Random Tuesday thoughts

Every time I see this commercial:



I want to hurl daggers. What kind of sick joke is this to aspire to be more amazing? Juggle more? I mean really, aren't we doing enough already? Kelly Ripa and Electrolux, you give women a bad name. What’s wrong with aspiring to be even more average? You get more sleep that way.

The new hallways at work are really, REALLY long. Like, hundreds of feet long. When you see someone at the other end, there’s a lot of time to fill before the moment of impact. I need some better filler activities. Pretending to be engrossed in my cuticles/the blank walls/my wedgie for 50 yards is getting old.

My email address accidentally ended up in the hands of a singer. She wrote:

The opening measure of "La Montanara," which eluded me last night, and the passage in "Arrivdecerci Roma" that starts with "Porto in Inghilterra tuoi" both revolve around the A below middle C and middle C. I've found that once I got solid on the opening to "La Montanara," the "Arrivederci Roma" passage fell into place, especially if I keep going on instead of stopping after "Gli love you." A presto!

Is it bad to write back: “Who are you kidding? The opening measure of ‘La Montanara’ always eludes you. How many times do we have to go over it? And the openings revolve around E sharp and B flat. Do you even know your keys? Giuseppe and I have been talking. If you stop one more time after ‘Gli love you,’ it’s arrivederci for you, slutbag!”

Sometimes when I go outside at lunch and my frozen flesh hits the humid air, I hear a distinct sizzle. It makes me feel like a hotdog on a grill. (A very bodacious, svelte wiener, if you need a better visual aid.) I wonder if Kelly Rippa likes hotdogs? Maybe I’ll shoot her an email and ask her.

I said maybe. No need to set the world on fire if I don’t have to.

Assholes!

I think I want to try to bring back the word "bodacious." Will you help me?

Oh RTT, how I missed thee. Thank you, Keely. Grazie!

Transylvanian also kind of rhymes with lesbian. Plus, a giveaway

Sometimes I worry about the future, but not for the obvious reasons—war, violence, the breakdown of society, Kathy Lee Gifford living to be 100—that we all do.

Ok, maybe not all of us.

I worry because people are strange, and they seem to be getting stranger. And for some reason, this week was the Week of the Wackadoos. First, there was the dentally challenged Ryan Seacrest. Then, today, the cashier at Stop and Shop.

“Listen to this,” she said as she rang me out. “My sister told her four-year-old she’s part Lebanese. A few days later the little girl asked, ‘Am I really part lesbian, Mommy?’ She thought she was half lesbian! Doesn’t that just kill you?”

“Mmyah. That’s a great story.”

On the way out, I saw a red blob running toward me. It was the cashier.

“Pssst! Honey! What was the name of the country I told you? Was it 'S' something?”

“What?”

“It’s a country isn’t it? The lesbian-sounding one?”

“Lebanon? The Lebanese?”

“Right.”

Stop and Shop, I think you might want to check your Ready Whip inventory. Whippets are the only explanation I have for someone forgetting the details of her own story in a two-second timeframe. And what if I'd said Syria or Scotland? Or heck, South Carolina?

Anyway, if you're having trouble keeping track of the minor details, too, I have something that I think will help.



Yes, I'm giving away numbers. There are two 19" x 24" sheets of decals per pack. They come in blue, green, orange and yellow. You can peel 'em and stick 'em till your heart's content. You can practice counting with your kid. You can keep track of how many tequila shots you’ve done or how many times you’ve told your husband you want to move. You can even keep track of how many weirdos you meet in a day. The possibilities are endless.

All you have to do is leave me a comment. **I forgot to mention that I'll pick a winner on Wednesday, so leave your comment by midnight, June 30, EST.**

The best part? Not only is this home decor giveaway open to U.S. residents, Canadians can enter to win too. But Lebanon residents? Sorry man.

(Disclaimer: Even though a number of companies have contacted me asking to do giveaways, I will only give away things I truly think you'd enjoy. Like the, um, Snuggie giveaway I had. You know, only cool stuff.)

The week of being mad is now drawing to a close. Hopefully

I wasn't sure if I should post something today. Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett have died, and even though I didn't know them personally, I feel like I should say something about them. But beyond liking Charlie's Angels and the Thriller video when I was a kid, I don't have much more to offer. And certainly there are a slew of reporters and pundits and acquaintances and anchorpeople and Ryan O'Neals (did you see how much work he's had??) who have offered their touching tributes.

