Saturday, February 28, 2009

If famous is La Jolla then I was Schenectady

When I was in my late twenties, I went to the doctor because my thumb had swelled up to the size of…an extremely swollen thumb. After examining my thumb, the doctor, who was very young and pencil-shaped, told me to sit tight while he got his fellow doctor. He brought in a female doctor who was also very young—but more hamburger-shaped—and she said, “Yes, you’re exactly right about the patient.”

They stood before me and broke the news: I had gout.

“But isn’t that what old men who drink a lot get?” I asked.

“Yes. Do you binge drink?” he asked.

“If you’re asking me if I go to frat parties and do keg stands, no,” I said. “If you’re asking me if I enjoy a few bottles of wine once or twice a week then yes.”

The two sat there and exchanged smug, knowing looks. They struck me more as two yuppie colleagues who fancied themselves medicinal mavericks than actual doctors. In fact, I could clearly picture them screwing in the parking lot while shouting, “You nailed that Hematospermia! Oh God, tell me more about the primary sclerosing cholangitis you spectacular wizard doctor!”

“So you’re telling me that the antibiotics I’m taking are in no way causing this swelling, even though I have allergies to other antibiotics—allergies that have produced similar effects?” I asked.

“We said you have gout.” Frick, she was a bitch.

For an hour after the appointment I was visibly upset. My dear friend, Sarah, tried to give me a pep talk.

“You can be the modern-day poster child for gout!” she offered.

“Like the Gardisal chick?”


“But I don’t want to be Gout Girl.”

“It’ll be great,” she promised. “I can see it now: your face on TV. You can be ‘Out and about with gout’. You’ll destigmatize the disease. Do trade shows. Be rich and famous.”

I wasn’t convinced that my calling in life was to be the hot chick with gout, but at the same time, I had a good friend who’d made a nice chunk of money doing Dr. Scholl's commercials. What if…?

But no, I knew the humping, inept doctors were wrong. I stopped taking the antibiotic and within a few days, my thumb returned to its normal size.

The message I left on the doctor’s machine went something like this: “$%@&@ing &(*#Y&#()#ing piece of shit %^^&#*#ing #$@^&# idiots ^^#*#*(@$@* scare me for no reason $@#&ing parking lot bimbos take your Ronald McDonald MDs and shove them up your %%^#%^@*&ing asses!”

I tell you all this—what? You thought I was just rambling?—because poor Junior has been on antibiotics for the last week and he’s covered in a horrible rash, and I pray he didn’t get my allergies. We almost went to the ER with him, until a friend suggested Benedryl.

Duh. Of course.

"Hi, we're the Mullets, and we're first-time parents."

(Junior, if you ever read this, Mommy swears she stopped doing keg stands when she was 25. The funnel was just so much easier.)

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Obligatory blog post title. Please don't throw popcorn

On this 'versary of my blog
I'd like to thank that little frog
And think of all the dreamy men
Who sometimes dribble in my den
They come from lands both far and wide
And take from me my precious Tide
But still I love them quite to death
Oh joy to me I'm...


Married with a kid. And I have a blog. That's a year old.

Yah, shit, that about covers it.

(You may send gift cheques and BMW 328i Sports Wagons in Cherry Red to Mrs. Mullet c/o Mulletville. Thanks for reading!)

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

What's next? Chuck's phone number scribbled on a bathroom stall?

So you know how I just wrote that my brother-in-law said that “men aren’t meant to be stay-at-home moms?” Well, today Larry—that’s his name, Larry—called me to say that he met someone on a plane and that after chatting the guy up, the guy said he’d hire Chuck. All Chuck has to do is send him an email.

Uh huh.

Sit back and relax as we listen in on the conversation with the plane dude, as retold by Mrs. Mullet:

Larry: “So you work in Massachusetts? That’s kind of near this place called Mulletville, right?”

Guy: “No, it’s not even close.”

Larry: “And you work for a communications company?”

Guy: “Not really.”

Larry: “That’s great. Cause I’m related to this guy Chuck. I see him at family functions a few times a year. The guy can really drink. Do you think you could hire him? Cause right now he’s a pussy stay-at-home dad and I’m worried that the next time I see him, his caring and generous nature will make me feel so small and insecure that I’ll need to call his wife and tell her that real men aren’t meant to be stay-at-home moms.”

