Chuck and I took Junior to Olde Mistick Village today to feed the ducks (that's really all you can afford to do there since two ice cream cones cost $8). Here's the obligatory cute kid picture:
And here's Mrs. Mullet and her...her...chops? Screeech! What?!
Let's zoom in for a closer look, shall we?
Yes, I have a hair forest growing near my ear. Do I shave it? Braid it? What exactly is the "in" thing to do with female chops nowadays? Maybe I can weave my chops into the top of my handlebar mustache. I mean, why not?
Chuck assured me it was just the shadow and that the next picture would come out better.
Mmmyah, not so much. Clearly, it was hopeless. So Chuck decided to take pictures of a faceless Mrs. Mullet and her favorite kitty instead:
In case you can't tell, our cat is ginormous. He's half the length of Chuck:
Chuck wants you to know that he definitely was not grabbing the cat by his nuts. The cat doesn't have his nuts anymore.
(If all this talk of hair sprawl and fat cats has you craving sand, I’m giving away one Naturally Playful sandbox. All you have to do is leave me a comment on the post below).
When I was 16, my family drove from Connecticut to Florida in a GMC Jimmy. It was spring break. We brought Granny, who was a cranky SOB, and my friend Holly, who was able to tan. My eight-year-old brother, Ted, was along for the ride; between his armpit farts and Granny’s loose butt cheeks, I wanted to disappear into a Delaware truck stop and never look back.
We drove to Coral Springs, a town my mother had promised was a mecca of hot young surfers—surfers who were just waiting for two chicks from Connecticut to arrive. Bullshit! The only locals waiting for us were 85 year olds. I needed a prom date. But not that desperately.
Florida was not my friend. I tried to tan alongside Holly, but I burnt so badly my nightly routine consisted of slugging Benadryl and coating myself in Noxzema. By day two, I was ready to go home.
Day two.
When the week was finally over, I did a dance of joy. I was tired and fried to a crisp. When everyone awoke I was already sitting by the Jimmy. Had I only known what awaited…
Holly had bought a poufy prom dress and the store had packaged it in a long box that resembled a coffin. The “way back” of the Jimmy, where Holly and I sat, was covered in beach sand, which stuck to my Noxzema-coated limbs. And Granny, who’d complained that her walker pushed against her fragile legs on the ride down, insisted we put the walker elsewhere. Mmmmhmmm.
For 24 hours, I shared this space with Holly:
Sunburned. Covered in sand. Suffocating under a walker and a prom dress. I didn’t think it could get worse. Alas, still on the itinerary: 12 hours (okay, one) sitting at a Georgia rest area waiting for my brother—who’d lived on ice cream and macaroni and cheese all week—as he tried to, you know, go.
Granny was pissed. She didn’t say it, but I know she was thinking, “I can’t believe we’re sitting here waiting for that asshole to pinch a loaf.” We all were.
So, 18 years later—EIGHTEEN YEARS?????—the sunburn has faded (mostly) and the sand has washed away. I’m still scarred, but I want you to have some fun in the sand. Please, someone should.
I’m giving away one Naturally Playful sandbox. The item is provided by AllChildrensFurniture.com, which has a wide selection of kids furniture (seriously, they have race car beds, toy chests and cute little tables).
All you have to do is leave me a comment (if you're just leaving a comment to leave me a comment let me know, okay?).
One comment per person. Comments close at midnight on May 31, EST. Open to U.S. residents only.
Chuck and I had some friends over last night and after finishing a few pitchers of sangria, we decided to do tequila shots. My outer voice was shouting, “Eeeehaaaw!” My inner voice was crying, “Idiot! No!”
I guess it’s no surprise that I was hung over this morning.
When I got to work, the sun was blinding. I was nauseous and lethargic, so I walked towards the building with my eyes closed. You know those cement dividers? When you trip over them, it’s kind of nice to land face first in the grass. It’s also nice to lie there for a moment and smell the earth. If your coffee happens to be pooling around you, though, that detracts from the moment. So does having your co-worker yell “Digger!” across the parking lot.