So now I need to find a segue between the deaths of two larger-than-life celebrities and what I really want to write about (again): the gynecologist.

Umm...eerr...Beat it...stirrups...no...oh frick, I'll just dive in.

The thing is, I'm mad (you're shocked, I know). Even though I called and made an appointment and asked specifically to see a female doctor because I am only comfortable having a woman doctor peruse the majestic she-clam that is my nether region, the office duped me again.

I’m actually starting to think there’s a note in my chart that says: “Patient is pain in ass. Demands female doc. Lie and say all female docs have been called into surgery. Send in Dr. Bob.”

Fricken Dr. Bob.

See, this is how I envision a man becoming a gynecologist: In college, at a frat party, a group of drunk guys chants, “Let’s be gy-nos! Let’s be gy-nos!” and one of them takes it seriously and enrolls in med school. The end.

(If you’re a male gynecologist and you’re reading this, I'm sorry for painting you with such a suspicious brush. If you want to set the record straight on how a male chooses the profession, please do so. I’d be tickled to hear your rationale.)

Anyway, in addition to being a man, Dr. Bob is so geriatric that:

a) I wait for him to bounce me on his knee after the appointment and offer me a Werther's Original

b) he wears one of these:



It’s a little disconcerting when gramps dons a headlamp and tells you to “Scoot down.” What pray tell is he looking for in there? Canaries? Coal? And I’m tired of scooting down. I don’t want to scoot down! I’m paying you—move your ass up to me.

So that’s it. As if my brush with the Ryan Seacrest of Dunkin Donuts wasn't enough, I had to don the itchy paper robe for the dreaded Dr. Bob. I'm thinking of switching practices. I'm annoyed.

What about you? Do you mind seeing a male doctor? My friend's father-in-law is an OBGYN and delivered all her kids. She didn't think anything of it. All I can say is, Christmas get togethers? Ewwww.

Hey Rick, why don't you go dunk your donut somewhere else?

Sometimes when you go to a coffee shop to buy coffee you’d like to just, you know, buy coffee. Especially if you’re running late for an 8:15 a.m. gynecologist’s appointment and you hate the gynecologist and you just want some godamned coffee.

Sadly, it was not meant to be, because Dunkin Donuts' version of Ryan Seacrest was manning the counter yesterday alongside a pimply girl.



He flashed me his yellowed teeth and I thought:

Please don’t wait on me I hate Pap smears please don’t wait on me I hate Pap smears please don’t wait on me I hate Pap smears please don’t wait on me I hate Pap smears please don’t wait on me—

—And then, there he was. “Can I…help you?” Jazz hands.

“Coffee. Cream. Medium.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“No sugar on this sweet morning?”

“NO!”

“That’ll be $2.19. But for you, I gave you a special price.”

“Yah?”

“No. I’m kidding. But for a minute you felt special, right? Did you feel special?”

Please leave me alone now I hate you and Pap smears please leave me alone now I hate you and Pap smears please leave me alone now I hate you and Pap smears please leave me alone I hate you and Pap smears

“Sure.”

He handed me my coffee then looked me square in the eye. “Hey, can you do me a favor on your way out?”

“Uh?”

“Can you have a great day?”

What I wanted to say was: “Can you bite me? It’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’m about to have a metal clamp shoved up my hooch.”

What I said was: "No."

Hey, at least I took a stand.

This post is what’s known as a mental vomit

Chuck is really freaking me out lately. If he were a superhero, I would call him Wipe Man. No, not because of this. Because every fricken time Junior has schmootz on his face and I reach for a wipe, Chuck beats me to it.

See, now, I thought it was the mom’s job to be the wipe master.

Before you get on your “You’re a sexist ass for calling mothers the sole proprietors of wipes” kick, let me tell you something: Chuck’s dad already beat you to it.

We were at his house over the weekend when Chuck pulled his Wipe Man stunt and I yelled, “What the heck? Mr. Mom keeps beating me to the wipes!”

Chuck’s dad started laughing; I thought because he found me so comical, endearing, sympathetic, lovely, etc., ad nauseam. Do you know what he said?

“Women. They’ll never be happy.”