Guy: “I see.”

Larry: “The fact that I heard him humming a Dan Fogelberg song once only confirms my darkest fears that he is sensitive. I don’t even like music, that’s how manly I am. So do you have a job for him?”

Guy: “No.”

Larry: “And your email is”

Guy: “Whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”

Larry: “Great, he’ll be in touch.”

One final note: I would never, ever move to Massachusetts. It is home to the worst drivers in the world, and if you think I am kidding, the next time someone cuts you off take a gander at his license plate (that's right: his. Men cut people off; women tailgate. It's practically law).

I'm so certain of this that if the traffic offender is not from Assachusetts, send me an email and I’ll give you $10,000,000.*

* In Monopoly money. Hello, my husband is unemployed. Did you not just read this post?

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Random Tuesday thoughts


Did I lose a follower because I wrote about the uniball? I couldn’t help it. How could I tell the Driver’s Ed story without it? People shouldn’t be offended by testicles. Testicles is a fun word. It rhymes with vestibules, and everyone loves those.

How is it possible that the 15 people who googled “frogs in my formula blog" spent exactly zero seconds on my blog, while the one person who googled “how do you know if you're skinny?” spent an hour? Maybe I’m only interesting when I’m a surprise. If that’s the case I guess I should pop out of more cakes.

I gave away my grandfather’s microwave oven yesterday. When he died six years ago, my dad gave me the microwave and some of the frozen dinners my grandfather hadn’t eaten. It felt like he was giving me an equation: microwave + dinners = meals, but there’s some of kind universal law against eating your grandfather’s Swanson Roasted Carved Turkey dinners after the fact. It never felt right, even though there were times when I was very, very hungry. (In case you’re wondering, I threw away the turkey dinners a year ago on his birthday because Chuck called me weird for still having them. Yah, I held on to them for five years, but I’m the woman who held on to a note for 25 so are you really surprised?)

In three days I will have been blogging for a year. A year. I’m still trying to figure out how that happened. Last year at this time I was a stay-at-home mom trying to get my kid out of the Amby bed (the link's vintage Mrs. Mullet, baby). This year at this time Chuck is a stay-at-home dad trying to turn our child into his Viking minion. I’m still trying to figure out how that happened. So is my brother-in-law, who recently told me that “men aren’t meant to be stay-at-home moms.” Ouch! Chuck, you have my permission to take off your apron and strangle him with the ties.

How can this shirt cost $250? I think I owned its twin in 1984; it was $14.99 and came from Bradlees, and it wasn’t stylish back then either. Marc by Marc Jacobs this is Mrs. Mullet by Mrs. Mulletville telling you that your overpriced, ugly shirt sucks ass.

A special thanks to Keely for giving me the opportunity to be annoyed, enlightened and nostalgic all in one post. If I thought I'd make it through Customs I'd hop over the border and give you this:

(Me! That's me in there!)

Sunday, February 22, 2009

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.

Friday, February 20, 2009

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).

Thursday, February 19, 2009

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.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

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.

Monday, February 16, 2009

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?)


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.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

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.

Friday, February 13, 2009

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?

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Who are the perverts in your your your neigh-bor-hood hey!

After reading that my mother gave Chuck and me edible body chocolate, hundreds—okay, two—of you said you couldn't imagine your mother giving you such a lurid gift. That's fair. But you have to understand something: My mother is very, very pretty, and after a lifetime of being chased for sex, the woman's got it on the brain.

Seriously. If you'd been ogled and propositioned nonstop for 60 years by men (and some women), you'd have to absorb some of that eventually. It's Newton's third law. To every action—in this case, a large group of perverts heckling one person— there is always opposed an equal reaction—in this case, the transformation of said person into one ginormous pervert.

It's science, baby.

But enough about her. I want to talk about me, and what it's been like to live with a beautiful, blonde, buxom, oversexed mother.

Picture it: 2002. Or 2003. I don't fricken remember. Chuck and I were on hiatus. I was renting an apartment in an old Victorian house. The landlord was a 70-year-old man named Mr. Rogers. He wasn't a sprightly 70. He had a gray pallor, was skinny and had a jiggly turkey neck.

