1. Tell husband you don't mind if he goes camping for a week with his buddies. Toss and turn until 2 a.m. as reality of working full-time and having mother stay with you for five days straight sinks in.
2. For first time in five years stretch after getting out of bed. Pull muscle. Collapse on floor.
3. Eat two-and-a-half-week-old birthday cupcake for breakfast. Rationalize that rock hard chocolate is better than no chocolate at all.
4. Try to feed child breakfast while balancing checkbook and applying mascara. Dip mascara wand in pen holder, poke self in eye with pen.
5. Speed to work. Narrowly avoid hitting elderly woman in wheelchair trying to cross street.
6. Narrowly avoid hitting police car while waving sorry to elderly woman in wheelchair trying to cross street, who is now giving you the finger.
7. Take shortcut through parking lot in attempt to beat boss to office. Get trapped in chain link fence trying to squeeze through slot. Call to 100-pound security guard for assistance detangling your 135-pound self from metal links. Rip shirt trying to break free.
8. Dash home to change shirt. Find husband and son watching television in their underwear.
9. Change shirt. Drive back to work. Realize lunch is on kitchen counter and that you are wearing a striped blouse with a floral skirt.
10. Sit down at desk. Realize it's only 10 a.m. and that you have to sit in a wobbly chair all day with a red eye, mismatched shirt, pulled neck, and blue tongue while politely declining boss's offers—again—to coat your hair with her new vice: Moroccan oil.
Chuck and I had a fight last night. I hesitate to use the word fight because there was no punching, screaming or throwing of plates (I know, we’re so boring), but we did want to murder each other while said “discussion” was taking place. Ergo, it was a smackdown.
The thing is, Chuck has been a stay-at-home dad since January, and now that Junior’s talking and blossoming and blah blah hearts and rainbows, he’s a lot of fun to be around. I feel like I’m missing out. During the miserable winter months, there wasn’t much to be jealous about: Chuck and Junior were cooped up inside. But now that summer is here, every day feels like a beach party I can’t attend. To make matters worse, Junior’s been sleeping until 8, so Chuck’s been sleeping until 8. Mrs. Mullet? Up at 6:30.
For the last few months, life has sounded like this:
Me: “I’m leaving for work.”
Chuck: Yawn. “Eight already? He’s still sleeping?”
Me: “Must be nice to be you.”
And this:
Me: “What did you and Junior do today?”
Chuck: “We went for a hike then got some lunch.”
Me: “Must be nice to be you.”
Yes, I have turned into Mrs. Must-be-nice-to-be-you.
I know, I know. It’s not Chuck’s fault Junior sleeps late and enjoys being outside. It’s also not Chuck’s fault that he:
a) was laid off
b) hasn’t been able to find a decent job in his field (shameless plug: if you need an event planner/audio visual guru/ business developer/ghostbuster/Viking, Chuck is your man)
c) has risen to the occasion and then some (oh horrors, Mrs. Mullet!)
But I’ve been so consumed with jealousy that I’ve been blaming him for everything. The fact that Chuck is too nice and just takes it has only made it worse.
Until last night. Chuck told me he cannot handle any more snarky, guilt-inducing comments. He reminded me that when I was home with Junior for a year, he didn’t say anything about the fact that he was working 80 hours a week while I was enjoying our son. (Side note: I wouldn’t exactly call getting 3.5 hours of sleep a night and dealing with a newborn enjoyment, but I’ll file that under semantics for now.) Then he told me that caring for Junior is a lot of work—and that I should know that better than anyone because I did it, too.
Ouch.
So shit. I’m an asshole. I should know better. I should also appreciate the fact that Chuck is doing a great job in a nontraditional role. I mean, he gets mad when stores don’t have changing tables in the men’s bathroom. The man is such a Mr. Mom that sometimes I feel like I’m in a same-sex marriage.*
In my own defense, a male friend admitted that he has the same jealousy problems. When his wife calls him at work and tells him about the fun things she is doing with their daughter, unsavory comments sometimes slip out. When she, too, reminds him that caring for their daughter is work, he feels like me: I’d choose her/Chuck’s work (playing with offspring) over his/my work (serving on the laborious Breast Pumping Committee).