Chuck can befriend a stump. I fully expect to be driving one day and see a billboard with Chuck’s face on it and the words “If you’re not friends with Chuck, you’re missing out! Call 1-800-LV-CHUCK.” I, on the other hand, am not so sociable. I don’t initiate conversations on the plane or while standing in long bathroom lines. I don’t care that you like my capris—pee fast and get lost. But wouldn’t you know it? Junior takes after Chuck. Which means that when we’re out in public we make all sorts of new friends. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a sandwich of Barney bread ends, and I’m the sauerkraut filling.
Maybe I should start a mean people colony? I can see it now: a bunch of grumbling, pissy people congregating at an all-inclusive. We could import nice people—have them get up on stage and make polite chitchat—“Oh, Judy, you look so pretty today and that lemon meringue pie you baked was fabulous, blah blah”—and then we could huck water balloons at them. When they cried, we would laugh.
Yah, I like that.
I’m thinking of writing a romance novel. It will be based on a group of friendly and mean people who can’t say no to tequila. Their love of Jose Cuervo brings them together, mostly in horizontal ways (ok, fine, only in horizontal ways). It’ll be called “Heaving loins in Mulletville: How the Worm Won.” I think that has bestseller written all over it. And I have only Keely to thank.
Now that I’ve got you all buttered up, I need to ask your advice. I swear I didn’t start this blog so I could talk about all things bathroom, but Junior’s nearing two years old and you-know-what is right around the corner.
(In case you-don’t-know-what because you’re drunk on beerdogs and Miller Lite, Junior may soon be able to use the bathroom on his own that’s what.)
Recently I’ve begun to think that Chuck and I may have taken the wrong approach to demonstrating to Junior what the bathroom is for. I didn’t want the bathroom to be a top secret room because I worried Junior would have toilet anxiety, so we’ve had an open door policy.
Perhaps too open door.
Today when I was in the bathroom, Junior shoved open the door and started throwing tennis balls at me. Have you ever fielded a tennis ball while on the can? I don’t recommend it.
And lately when guests come over and need to use the downstairs bathroom, which is off the kitchen, Junior will try to push open the door. Then he’ll stand there and shout, “[Insert name] is peein’! “[Insert name] is peein’!”
Guests don’t like to be spotlighted while doing their business. It’s bad enough the bathroom is off the kitchen and you have to clang pots and pans around so they don’t think you’re paying attention because they’ve been in there for 20 minutes and you hope to God they’re not dropping the kids off at your pool because, ew, who does that at someone else’s house but geez, do we really need a toddler providing minute-by-minute commentary?
I could google “potty training” but I know that you, my sexy, astute and sage readers (mmmm, butter goodness) have gems of wisdom to share. Does our household need more bathroom boundaries? Like, should the bathroom be a private, shrouded sanctuary that requires a secret knock? Or do you want your kid to know that the toilet is, well, a toilet and not a magic portal to Jupiter?
I really don’t want Junior bursting into his high school locker room shouting, “[Insert name] is peein’! [Insert name] is peein’!” but like my banner says, I’m a new mom, and like any new parent I obsessively worry that every decision I make might be the one that turns my child into a freak.
I hope you’re having a good Memorial Day weekend. Really.
(I am too, except for the tennis ball bruises on my leg.)
My boss set us free early this afternoon so we could get a jump on the long holiday weekend. I rushed home to take Junior to the beach.
Which entailed putting on a bathing suit.
Me: "Gawd. I look horrible."
Chuck: "We live in Connecticut. Comparatively, you look great."
Me: "What's that supposed to mean?"
Chuck: "Er, nothing."
Me: "No really. Do you mean that amidst the mass of pasty, jiggly Connecticut people, I look like an eight instead of a four?"
Chuck [holding my shoulders like we're in a scene from the Young and the Restless]: "I think we both know that if we lived in California we'd be screwed."