To say that Mr. Rogers was a packrat would be a gross understatement. My apartment was at the very top of the house, and I often had to climb over refrigerators, velvet chairs, boxes, newspapers and mattresses to get to it. Sometimes I had to climb over Mr. and Mrs. Rogers (they drank a lot of Wild Turkey).

It wasn't a dirty house—they had a maid—it was just incredibly cluttered. And a little Munsters-ish.

Why am I telling you all this? Because even though Mr. Rogers looked like he was at Death's door, he somehow managed to scale his mounds of mess to get to my apartment on the nights my mother stopped by.

My mother and I would be sitting there, and we'd hear a soft knock. I'd get up and open the door and there he'd be in a red silk bathrobe and khaki pants, holding a glass of bourbon. He'd tell me he needed to talk to me about something, like the gas bill or the new parking "situation" and while he was talking he'd float closer and closer to my mother.

One night, he was so intoxicated by her (ok, and Wild Turkey) that as he was leaning against the wall staring at her, he started sliding down the wall in his silk robe! Just imagine Frank Perdue dressed like Hugh Hefner in your living room. And knowing he wants to bone your mom.



Wait, what the hell was my point?

Oversexed mom...perverted landlord...traumatized daughter...

Oh hell, you caught me. I just wanted to tell the Mr. Rogers story.

Monday, February 9, 2009

I'm not regifting, I'm regenerating love

Lookie, lookie what I found next to the laundry detergent: an unopened box of Chocoholics’ chocolate “tattoo set” given to me by my mother, pre-Junior.*

How it came to reside in the laundry room, I have no clue, but it sure is a stroke of luck. The heat from the dryer has probably kept the jars’ contents from getting cold and crackly, which means I can whisk this gem right into Valentine’s Day 2009 and no one will be the wiser.

Yes! Think of all the post-IKEA fun I can have “tattooing” words on Chuck’s backside. Phrases like “let’s not make another” and “thank God for birth control.”

Or maybe, like the box suggests, I’ll use the “provocative” enclosed stencil sheet to write chocolately instructions on my lover (Chuck, that's you). Instructions like “Let’s go to sleep instead” or “Brush your teeth again, please, we had garlic for dinner!”

I'm kidding. Of course. I don't know how to cook with garlic.

*The woman wanted a grandchild, what can I say? That same year for Christmas, she gave Chuck this:

It also mysteriously ended up in the laundry room...

Sunday, February 8, 2009

I'm not 100% sure I like children

Last night I went to bed at 7:45. And it wasn’t one of those gee, yawn, stretch, I’m pooped maybe I’ll hit the sack. It was I am going to die if I don’t lie down and shut out the world.

Why the tizzy?

I brought Junior to IKEA. On a Saturday.


All I wanted to do was buy a topiary tree for my office. Trees and plants keep dying in my office, but that doesn’t stop me from trying again. If I admit that plants can’t live in there, what does that say about human life? Anyway, a coworker overheard me talking about the $19.99 topiary trees, and she sweetly asked me to pick one up for her. As did the coworker next to her.

So, here we go: IKEA. Saturday. Junior. Three topiary trees.

Chuck happened to mention to his sister, Angela, that I was taking Junior down to IKEA. She offered to meet me since she lives a few minutes away and has two little girls who like to pet Junior (I’m serious, they brush him with their hands, which is very cute but also very show pony-ish).

I like Angela because even though she’s not on lithium she acts like she is. She says she’s taking the B family of vitamins. I think I took those vitamins in college—from a bong.

Revised agenda: IKEA. Saturday. Junior. Three topiary trees. Chuck’s sister, Angela. Two little girls.

Angela happened to mention to Chuck’s step-father that we were taking Junior and the girls to IKEA and since he is retired and does nothing but craft life-sized wooden cows in his free time, he offered to meet us. (I’m not kidding, the backyard of Chuck’s parents’ house looks like a miniature dairy farm.)

Revised agenda #2: IKEA. Saturday. Junior. Three topiary trees. Chuck’s sister. Two little girls. Chuck’s step-dad.

I won’t bore you with the details of our trip except to say that there was something happening in the children’s section of the cafeteria that was straight out of Lord of the Flies. Furniture was thrown. Children were beating their chests and jumping against walls. Boys screamed. Girls screeched. The goings-on were so traumatizing that they instilled in me a profound and all-encompassing fear of Junior’s fifth birthday party, recess, playgrounds—basically anything having to do with children.