All of this leaves me in a sticky, unfamiliar setting. Before I had Junior, I believed I’d have the WOHM/WAHM/SAHM discussion with other women. Never, ever did I imagine that I’d have it with my husband. And naively, I never knew fathers might share the same feelings of jealousy I now harbor.
Imagine that!
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I need to stop being such a jerk, and this blog entry will serve as a reminder. And Chuck? I’m very, very sorry. As an olive branch, I made t-shirts for us:
Oh, snap! Did I mix up the colors? Mrs. Mullet, you are a real piece of work...
I made Chuck watch a chick flick, He’s Just Not That Into You, this weekend. Chuck was long overdue. He made me watch Rocky Balboa the next night as retaliation. I cannot lie: I liked Rocky better. There’s something about dead meat hanging from factory ceilings that lends a certain authenticity to a movie. Or maybe the dialogue was more plausible. Take your pick.
I need a Twitter tutorial. I don't understand it and so I've begun to mock it and follow people like Richard Simmons just because.
Sometimes I watch QVC just to see if the hosts can talk me into buying something horrible.
I’m thinking about getting lasik, but I’m scared they’re going to fuck it up and I’m going to have to wear glasses like this for the rest of my life:
I don’t understand how the bad vision gene survived the hunter-gatherer era. Just picture it: a loin-clothed man standing in a field squinting at what he thinks is a tree but what is actually a tiger. Nom, nom, nom. And a berry picker squinting at what she thinks are berries and nuts but what are actually mice pellets or worse, fish eyeballs. Her dinner mates would surely stone her. Or at least make her eat her own gatherings in the corner. I don’t know about you, but the last time I read about someone who’d eaten mice pellets and fish eyeballs, he didn’t make it.
I read that a woman ingests over six pounds of lipstick in her lifetime. I guess that explains the Berry Sexy hue to my toilet bowl.
Sometimes when I’m driving with Junior in the car I fantasize about passing our exit, calling Chuck and telling him, “Grab a bag and meet us in Oregon.” Why not? Surely it’s nicer than Mulletville. We could hike and bike and live in the woods. And I swear, I wouldn’t forage for dinner until I’ve had my vision corrected.
To visit the bodacious queen of Randomness and my partner in crime for skydiving with unicorns, check out this site.
Something incredible happened this weekend: I went somewhere in the vicinity of Mulletville, and I have nothing bad to say about it.
I won’t lie. I’m kind of bummed about it. Cheery posts devoid of mullet sightings are diametrically opposed to the raison d’etre of this blog. The mullet carnage feeds me.
Alas. We must grow beyond our own fences.
So, here goes. Gigolo—I mean, Chuck—and I took Junior to Mystic Seaport. Chuck’s been trying to get me to go there for ages, but I always put up a fight. Not only do you have to pay $24 to get into the seaport, but you have to walk through an entrance gate and once you’re in, you’re in (they shackle you with wristbands and everything).
That only means one thing: let the price gauging begin.
You know exactly what I’m talking about. Once you’re inside anywhere lately, cups of ice are $15. Hotdogs are $35. A beer is $99.99—and it’s not even good beer; it’s Bud. They know you’re hungry, thirsty and trapped.
But honk my hooters, the seaport didn’t try to financially rape us. A respectable beer was $5 (if you wanted Bud, they were giving away free samples in the restroom). A 30-minute boat ride was $5.50. Heck, they even let us put the entrance fee we’d paid toward a year-long membership. Plus, they threw in a free hat for Chuck.
They were nice (like, I'm getting misty). In Connecticut, that's practically unheard of.