And he wonders why I don't take my clothes off—at the beach (gawd you guys are gutter dwellers).
If you're looking for a place to visit this summer, I bet the Connecticut tourism department neglected to mention that if you come here, you'll look like a rock star compared to all us white fatties. Now what could be better than that?
(Chuck wants everyone to know that this conversation was taken out of context. As soon as he starts his own blog he can explain exactly how.)
This morning at work I was enjoying a bagel and coffee and minding my own business when a coworker stopped in.
To tell me about her anal fissure.
After she left, I threw up in my garbage can and rocked myself in the corner.
I’m not sure when the world appointed me the gatekeeper of ass stories, but I’d like to step down. I understand that my husband underwent a hemorrhoidectomy and that I shared that information with some people—mainly because they asked, “Oooh, what kind of surgery is Chuck having?” and I couldn’t quickly think of another surgery that would explain why he was unable to poo without screaming — but that was months ago.
I’m not quite sure why my coworkers still feel the need to approach me with things like, “I thought of Chuck over the weekend. I had a hemorrhoid the size of Texas and when I went to the bathroom I almost fell off the toilet it hurt so much.” I don’t appreciate that my husband comes to mind when people move their bowels. If anyone’s going to associate Chuck with shit, it’s going to be me.
Honestly, all this butt suffering has caused me to suffer—from TMAI (Too Much Ass Information). In case I wasn’t clear, I am not head of the Anal Complaint Department. I don’t run the Crack Attack hotline, nor do I speardhead a foundation whose mission is to share people’s posterior plights. Katie Couric is your token celebrity talking head; not Mrs. Mullet (my cause du jour is increasing wine production in Connecticut by 354% and having truckloads delivered to my home and office so I can bathe, frolic and rejoice in its glorious bounty 365 days a year).
So listen. If your hiney is hindering you, contact this group. Or this one. Or this one. Please, please, puhleeze don't send me emails with the subject line "Hot poker in my ass—is that what Chuck had?"
No matter how bad a mood I'm in, the word weenie always makes me smile. So does this sign:
The signs of summer are bringing back memories of last year. Lazy days at the beach. Sweating. Being robbed by a crackhead. I guess he’s in jail now. Over the winter, the Mulletville courthouse sent me a letter that read, “Mr. Meth is being arraigned. Call the courthouse immediately.” So I called. The courthouse guy said, “What do you think should happen to him?” I got all excited: bamboo shoots under his fingernails, knee kicks to the groin, 100 years plus life plus he had to wear a lacy bathrobe the whole time. After I was done I said, "Is that enough stuff?" The courthouse guy laughed at me and told me none of what I suggested mattered; he just felt like asking. Thanks.
Chuck joined a political campaign. He invited the group over to our house for a brainstorming session, and I had a lot of wine. When they started throwing around possible slogans for Mulletville, I came up with a few: “Mulletville: Life’s too short” and “Mulletville: It would really suck if this is it.” They decided not to use those.
I try not to get too down about this town, but I can’t help it. On top of everything else, our neighbors across the street are jackasses. My brother was sitting outside drinking coffee from one of my pink mugs and they started calling him a homo and yelling, “Nice mug! You’re gay!” Is it any wonder my slogans resonate so?
Elmo looks like he needs a drink:
Or maybe he needs a Super Duper Weenie. Maybe if we had a Super Duper Weenie stand in Mulletville, everything would be okay. Then we could be “Mulletville: Life’s too short to not stop for a Super Duper Weenie.” Course, that’s more than half the town.
If you're in the mood for randomness, head on over to this site. Mention the secret code WEE-NIE and get a special prize.
Yesterday after Junior and I played at the park then said goodbye to the fag—he said goodbye to the slides, kites, people, f’ying birds, cars, sticks, clouds and trees, too—I took him to the grocery store. (I really know how to rock a Saturday, ey?)