Excuse me what? ^&#*)#&*)%#&*@G&*#T@@E^&%@!#^&E %@!#^&(E%@#^(!&E#@)!ETE%!@^E%@!^&@#%!^%(^&(R!E^&@RE@%^R@#%^&R%(RE@#%!*!E&!_(&*# Come again? ^&#*^&#%@^&%@^&E%@(#&^E^%@#(%E^(&%E#^&&%E^(&@#ER

After I pieced back together my exploded head, I politely encouraged him to expound.

“If Chuck wasn’t being attentive to Junior," he said, "you’d be on him. And when he is being attentive, he still hears about it.”

I looked over at Chuck, who was suddenly aloft in an ethereal cloud of smugness.

A-fucking-loft.

But dammitall, Chuck’s dad was right. Could I really be angry that my husband was so in tune with our child’s needs that he anticipated them before I, the woman who had given our child life? Twenty-eight hours of excruciating, I-want-to-die, life bearing goodness?

Yes.

But not angry. Just…fumbling.

It’s been a huge transition having Chuck be a stay-at-home dad. I mean, there was that phase when I worried about growing facial hair. Chuck grocery shops and has his own “man” diaper bag. He goes on play-dates and has joined a parents' meet-up group. Recently, after a play-date he had with another dad—during which the dad asked Chuck how much sunscreen he should put on his daughter—Chuck gently mocked the father for still stumbling with the “basics.”

I shouldn’t be surprised; I knew this was in him. He diapered Junior the first few weeks because I was still in shock that the hospital had actually sent us home without a chaperone. He was a better lactation expert than the one the doctors sent. I was fine with all that. But lately, when I see stay-at-home moms, it hits me that my husband has more in common with them than I do.

And I’m not sure how that makes me feel. A little sad, maybe, because I always pictured myself drunk on a playground with other moms commiserating about what a thankless job being a stay-at-home mom was. Oops, did I say drunk? And maybe a little threatened because Chuck is doing a good job at mothering and fathering and I don’t always know what my role is. I know I’m Junior’s mom, for Pete’s sake, but if Chuck is Mr. Mom does that make me Mrs. Dad?

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know we’re lucky that I got a year home with Junior and now Chuck gets to stay home. I know I’m lucky that Chuck is an attentive, nurturing father who is doing a fabulous job.

But shit. Right now, Chuck is who I thought I’d be. And some days that throws me for a loop. It’s a turf war between the Wipes and the Wanna Wipes. It’s a smackdown!

Anyway, if you’ve made it this far, thank you. I feel somewhat better.*

*I’d feel a lot better if you told me that if you saw me across a crowded room and I was standing there with a wipe in my hand, you’d bring me your crumbly face and let me go to town. I’d buy you a drink afterward. Promise.

It's a great day to...

But only if they bring you breakfast in bed...and they don't %^&#% up the eggs.

Happy Father's Day.

If my grandmother read my blog she'd probably disown me

So my third wedding anniversary—the year of leather gifts—is over.

All I have to say is, I never knew leather could be so wonderful. Chuck bought me a leather bikini, which he hid in a leather suitcase. I gave him a leather recliner and rubbed his feet through his leather slippers. We wore leather jumpsuits to dinner. After dinner, we raised our glasses of champagne to the smell of dead cow. After that I whipped Chuck with a leather belt then rubbed leather moisturizer on his berry red ass.

Yes, oh God, yes, it was so leathery good.

Actually, as much as I abhor animal cruelty, I can’t be a total hypocrite and ridicule all things leather. I do own leather shoes and purses. But after reading this, I’ve decided to change my ways. No more leather goods.

From now on, I will only buy products made of granny vaginas.

Think about it: there sure are a lot of them.

Ok, ok, I know, that was gross. But what do you expect? I’m tired. So damn tired. Chuck and I didn’t actually make it out the door last night until 8:30 because my father was two hours late to baby-sit Junior. And the service at the restaurant was soooooo slow...

Soooooooo sloooooooooow...

...perhaps because everyone was busy trying to console the man sitting at the table next to us. He had just lost his wife or friend or someone. People kept stopping by to offer their condolences, to which he’d snap, “How do you think I’m doing?”

At one point I wanted to yell, “How do you think I’m doing? We ordered an hour ago and I haven’t seen a damn bread crumb!”

I did, however, see many vodka and cranberries. Which is why when we left the restaurant and ran into a man walking one of these



my drunken canine exuberance got the better of me. I leaned down to bearhug the dog and fell onto him. Not like splat; more like oof, I’m wobbly, I didn't mean to ride your dog. I couldn’t help it! He was so fluffy and smushy I wanted to steal him!