But the very best part of the whole day was that it was a gorgeous sunny day in Connecticut and the place wasn’t mobbed. Look, there's hardly anyone around:
If I were a gusher, I’d gush. Look at the crusty ship innards we were able to experience:
If you’re from Connecticut or visiting Connecticut, I highly recommend a trip. The bathrooms aren’t a mangy afterthought like some other places in Mystic, and you could easily spend more than one day in the seaport with children of any age. There are kids’ theater performances, anchored boats to play on, a children's museum on-site, horse-drawn carriage rides, old fashioned shops that do more than sell tacky t-shirts, etc., etc. Look, more boats:
My only regret is that before this trip, I had no idea that my two-year-old was a Thomas the Train droid. There were hints, to be sure, but nothing worrisome.
Now? Now I am scared shitless. While at the seaport, every boat whistle elicited a “Thomas is puffin!” from Junior. Planes in the air were Jeremy; helicopters were Harold. While aboard a boat, Junior was convinced he saw Salty and Cranky by the docks. When the steamboat captain yelled, “Let’s get going” before the boat tour, Junior turned to the woman next to him and said, “We’re going to the Island of Sodor!”
If I hadn't been sober, I might have believed him. He was so convinced.
These little trains are evil. Just look at them! I know they're plotting to kill me in my sleep.
Last night Chuck and I had my mother, Linda, and stepfather over for dinner. We wanted to thank them for hosting Junior’s birthday party (and the girls) at their house last weekend, so we bought them a nice bottle of scotch.
My mother doesn’t really like scotch, but it’s the only thing she’ll drink. When she was in her twenties, she researched the alcoholic drinks with the fewest calories and scotch was the winner.
And oh, how it won last night.
Somehow we got on the subject of Chuck and I: The Early Years. It all began in 1997. I was 22; he was 25. Fresh out of college, I was over my unshaven armpit phase (I only lasted a month); Chuck had hair. Sigh.
Chuck had just ended a relationship with a woman who was 31 (i.e., an “older” woman), and I had told my mother as much. I may have also mentioned that Chuck’s previous girlfriend was 25, to his 21.
What did my mother glean from that?
Chuck [to Linda]: “You thought I was a male prostitute?”
Linda: “My daughter said you had dated older women.”
Me: “You thought Chuck was a male prostitute?”
Stepfather: “Should we all eat some bread?”
Linda: “I’d just seen Loverboy! I was able to put together the pieces. I’m not stupid, you know.”
Me: “I didn’t say he’d dated 50- and 60-year olds! I didn’t say money was exchanged!”
Chuck: “I wish I was a male prostitute!” (High fives stepfather)
Me [to Linda]: “I don’t know what I’m more disturbed by: the fact that you thought Chuck was a gigolo or that you were okay with your daughter dating a male hooker.”
Linda [winking at Chuck]: “I thought my daughter knew what she was doing.”
Me: “I think I may throw up.”
Chuck honey, you know how everyone needs a theme song? Well, here you go.
If you haven’t seen Loverboy, I highly recommend it. It’s funny, lighthearted and sweet (for as sweet as a movie can be about a boy who sells his body for money).
Look, typos happen to the best of us. I once referred to myself as the "Director of Pubic Relations" in a press release. Thankfully no one called me on it.
And I like the folks at eBeanstalk. They send me informative emails with answers to my most probing parental questions. But never once did I ask myself this:
D'oh! Why does Billy loathe splashing water at his turds? Mommy and Daddy think it's great fun!
I hesitated to post the email because, like I said, I do like the eBeanstalk folks. But on July 19, I sent this:
If you can't read that, I wrote, "Dear eBeanstalk, I really enjoy these emails, and I find this one particularly helpful (I have an inquisitive two-year-old) but you might want to have someone proof the FAQ responses for typos. I don't mean to criticize, but there are several in the response below.
See, I tried to forepoo them. I mean, forewarn them. Oopsie.
I Googled NyQuil because I'm sick with a cold—miserably sick!—and that's what came up. Apparently women who abuse NyQuil don't own razors. And they also ask their lovers to snap nude photos of themselves slugging it back.
So.Hot.