I’m pretty sure I ate; the crusty piece of macaroni I found wedged into my shirt collar is evidence that at some point food was near my mouth.

And then, the store.

Oh holy mother, the store. Junior wanted to touch everything. He wanted to yell “fast! fast!” then show us how he could run fast. For the hour it took for us to wind through that evil maze of a store, I bent over to remove his hand from stemware, lifted his 25-pound writhing body as he tried to pull curtains down from the wall, wrestled him into the carriage only to have him scream “down, down!” Basically, I laughed, cried, stretched, ran, jumped—I might have even thrown up at one point.

And I hadn’t even gotten the fucking topiary trees yet.

Finally we got to the damn plant section, which was the last stop before the registers. I crammed the trees into the carriage and wiped my dripping brow (I had long since abandoned most of my clothes, because it was a hellish 90 degrees in the store) and raced to the registers.

The end was in sight.

I paid for the trees. We all walked to the door. Stood a moment. And everyone said goodbye. Leaving me to push a carriage full of trees and a child to the far corners of the slushy parking lot.

You know what? That’s fine. I bought the trees. I didn’t ask for help. But after I had put Junior in his car seat and thrown the trees on top of the stroller, bags of sand and other miscellaneous and unnecessarily large hatchback items, I sat in my front seat and contemplated dropping Junior off at my mother’s and buying a one-way ticket to an island where liquor is plentiful and so is silence.

Until yesterday, I never would have associated IKEA with things like anarchy and Armageddon. But leaving the world of babies and venturing into the land of toddlers and children is a trip best taken with booze and small steps.

IKEA, until Junior is 21, I have to break up with you. Or at least meet you in back alleyways when no one is looking. And Junior, your fifth birthday party is going to be me, you, your dad and a leisurely stroll in the woods.

Emphasis on leisurely.

Friday, February 6, 2009

For once, it wasn't the French

If my husband, Chuck, and his best friend were dogs and they died and went to Doggie Heaven, they would run and frolic and sniff each other’s butts in all the euphoric glory that non-sexual but intimate contact can bring two men who are in love with each other but don’t want to make out.

Whew. I’ve wanted to say that for years.

Now that you know that Chuck is in non-sexual love with his best friend, you should also know that Chuck was very hurt when he read someone’s comment from my last post that said “Chuck’s best friend is a dick…”

After I was done holding him, I gently reminded Chuck that over the last 12 years, his best friend has been a dick. When I first came along, he referred to me as the nameless “Chuck’s girlfriend”—for almost a year. If he wanted to hang out but Chuck was hanging out with me, he’d have a tantrum. He told me flat out that he liked Chuck’s ex better.

And then there was the bag of rocks.

I don’t know if you’ve ever known someone who wears rocks around his or her neck, but Chuck was the first person I’d ever met who wore a totem bag—and I thought it was the weirdest thing ever. But if you saw that pouch against his tan Magnum PI chest, you’d overlook it too.

Chuck’s best friend also thought the rock bag was the weirdest thing ever. Sadly, this shared sentiment did little to bring us together. (Because emotionally he is equivalent to a pre-schooler.)

Anyway, fast-forward to 2002, when Chuck and I took a vacation to Paris.

Day one. Sacré-Coeur.

Chuck: This is boring.

Me: Do you smell something funny?

Chuck: Yes, French people.

Day three. Zara (what, you think I only wanted to see Parisian monuments?)

Chuck: Kiss me.

Me: No. You stink.

Chuck: Come on.

Me: Did you buy French cologne made with vomit?

Day five. Bateaux-Mouches.

Chuck: Kiss me.

Me: You smell so bad I think I might throw up.

Chuck: Come on.

Me: Oh God, stop the mouche. I need le bucket.

Day seven. Air France.

Chuck: I can’t take it anymore. What the hell is that smell?

Me: People are looking at us.

Chuck [touching his neck]: My totem bag is wet.

Me: I think we should break up.

Chuck [sniffing his rock bag]: That mother fucker!

Chuck opened the bag and out came blobs of moldy cheese, along with some raisins. Suddenly he understood why his best friend had wanted to borrow his totem bag right before we left on our trip.