The owner took it well. He looked at me like I was a piece of shit and said, “Come, Fred-ear-eek.”

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Poor Chuck. The whole ride home that’s all I kept asking:

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Then I fell asleep. There may have been the tinniest, most miniscule hint of drool.

May have.

And that is Le Evening du Dead Boeuf.

(Is it just me, or is the leather anniversary version more exciting? Or did you, um, stop reading after the whole granny vagina thing?)

Forget "I love you." Today it's "I leather you."

Today is my three year wedding anniversary with Chuck. This year is the leather anniversary.

Mmmm, nothing says, "You still rock my world" like skinned animals.

In case you're interested, I thought I'd share the story of how we met. It goes like this:

In 1997, a boy named Pete had a crush on me. As we all know, crushes are often one way streets. I could never love Pete. His fingers resembled mini Jimmy Dean sausage links and he ate steak in a way that…let’s just say I could envision him at a steak house in 25 years with a gut that rivaled Mount Everest.

Pete is the boy I was with the night I met Chuck. And he knew Chuck liked me so he kept his stumpy hand across my chair all night so Chuck couldn’t move any closer to talk to me. Even more, when Chuck asked him for my number, he said no. So Chuck found out where he lived, went to his apartment under the guise of renting the spare bedroom and while Pete was in the bathroom, Chuck stole my number from his Rolodex (this was when the Rolodex was en vogue).

Chuck liked me that much.

Unfortunately, I had just graduated from college and ended a long-term relationship with some flaky eyebrows so I was on a bit of a man bender. A dating-five-guys bender.

When Chuck called the house (this was before cell phones, remember?), my brother left me the message: Chuck called. Who the hell is Chuck? Slut.

Little brothers are such gems, aren't they?

But he raises a good question, who the hell is Chuck?

I'll tell you: Chuck is incredibly patient, kind, loving and loyal. Chuck would give you the shirt off his back even if it was -30 degrees and he was freezing and he knew you were flying to Florida and didn't need his shirt. He's the kind of guy whose buddies get misty when they've had too much to drink and say, "That Chuck. He's such a great guy." He's a a party animal and ridiculously passive aggressive, but I love him to pieces. He's a hell of a good father. He still brings me flowers. He needs Odor Eaters.

I love him.

Happy leather year, Chuck.

Work email: Why you shouldn't hit "reply" right away

To: Everyone
From: Rick in Accounting
Subject: How long does biscotti last?

I got some biscotti for Christmas. It's shrink wrapped. Does anyone know if I can still eat it?

____________________________________________________________________________________


To: Rick in Accounting
From: Mrs. Mullet
Subject: Re: How long does biscotti last?

You're a fricken idiot.

____________________________________________________________________________________


To: Everyone
From: Shahid in IT
Subject: Internet connection down

We're experiencing a connection disruption. No one but IT can connect to the Internet. Please call with questions.

____________________________________________________________________________________


To: Shahid in IT
From: Mrs. Mullet
Subject: Re: Internet connection down

Thanks for letting us know via email that the Internet is down. Dipshit.

____________________________________________________________________________________


To: Everyone
From: Maintenance
Subject: Trash pickup

We've had several complaints of office odor because of food left in personal trash bins overnight. Since the maintenance staff does not clean bins after 4 p.m. they have requested that no one eat perishable food items after 4 p.m. This includes bananas. If you need to dispose of perishable food items after 4 p.m. please take your garbage home with you. Or, if you have special needs that require a trash pick-up after 4 p.m. please discuss the matter with your supervisor.

____________________________________________________________________________________


To: Maintenance
From: Mrs. Mullet
Subject: Re: Trash pick-up

I've discussed my special need for a 4:15 banana with my supervisor and she told me to stick my banana up my a**. And my husband won't let me come home with banana peels. What do I do??????? I need this matter addressed immediately.

____________________________________________________________________________________

That dog and I hit Bourbon Street hard (he got most of the beads)

It’s 8:13 p.m. Chuck and Junior are both in bed. Amen, I have the house to myself. Ordinarily I’d pour myself a decanter of wine and don my mullet wig and sit on my front stoop and flip off the neighbors, but I already drank too much this weekend, and one of the cats has been sleeping on the mullet wig in a corner, so here I am.