Despite being called “that woman” on a previous trip to Stop & Shop, I still go there. I like to live on the edge, and their strawberries are always two for $5. Always.
You know that “shot heard round the world” stuff from your high school history book? Well, yesterday was the “child’s blood curdling scream heard round the store.”
I've come to the conclusion that having a child is kind of like having a wild penis attached to your forehead. You can put a nice little hat over it (or a big hat), but if it wants to jump out and frighten the world it’s going to.
It was horrible. No matter what aisle you were in, the screams were right there. When I passed people in the aisle, we exchanged that raised eyebrow look. I kept slobbering all over Junior, thanking him for behaving.
Honestly? I’m dreading the public meltdown. I know it’s coming. No one is safe from it. How they haven’t made it into a horror movie is beyond me. Screw Swamp Thing. How about something a little more plausible? Like Toddler Thing?
I’ve been taking notes from my step-sister on how to handle a meltdown, but I suspect she’s on Valium. Her kid could be smashing glass while igniting furniture while screaming obscenities and she’d look at the crowd—their eyes agape—and say, “I don’t know what your problem is.”
I don’t know if I’d be able to pull that off. It’s kind of like a fight; you don’t know how you’re going to behave until it happens. And my fight style is still unknown to me. The closest I ever came to getting into a fight was in sixth grade when a girl at the mall pushed me into a rack of clothing because I told her to stop making fun of my cousin, who was dressed like Madonna. I believe I ran—and I’ll probably do the same when Junior turns into Emily Rose.
But back Stop & Shop. Junior and I were putting our 20 pints of strawberries on the conveyor belt when The Screamer pulled up behind us. I turned and got a good look. The Screamer was sharing a cart with her toddler brother, who was trying to pat her on the head but really was pulling her hair. A cute little mom was at the wheel. A cute little mom with bags under her eyes. And nutso hair. And a wrinkled shirt.
The little girl looked at the rack of shiny candy bars and wailed, “I WAAAANT A CAAAAAAANDY BAAAAAAR.” Sob. Wail. Sob. Wail. “I WAAAANT A CAAAAAAANDY BAAAAAAR.”
My initial thought was Nooooooooooooo, why me? Junior looked like he was watching a fleet of technicolor dolphins shoot across the sky and sprinkle the moon with fucking leprechauns. He was mesmerized. The mom looked at me and said, “She’s having a rough day.”
I was about to say, "No shit" when she said, “I got in line behind you because I knew you’d understand.”
Aww. I nodded and smiled like a sap.
On the ride home, every time I thought of her saying that I got all choked up. I did understand, and I was flattered she saw me as a safe refuge. Usually people think I'm a bitch (I don't know why, but I always forget to smile in public). The woman needed a break. We all need a break. More booze and more breaks!
Another thought I had on the ride home? When Junior has his first major meltdown I am totally scouring the town for her. She owes me a new eardrum.
Here's a picture of the new do. I'm sorry it's not very exciting; in case you couldn't already see that it is longer in front, I provided the visual aid of a red line.
Did you fall asleep? I told you the picture was boring. But honestly, this haircut is gold. An 18-year-old rolled down his window on the highway to wave to me. Smokin! And you know how I mentioned that I am having my portrait painted (if you're new here, hello, I'm having my portrait painted—but not because I wanted to, a painter asked me if he could. It's for his new series "Haggard Housewives").
Tonight was the second sitting, and the guy liked my hairdo so much he started a new painting. Well, no, the truth is that I couldn't sit in the same position because of the fricken neck injury so he had me sit on top of the chair instead of in it.
Doesn't that sound like fun?
Anyway, as I was driving home, I had a brilliant idea for a blog post, so I ran it by Chuck.
Mrs. M: "How funny is this: If you need the perfect cover for an affair, tell your spouse that you're getting your portrait painted."
Chuck: "Go on..."
