortable and familiar before they, um, get up and cohabitate with Granny’s stuff in Grandpa’s house?

I told you it was rhinoceros's penis-sized bananas.

So that's the code word for mullet

Yes, I'd like your "nice" haircut please...

What's next? A reassuring call from the Mulletville mayor?

Sooooo...

Myyaaahhh...

Tuesday morning’s drop-off sucked just as badly as the previous drop-off. Kicking. Screaming. Crying. I tried to implement the "dump and run" move, but the success of the maneuver is contingent upon your ability to detach your child from your body.

Simply, Junior had me in a death-grip.

The teacher finally pulled him from me, and I made it out the door.

To prolong the enjoyment of the experience, I stood in the hallway and listened to him cry. Motherhood wouldn’t be half as exciting if it didn’t include personal torment, right?

As I was standing there, Junior’s other teacher walked by. When she said hello, I started to cry. That really pissed me off because I used to make fun of mothers who cried about stupid stuff like this. (Pre-Junior, a woman who cried about her child crying at preschool was laughable. Get a grip, sap!). Yet there I was, blubbering like a damn idiot.

“Is this normal? I can’t do this! I hate this!”

She told me it was normal and to call in 20 minutes to make sure he was better.

I called. He was better. D'uh.

This morning, it was Chuck’s turn. We decided we'd both drive to the school. He’d walk Junior inside, then he’d drive to his grandmother’s funeral. (Did I mention his grandmother died unexpectedly? It’s been a great week.)

This time, though, Junior’s freakout started in the parking lot. We couldn’t pull him from the car.

“There must be something wrong,” I said. “Maybe we should take him to the doctor’s?”

“I wish I could, but..” Chuck said. Then poof! He was gone. (You know things are bad when you can't get to a funeral fast enough.)

I put Junior back in the car and drove him to the doctor’s. Turns out he has an ear infection. Aha! I thought.

“So he should stay home today?” Please say yes, please say yes.

“No, Mrs. Mullet. He’s not contagious. He’s not in pain. There’s no reason why he can’t go to school.”

"What if I throw my underwear at you?"

"Sorry. No."

Back to school we went. We relived the drama of yesterday, with extra kicking and screaming for fun. Again I stood outside the classroom and again I cried. I found myself getting mad at Junior. It’s two days a week. They glue glitter to shit and make lemonade with real lemons. They sing and read and play games. What, pray tell, is the problem? I drove to work half-swearing, half-sniveling.

When I got to work, I decided I needed expert advice. I called the Director of Early Childhood Education at a local college. She told me that Junior’s behavior is perfectly normal and that:

1. We need to establish a morning routine, like stopping for a doughnut, so he acclimates to the schedule and knows what to expect.

2. I need to schedule a playdate with a classmate.

3. I need to not talk about preschool to death—

“No more, ‘Junior! Tomorrow’s school! Are you EXCITED? Are you SO excited you could bust one of your little NUTS?! Are you, are you, are you???'?" I asked.

“Right. Cool it.”—

4. I should give it a month unless he starts showing signs of physical distress, like uncontrollable diarrhea and an inability to sleep/eat/puff.

I hung up feeling slightly better. Junior must have felt better too, because he was fine when I picked him up. As we walked out of the building, a woman said good-bye and ruffled his hair.

"He did just fine after you left," she said.

"Oh," I said. "Are you another one of his teachers?"

"No," she said, "I'm the janitor."