Clickety clacking.

Chuck got home at 6 a.m. yesterday. He was completely obliterated from filming all week, but we had a wedding to go to and I’d been informed the day before by the fiancée via Facebook that Chuck was in the wedding.

Fucking Facebook. I abhor it, but clearly Chuck would be underdressed without it.

So we went to the wedding. And you know what? We sat next to Captain Karl.

Who the hell is Captain Karl? Why, he’s an old friend. A friend whom Chuck has not spoken to in years because of blah, blah, blah and etc., etc., etc. (I’ve been informed I’ve been airing too much of my husband’s laundry lately, so I’m going to have to be a little more obtuse from now on.)

The abridged version:
Ten years ago, Chuck and I moved to New Orleans after freezing our asses off in Maine. We lived with Captain Karl while Chuck worked for him. (Can’t imagine what went wrong there, can you?)

Why I was homesick:
Captain Karl and Chuck would go on tuna fishing excursions and leave me to watch Karl’s chocolate lab. The dog bit his feet when he missed Karl so I’d have to put socks on him and he’d slip on the hardwood floors. Sometimes he slid into the walls. Sometimes cockroaches the size of grapefruit were scaling those walls, and I’d have to console the dog, the roach and myself. Even better? Chuck and Karl came home stinking of fish.

Why I wasn’t homesick:
The sun. Drive-thru margarita stands.

The last chapter:
After a year or so in the Big Easy, Chuck and I moved back to Connecticut. Chuck and Captain Karl went their separate and sometimes petulant ways. Then last night at the wedding we all sat at the same table. There was wine. Scotch. Someone might have been humming "Total Eclipse of the Heart" (I said might). Blah, blah, blah. Etc., etc., etc.

The last page:
Even though the Shakira look alike wouldn't get up and sing because she was fighting with her boyfriend (or making out, we really couldn't determine), I had a great time at the wedding. And I fricken cannot wait to hop on Facebook and say so.

Ooh Dan Aykroyd, you missed the biggest, baddest ghost between the sheets!

I just spent the last hour with a Cookie Monster puppet on my hand. My hand is hot and sweaty. I have finger cramps. But having Cookie Monster pretend to pet the kitties and eat Junior’s match box cars was the only way to get Junior to stop yowling, because Junior is sick with an ear infection and he is inconsolable.

And me? I spent last night hunched over the porcelain bowl with food poisoning. And now I am drinking sangria. Lots and lots of sangria.

Without fail, when Chuck goes away, things fall apart.

Chuck called late last night to give me an update on the filming. In between barfing bouts, I learned that he’s getting a lot of screen time. He and the crew (fellow ghostbusters and producers) have been driving to various haunted venues and since Chuck is the only one who can manage to stay awake to drive, they’ve been filming him behind the wheel.

Yes, tune in this fall to see Chuck driving a minivan of sleeping passengers along the I-10. You don't want to miss the part where he changes lanes...

Heh.

I thought maybe I could answer some of your questions about the Chuck-is-a-ghostbuster thing, and then we could put all this paranormal stuff behind us.

Way, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay behind us. So, here goes:

Where in California is old Chuckie? What show is this for? All I know is that he flew into Los Angeles. The locations of the investigations are top secret. The show doesn’t have an official title. I suggested “Thanks for leaving your wife alone for the week, dickhead” but I haven’t heard back.

A ghost-buster? Seriously? Maybe you should let him guest-post to tell the scariest thing that has ever happened to him. Yes, seriously, though I’ve been corrected: The proper term is paranormal research investigator. I have a feeling if I let him guest-post the scariest thing that has ever happened to him, I’d lose 75% of my readers.

Seriously your husband is a ghost buster? How cool is that? He really is. I guess it’s kind of cool, but I try not to think about it. Otherwise I can't sleep at night.

How does one BECOME a ghostbuster? Does he wear a jumpsuit? He’s been doing it for years. He got into it because he grew up in a haunted house. He doesn’t wear a jumpsuit—not even when I ask him to. I mean geesh, isn’t it every woman’s fantasy to have Dan Aykroyd ghostbust the bad ghosts in the bedroom?

Hmmm, can he do side work as a goatbuster? Maybe. But it’ll cost you.

Does he have the beeping tools and everything? Oh...and the green light? He has tools, none of which I ever see because he's not allowed to bring them into the house.