He thought it was funny. I wanted to kick Chuck’s best friend in the nuts.

Until Chuck said sadly, “I guess I’ll have to throw it away.”

If our lives were growth charts, this is where I would make a notation that Chuck’s best friend rose 0.00091876 points in the amount I was able to tolerate him. And if you’re wondering why you don’t know Chuck’s best friend’s name, it’s because I live by tit-for-tat and he hasn’t earned it yet.*

* Okay, not really. We’ve gotten to be really good friends.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

I kind of thought I looked hot on my back

Chuck’s best friend: Hey, know what’d be cool? A ski weekend.

Chuck: Plan it. We’re there.

Chuck’s best friend: Why is Mrs. Mullet holding herself and whimpering in the corner?

Mrs. Mullet: Sit down, Chuck’s best friend, and let me tell you a story….

When I was a sophomore in high school, one of my good friends was Karen. Karen was beautiful and mean, which means that only the aesthetically elite had the balls to approach her for a date. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that her attitude and looks incited a lot of jealousy. When a field hockey puck knocked out her front tooth during gym class, girls—and some female teachers—raced to see it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Karen in all her beastliness.

Do you know that that bitch still looked good? She just looked like a hot chick who was missing a tooth. And she knew it. If you can still make the basketball team drool with a gaping black hole in your mouth, you pretty much walk on water.

Oh, how I hated her.

Chuck’s best friend: What does this have to do with skiing?

Mrs. Mullet: Shut it, buttlick. This is my blog. Ahem…

When Karen invited two other friends, Tricia and Liz, and me on a weekend ski trip, I said yes. I had concerns that they were better skiers than I, but Karen assured me we were all at the same level.

We started off on a Green Dot trail to warm up, but it soon became apparent that Karen, Tricia and Liz were mere steps away from the Olympics. (The back flips, tail grabs and 180s kind of gave it away.) Like savvy hunters they were ready to attack and kill the mountain; like a cowering piece of shit, I was ready for a plastic fork and salad bar.

Still, I was determined to stay with them and be cool. We boarded the chairlift.

Karen must have seen the sweat pouring down my face as we headed up the mountain at a 90-degree angle because she assured me that we would stay on Green Dots and go slow until I warmed up.

Karen was a fucking liar.

When we got off the chairlift, there were nothing but Black Diamond trails as far as the eye could see. I had no choice but to attempt one.

In all fairness to my "friends", they waited patiently at the bottom of every vertical hill and yelled instructions. But it’s hard to hear when you’re skiing on your ass and heading for the woods. Or careening towards the Ski School toddlers who have braided together and are not moving even though you are shouting, “I can’t stoooooooooop! Holy shit mooooooooove!”

I’d like to say that I learned my lesson about trusting Karen, but she was convincing and charming, and I fell for her Black-Diamond-is-really-Green-Dot trick again and again.

Was I complete moron?

Yes. But really, she kept promising me that Black Diamonds intersected with Blue Squares that turned into Green Dots and that I kept missing the turn-offs.

Finally I’d had enough. On the next trip up the mountain, I told Karen that after that run, I was heading for the lodge. She apologized and told me that she’d take it extra easy on me because I was frazzled. She felt bad. She knew I was frustrated. I was a good friend.

And that’s when we got off the lift and I saw this:

I’ll give you the abridged version of what happened next: I shouted, “Screw it” and threw myself down the cliff ala John Cusack in Better Off Dead.

That’s when I met Mr. Mogul. If you’re not familiar with moguls, they look like this:

Moguls aren’t meant to be skied on one’s back, but I had no choice: My knees buckled on the first bump and I had to succumb to the ice humps. Thank God I was able to keep my legs closed.

When I finally slid to a stop, it was directly under the chairlift, which was stopped. That’s when the clapping started. Slow at first, and then gaining momentum. Karen, Tricia and Liz swooshed down and asked me if I was dead. The world was spinning, my ears were ringing, but I clearly heard a man yell, “You’re hot!”

I looked up and saw an attractive man leaning out of his seat. The sun glinted off his ski mask. He was just My Type.

He was smiling at Karen.

Fucking bitch.

I haven’t skied since.

Chuck’s best friend: So you’ll take some lessons.