Mrs. M: "Think about it! It's ideal. It's okay if you come home in different clothes because you could say you changed for the sitting. You have a valid reason for not picking up your phone. It could go on for months. If you pull a muscle you can blame it on sitting for too long in the same position. And if your spouse ever wanted to see the finished piece you could say the piece is in a private collection and not available for viewing."
Chuck: "Are you trying to tell me something?"
Mrs. M: "Of course not."
Chuck: "Are you sure?"
Mrs. M: "How stupid would that be? To tell you my cover?"
Chuck: "Maybe that's your cover."
Mrs. M: "My cover is to tell you my cover?"
Chuck: "Yes."
Mrs. M: "I guess I'll just have to bring home the painting of me riding the armchair."
Chuck: "What??????"
If you're worried that your spouse is using portrait painting as his or her cover for infidelity, this man can help you. And for God's sake if you end up on the show let me know so I can DVR it.
Ok, I’m done with all the laundry. If I wasn’t working, I probably would have left the laundry for a week or so. But it’s unnerving to have to deal with a mound of shit at home and at work. So I sucked it up and did it. And tomorrow when I go back to work I will suck it up and do it all over again, only instead of laundering Junior’s pajama bottoms I’ll be proofing trifolds.
Ah yes, Mrs. Mullet: sucking it up and doing it since 1998.
Don't worry—that's all the woe-ing is me-ing I'm going to do. I mean, I just got back from a fabulous trip to Baltimore. My friend and I drank, ate, slept and shopped at our leisure. Chuck did a great job watching Junior. It was wonderfully wonderful. Except for one fricken thing.
Do me a favor and click on the video below and turn your volume up as high as it can go. I’m serious.
Can you hear yourself think? Yes? Then crank it louder. LOUDER.
Do you want to shoot your computer? Ok, good. You’ve just experienced what Mrs. Mullet and her friend experienced Friday night in their hotel room. We returned from dinner at the respectable hour of 10 p.m. and…
10:10 p.m. Brrrring, brrrrrring.
Front desk: Yah?
Mrs. M: What is going on? My toiletries are shaking.
Front desk: Huh?
Mrs. M: The noise. My toiletries are shaking from the noise.
Front desk: Your toiletries?
Mrs. M: Is there a rap convention at the hotel?
Front desk: No, just two proms.
Mrs. M: Two proms? What time are they over? We can’t take the noise.
Front desk: Midnight. In 10 years no one’s complained about the noise.
Mrs. M: Well, I’m complaining.
Front desk: I’ll have someone close the doors to the ballroom.
Click.
10:23 p.m. Brrrring, brrrrrring.
Front desk: Yah?
Mrs. M: Did they close the doors?
Front desk: What? Oh yah, they did.
Mrs. M: The room is still shaking. We can’t take it.
Front desk: They closed the doors. I don't know what else to tell you.
Mrs. M: My glasses just fell off the nightstand!
Front desk: Ma’am, the proms will be over at midnight.
Mrs. M: Then I’d like to invite someone from your staff to sit with us until then.
The hotel finally moved us. At midnight. So there we were, dragging our bags from one side of the hotel to the other. In our pajamas. And of course we got into an elevator with a group of kids from the prom. The elevator was about 150 degrees from all the teen perspiration and hormonal what have you. Some kid in the back told me and my friend that they were kidnapping us to “party hard” with them.
At one point in my life, a drunken 17-year-old who had a key to his own hotel room might have been appealing. But at that moment, as I stood there in my pilled pajamas and glasses in that Godforsaken, sweaty drunk-on-Smirnoff-and-I’ve-got-a-smushed-Trojan-in-my-back-pocket teen angst tropical heat, I could think of nothing I wanted less. Nothing.
The next day, we celebrated our pubescent encounter by getting my hair cut. Seriously. I haven’t had a haircut since November. And you know what? We walked into a salon, found a hairdresser whose 2:30 was a no-show, and when she asked what I wanted I told her to give me the hairdo she had. And…
3:23 p.m. Brrrrring, brrrrrring.
Chuck: Yah?
Mrs. M: I just got my hair cut!