So there you have it. We can all move on now and talk about my exciting life. I mean, come on, a Cookie Monster hand puppet and projectile vomit far outshine an impending television show, right?

Right?

Random Tuesday thoughts: My husband left me

I’m not sure how random this is, but I desperately want to belong, so here’s my widget.



I’ve been keeping a secret. I made mention of it once on this blog, and only one person made reference to the reference, so I never brought it up again (sensitive? Who me?). But here it is: Chuck is a ghostbuster. And right now he’s in California shooting a pilot for a historical ghostbusting show that’s going to air on a major network in the fall.

After years of mocking Chuck for his ghostbusting, I’m now choking on my words. It’s worse than the chicken finger and bobby pins—300 times worse.

I have no interest in the paranormal, and over the years I’ve made that very clear to Chuck. I don’t want to commune with spirits and I sure as hell don’t want to walk around a cemetery in the middle of the night. At times I may have teased and taunted my husband for his strange hobby, but it was only out of love.

Besides, it’s not easy being with a ghostbuster. You have questions, like will our children have to be ghosts every year for Halloween? And if I die before Chuck, will he roam the earth in search of my flying orb?

My mother’s been coming over to watch Junior while I work. It’s nice of her to help, but I wish I could break up with her for awhile. Today she called me in a panic because she heard a loud thumping coming from upstairs. She begged me to come home and check it out.

Thankfully my boss is understanding—though I did not tell her I needed to run home because my mother believed there was an angry ghost in Chuck's manroom because she has been listening to too many of Chuck's ghost stories. I told my boss I had a leaky pipe.

When I pulled in the driveway, my mother and Junior were standing on the front lawn. In the rain.

“Something’s up there,” she cried.

Turns out the cat was stuck in the closet (yes, this monster) and was pounding on the door.

Is it any wonder I haven't taken her up on her offer to spend the night? Mother with overactive imagination + Chuck’s ghostbusting stories = misery for Mrs. Mullet.

So there you have it. I’ve aired my sheet with the holes for the eyes cut out. Random or not, life feels like the weirdest sitcom ever.

Keely, is your zombie free to do a playdate with my ectoplasm next week?

Who needs the ^%^&(#^&#%ing gym?

If you are a mom who lives in New York City (or a dad or someone else) and you drag children from one place to the next on public transportation, give yourself a nice big pat on the back.*

After a weekend in NYC, I am exhausted.

EXHAUSTED.

When my friend suggested we trek from the upper, upper West Side to Central Park on Saturday, I had no idea that most subway stops do not have elevators.

I repeat: do not have elevators.

You must carry your 30-pound child in his or her stroller (or carry the child and the stroller) up and down stairs. Sometimes there are multiple flights. This seems somewhat barbaric to me—especially if your diaper bag and picnic lunch accoutrements are cutting off the circulation in your neck. Not to mention: what if you're a mom who only has one arm? Or one leg? (I work with a woman who only has one arm and all weekend I thought of her. All weekend.)

Once you finally get to the subway platform (and you'd better pray it's the right one), you must either roll your child in the stroller into a cranky herd of already smushed train people, or you must carry your child and the stroller into the crowd. (Actually, you're supposed to do the latter; the one time I did it, the stroller opened up as I was stepping into the train and I had to yell, "Help!" because the doors were starting to shut, and as much as I'd appreciate a free body trim, I kind of like my lower half.)

I had a lovely time in the Big Apple, I really did. But why are there not more pro wrestling tournaments featuring New York City moms? You guys must be rippling goddesses (or top-heavy freaks). After a day of lugging Junior (plus all the miscellaneous kid junk) up and down stairs and into and out of heaving, bulging, sweaty crowds I felt like:

a) I should be at the tippety-toppiest level of Frogger

b) I could kick anyone's ass with my newfound arms of steel**

Anyone's!

I'm going to bed now. I'm sure you understand.

* With your fucking ginormous guns.

** I typed this in about 0.2 seconds because my forearms are now the size of whale fins.

***I feel like I'm ripping off Jen Lancaster with all these stupid asterisks.

Gone fishin'

Chuck's been called home to the mothership (i.e., an all-weekend stag) so I'm taking Junior and my Amish quilts to New York City. I might come back with a pink mohawk just because.

Have a great weekend.

If we ever see them again I'll shoot them with more death rays

People.are.weird.