Mrs. Mullet [to Chuck]: Hand me that steak knife.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Random Tuesday thoughts


Why does Junior only get sick on days that Chuck has doctor's appointments or family deaths? Chuck's at the gastroenterologist's right now and I'm home from work tending to profuse puke. And why does Junior like to puke in Chuck's slippers? No sooner had the wonderful customer service woman from LL Bean patiently explained how to clean vomit off sheepskin then Junior upchucked into them all over again.

Speaking of puke, why did Chuck have to take his brother out to celebrate his 21st birthday in my car? Of course he puked. The only thing worse than driving to work in a freezing cold car that reeks of puke is driving to work in a warm car that reeks of puke. For this reason alone I am hoping the weather stays in the low 30s.

Why can't people listen? The man across the street who was laid off months before Chuck keeps shoveling our walkway then asking for money. I told him if we wanted him to shovel we'd ask him. He suggested I leave a note in the window that reads "yes" or "no" instead. I agreed, but in the dark crevices of my mind I thought of other things I'd like to leave on that note. Something like "we're poor too, dipshit."

My hot flame from second grade who found me on Facebook finally posted a picture. It appears that his hotness also peaked in elementary school.

Why does Junior take two-hour naps for Chuck and sleep until eight? I think it's a male gene conspiracy.

How is it possible that my boss grows a flaky booger in her right nostril every day at 3 o'clock? I know this because she pops into my office to check in at that time, and when I look up I can see into her nose and there it is! The same shape and size and everything! Can someone explain how this is possible? If someone marries her I hope he'll bring this up nicely.

Why does Chuck tell me, "It looks like you'll be getting that new bathroom you wanted" like he's giving me a present? We have to redo the bathroom and as far as I know, both of our names are on the checking account and my hands will be laying grout or stripping tile or whatever the hell you do to old bathrooms too.

Why am I blogging during Junior's naptime instead of writing "NO" on an index card and taping it to the front window? (Yah, it's snowing again.)

For more randomness, hop over and see the Un Mom, the swearing brainchild of this mental snack.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Spoonfuls of whoopass

Behold my act of rebellion:

Yes! It’s a floozy of a snow-woman, with erect nipples and tarty red cheeks. She may be wearing nice jewelry, but don’t let her fool you. She’s 100% bona fide Bad Girl.

She’s everything I want to be and more. Everything.

Why? Because my image is at stake! Last night over dinner, Chuck’s cousins told me I reminded them of a “modern day Mary Poppins.”

Jim Jiminy what?

I have nothing against Mary, but you have got to be kidding me. I don’t carry an umbrella, I don’t float, and I certainly do not sing to birds. I'm also not that happy. Mary is Xanax happy. I'm, like, Tums happy. And just because I look squeaky clean doesn’t mean I am. I can be badass and do bad things and you know, rough people up and stuff. I’m really intimidating in my cable knit cardigans and striped socks.

Don’t fuck with me, yo!

Of course, I couldn’t tell the cousins any of that because the conversation went like this all night:

Me: “Is your pork chop raw? I—”

Cousin #1: “It’s like my Aunt Edna used to make. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Edna talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Edna talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk honey glaze talk talk talk talk talk talk talk celery salt talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Edna talk.”

Cousin #2: “It wasn’t Edna! It was Winky. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk. Talk Winky talk talk talk talk talk talk horseradish talk raisins talk talk Winky talk talk formaldehyde talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk cracked peppper talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Winky talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Winky talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.”

After dinner, I sneaked downstairs for some Tylenol. I thought the maelstrom was behind me. Then I opened the medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom and saw this:

My virginal Poppins eyes were appalled. Who would put such a personal item in a guest bathroom—and next to Junior’s baby lotion? Then it hit me: My brother and his fiancee stay in the guest room all the time. His buxom lover must have stocked the medicine cabinet with her lubricant du jour.

Ew, ew, ew.

I did what any woman who has been likened to a Disney character and who now knows that her brother’s girlfriend experiences vaginal dryness would do: I went back upstairs and drank a lot.


*I'm really not bad. I can't even kill spiders. Though I did get an F in Oceanography once.

Make laundry fun — and punishable

I don't know why there's so much effing laundry. Yes, there are five of us, but we aren't going anywhere. Part of me feels ...