Chuck: Yah?
Mrs. M: It’s really cute. Longer in the front, shorter in the back.
So today’s the day I leave for my trip. I got so many supportive send offs on Tuesday, but I, um, wasn’t leaving just then. I was just doing the mental prep work.
If this somehow feels anticlimactic—like you broke the champagne bottle on my blog and now I’m hanging around to help you clean up the glass—you can send me hate mail.
I won’t be here to get it.
Mwahahaha.
Since yesterday was my last day at work, everyone wanted to know where I was going. But first they wanted to stand around the water cooler and guess. Apparently my coworkers have mistaken me for someone who tans, has disposable cash and enjoys having large mice that wear clothes wave to me from pretend castles.
“Nope! Not the Bahamas. Not Vegas. And certainly not Disneyland*," I announced. "I'm going to Baltimore, Maryland!”
The room fell silent.
“Why there?” someone wailed.
I didn't realize my coworkers had so much riding on my vacation. But that's the way it is when one of you breaks free: You're all riding the wave. And if the wave is small and tame, well, you can always hope Claire from accounting goes to the Caribbean again and shares the pictures of her and her girlfriend doing body shots (personally, I thought they were tacky).
“Just because!” I said.
And it’s true. I’m going to Baltimore just because my best friend went to college there and wants to revisit some of her old haunts, and we’re going to a baseball game. We could be going to fricken Sheboygan for all I care. All I want from this trip is to:
1) Eat at a restaurant—sitting down the whole time
2) Sleep past 6:30 a.m.
That's it. Well, it'll also be nice to know that my friend can bathe herself and use the bathroom alone. Unless we bust out the tequila. Then I gander we may be heading back towards square one.
Tequila!
* Don't get all Mickey-Schmicky on me. I'll suck it up and take the kid there one day. In 2168.
I don’t have an addictive personality, but I’m having a serious problem kicking the Q-tips. When I get out of the shower I stand in front of the medicine cabinet and daydream about how delicious it would feel to slide that firm little cotton head into my dewy ear canal. I open the medicine cabinet. I close it. I open it. I tell myself that that Q-tip will be the last. It never is.
I need to find a Q-tip support group.
On Thursday, I’m leaving for a mini-vacation with my best friend. I haven’t been away from Junior for more than one night, so this trip is a big deal for me. One might even say it’s caused me embarrassing amounts of guilt and anxiety. It didn’t help that my mother asked me if the trip was the best use of my vacation time since I am already “out of the house so much.” I nicely reminded her that I am taking two days off after my trip so I can spend quality time with Junior—and that I’ll only be gone for three nights. She smiled and told me that enjoying some me time—my first trip in two years!—would be good for me.
Ok, that’s a crock of shit. Chuck said that. My mother shrugged her shoulders and frowned, which made me want to punch her lights out. It also made buying a Mother’s Day card particularly difficult. Hallmark doesn’t exactly make cards that allow you to thank dear mom for inducing unnecessary guilt, being petty and hacking at sensitive issues with an ice pick. Instead I got her a card with some bullshit about how she spreads sunshine wherever she goes.
I hate sunshine.
I thought about asking someone to guest post for me while I’m away but then I thought, maybe the world would like a break from Mrs. Mullet. Actually, that’s a lie. I thought maybe I would like a break from this blog. So I’ll be gone for a few days. If you simply cannot live without me, I’ve got some regurgitated Mulletville posts for you. I chose something completely self-serving in that it makes reference to Chuck’s ample—and 100% guilt- and Junior-free*—romping and my mother’s tendency to be a peckerhead.
* Maybe Chuck is on to something. Maybe we can simultaneously love our children and frolic with friends. Granted, I'll be doing it without the Viking garb, but maybe he is right. (I said maybe, and I’m still going to bust him for the chocolate doughnuts.)
Keely? I'm starting to feel like I owe you money for this.