Man.

Chuck and I met another couple last night (I told you this would happen). They were sitting at the table next to us at a new restaurant that opened in Mulletville (and it wasn’t a chain restaurant! Woohoo!). Like all non mullet-wearing people who encounter other non mullet-wearing people while out and about in Mulletville, we asked the obvious question:

Where are you from?

They said Milford. When their turn came to ask, the husband said to me, “Wait, don’t tell me, I want to guess. Pennsylvania, right?”

“Why do you think I’m from Pennsylvania?” I asked.

“You have an Amish look about you.”

Amish? What gave it away? My buggy? My frocks? I thought we stopped all that Amish business in high school. I’m all grown up now. I wear lip gloss. Sometimes I even—gasp!—wear low cut shirts and heels. Even though I may have chops—I said may—I don’t try to cover them up with one of these:



Aggghhhh.

The wife started laughing and said not to worry, honey. She confided that her husband’s guessing game is just an insider’s joke she and hubs share as a segue into her talents: clairvoyance and past life regression.

Chuck’s eyes lit up (I’ll be honest here: The best and worst thing about Chuck is that he would buy magic beans on the street). My eyes were squinty and shooting death rays. Do not call me honey—or Amish.

The woman stared at Chuck for a few seconds then said: “You’ve never been here before. You are a new spirit. Because you are…you are…an alien spirit.”

Chuck just about rocket shipped off his chair with glee. His eyes teared up and he slapped his knee about 400 times (as in, by golly, finally a woman who understands me). My death rays turned into death rays made of poison and killer bees and STDs. Do you know what you’ve done? I wanted to shout. You’ve just given my husband, a man obsessed with



and



and



ammunition. It’s like giving an alcoholic an extra liver. It’s carte
blanche to become even more Trekkified.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Dear God nooooooooooooo.

I gave the couple a pained smile that said, “We’re done with you leave us alone don’t even think of talking to us anymore.” The whole dinner, Chuck's smile was about to pop off his face.

On the ride home I kept thinking about the freakazoid couple. To me, I’m your average brunette who dresses like she she’s going to work—every day. And Chuck’s your average bald guy with nice white teeth and a smoking badonkadonk. But to the world…do we really look like this?



I mean shit, that's a pretty ugly Christmas card.

How you know you’re spending too much time at work (and that you’re a grumpy bastard)

1. No matter where you pee, you brace for the spray of the automatically flushing toilet. When it doesn’t come and you realize you must flush manually, you actually have a momentary lapse on how.

2. You have problems reclining on the couch because your body is used to sitting at a 90-degree angle.

3. You change channels on your TV remote then try to hit the “save” button.

4. You wear a skirt, blouse and heels…for a dump run.

5. When your coworker walks by and catches you bouncing in your chair while doing butt crunches, she gives you a look and you keep right on scrunchin’. You might even find yourself thinking, “Hah! My butt could kick your butt’s butt.” If you do find yourself thinking that, you hope you didn’t say it aloud.

6. You answer your home phone, “Hi, this is Mrs. Mullet. How can I help you?”

7. You can’t drive by billboards without playing “name that font” and guessing whether or not the graphic is a stock photo. Even if you’re right, your husband really doesn’t care if it’s GillSans or Futura Condensed. He’d rather you played the game “When are we going to get busy.”

8. When you email the grocery list to your husband, you write, “Please reply so I know you’ve received this communication.”

9. You hear Raffi’s song “Mama’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow” and change the words to “Mama’s not takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow 'cause she works all day” and you laugh manically and sing “all daaay-hay hay…she works all daaay-hay hay” and think about making your own damn kids’ album that’s a more accurate portrayal of the lives of working mothers. Fricken Raffi bastard.

10. Space aliens leave signs on your lawn that read, “We’ve been trying to make contact for three months. Where the fuck have you been?”

And now, on a cheerier note, Junior reached into his Indiana Jones hat and pulled out the name of the sandbox winner (I would have taken an evidentiary picture but after the chopalicious-meets-fat-cat montage I needed a break).

Dun dun dun…the winner is...Anonymous.

Yep. Anonymous. Whoever you are, I hope you enjoy your new toy in the privacy of your undisclosed town in your mysterious backyard with your unnamed children.

(If I could post this anonymously, I'd say that I secretly hoped the winner would have been a fellow blogger. But I, um, can't say that.)