Junior wasn't really hungry at dinner last night. Chuck and I were just about to start clearing the plates when Junior shouted, "I need a chocolate doughnut! I need a chocolate doughnut!"
I've been really careful about not giving Junior too many sweets, so I had no idea how the hell he even knew about chocolate doughnuts, let alone had cravings for them.
Until I remembered the Dunkin' Donuts bag I'd found under the car seat earlier that afternoon.
"You've been giving him chocolate doughnuts haven't you?" I asked Chuck.
"Nope."
"Don't lie."
"I'm not."
"Junior, who gave you a chocolate doughnut?"
He looked from me to Chuck. "School bus."
Junior, I highly doubt that a large yellow bus meant for carrying school children gave you a chocolate doughnut. Stop covering up for your father. When you came home from your grandmother's a few weeks ago shouting "go Yankees!" the connection was clear. This time, there's some gray.
Work with me. Or you'll never taste chocolate again.
My walking partner has been on an extended leave thanks to an ill husband so poor Mrs. Mullet has been walking the lunchtime streets alone. I think my coworkers have mistaken my solitude for social ineptitude; the neck brace is only intensifying their suspicions (I can just hear them in the car as they drive by: “Oh no, it’s that chick from marketing with the neck brace…and she’s walking alone…awww).
Hah!
Today a woman (Woman A) I’m lukewarmly friendly with invited me to sit with her and another woman (Woman B) for our company's potluck. I can tolerate Woman A in small doses (she walks with her knees touching). I can tolerate Woman B in even smaller doses (she reminds me of a spider). But I was intrigued by Woman A’s thoughtfully placed hand on my shoulder as we washed our hands in the bathroom.
“You should really join us," she said.
So, um, voila, lunch:
Woman A: “Woman B, you know Mrs. Mullet?”
Woman B: “Yah.”
Woman A: “Your hair is getting so long, Woman B.”
Woman B: “Yah.”
Woman A: “I like it pulled back like that, in a ponytail.”
Woman B [flipping her hair]: “It’s the sign.”
Woman A: “For what?”
Woman B: “You know.”
Woman A: “No, I don’t.”
Woman B: “That I’m up for it.”
Woman A: “Up for what?”
Woman B: “That I’m in the mood.”
Woman A: “What?”
Woman B: “It’s how I let my husband know.”
Woman A: “Ooooooooh.”
Woman B: “It is getting long, isn’t it.”
Mrs. Mullet: “I have to get back to work now. Hasta la vista freaknuts.”
At the time I was so blindsided by the bizarre nature of the conversation that I had to leave (and fine, I dropped some of the tuna sandwich I brought* on the neck brace and holy shit, one must tend to that immediately), but in hindsight, I wish I’d stayed for the rest of the conversation.
I have so many questions for Woman B! Like, when and how did the ponytail-means-sex thing begin? Was she extra frisky on ponytail days so that she and her husband came to a nonverbal understanding? Or was it decided over mashed potatoes one night? "Henceforth, a ponytail shall mean we fornicate! Here! Here!"
What if she’s just having a bad hair day and needs the ponytail to be, well, just a ponytail? Does she fill hubs in before he tries to paw her? Like, “This ponytail is for functional purposes only, mister”? But what if he thinks she’s just playing hard to get? Maybe there’s a different color hair tie for that.
What if the ponytail is at half-mast? Does that mean just foreplay?
How can her husband not see women on the street sporting ponytails and think about sex?
What if she’s in the mood on a non-ponytail day? Does she have to go into the bathroom and put her hair up, or can she just say, “Let’s get in on?” You know how people get attached to their crutches…
I could go on and on, but I won’t.
Please tell me, do you have a secret code/ password/ saying/ hairstyle you employ when you want to let your partner know you’re in the mood? I put melon balls in a symmetrical pattern on the hood of the car when I want Chuck to jump me, but I’m always shopping around for something that’s less seasonal. Figs, maybe?
* Yah, I brought my own lunch. I told you, potlucks skeeve me.