Anyway, last night, I got nice and doped up on NyQuil myself, but it was much more B rated. I put on my pajamas. Grabbed my lozenges, tissues and July's issue of Glamour magazine. Turned on the TV. Falalala. And omigawd without any warning there was a man having sex with a cow heart that was hooked up to electrodes. He was pumping away! Omigaaaaaaaaawd!
I thought, Surely this must be a joke. Surely the networks wouldn't just air shows like this on normal TV. But no, it was a show called "1000 ways to die." The episode was called "Heart on." (How clever.)
Ok, this is where I grab my voluminous granny underwear and sail them across the sky. What the fuck happened to sitcoms and television shows that provided entertainment without the bloody sadistic bullshit? I am so flippin' tired of turning on the television and seeing someone shot to death or raped or raped and then shot to death. I'm scared to do the click-through at night.
Scared!
I want the FCC to revamp the system, and I want them to do it now. I even have some ideas. Channels 1-25 can be non-bloody shows. Channel 26 can be bloody shows. Channels 27-29 can be cooking shows. There should be no sports channels. Channels 30-100 can be male improvement shows. The pet people can have channel 101. Oh, and to satiate America's hunger for teen porn, shows like "Smallville" and MTV's "Real World" can have channel 69.
Brilliant, I know.
P.S. In case you missed this month's issue of Glamour and were dying to know the "Real Women's Orgasm Secrets," I'll save you the $3.99. Here are their three steps to an amazing orgasm:
1. Breathe right (i.e., pant like a dog, because nothing's sexier than that)
2. Put a heating pad on your pelvis pre-sex (mmmm, nothing turns men on like a flesh-colored nightie jimmied out of a heating pad) and
3. Straighten your legs as he...um...makes his initial plunge and then move around a lot (I advise yelling, "Geronimo" and then bucking like a bronco with a hot poker in its ass).
I want to thank you so much for coming to Junior's birthday party on Saturday. It was a pleasure to meet you...in your entirety. It was so cute how Chuck's friend kept slipping up and saying, "She's my girls." Oops.
I must admit, you threw me for quite a loop. When people came up to me again and again and asked, "Did you see them?" I thought they were referring to the Cookie Monster cupcakes I so lovingly baked and decorated for my son.
Their wide-eyed shock seemed appropriate given my track record with baking. I mean, let's be honest, everything I make usually comes out like shit. It would make sense that they would see the cupcakes and think the cupcake fairy made them, and not me. Alas, they were talking about you.
I also had no idea that so many of my friends and family enjoyed deviled eggs. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you doled them out while leaning forward. I'm sure if I had offered people a plate of creamy eggs that had been sitting in the sun for two hours I would have had eager takers as well. Wink, wink.
Thanks again for coming. It was the breast—I mean best—toddler birthday party ever.
Two! I’ve made it far, man. (For those of you with teenagers, humor me, ok?)
Junior's vocabulary of late consists of “Mine!” “No!” and "I want to be naked!" He’s such a sweet thing. Every moment is rose blossoms and honey suckle.
Just like this...
Are we done laughing? Its funny, right? The idea of Rice Krispie Treats nirvana with your children?
But dammitall, those Kellogg’s people are sneaky marketers. I've had that commercial on the brain for two weeks and last night I finally succumbed.
Junior was particularly unipolar at dinner. I got caught up in red wine, PMS sentimentality, pre-birthday drivel, red wine, blah blah. It suddenly seemed like the perfect after-dinner, pre-bedtime activity. Besides, I could swear there’s a check-list in the baby book that includes “Lovingly crafted Rice Krispie Treats with child,” and if there’s one thing I am, it’s by the book.
I decided to get Junior in the mood by pouring some Rice Krispies into a bowl and dribbling them with milk.
“Listen,” I said. “Snap, crackle and pop!”
Instead of listening, Junior slapped the bottom of the bowl and shrieked, “No! No! No!” He’d just eaten dinner. I’m shocked he didn’t want a bowl of cereal.
Upon hearing food hit the floor, the cat lumbered in (yes, still in her hipsta cast) and started licking up the mess, which sent Junior into a tizzy.
“That’s mine! That’s mine!”
The other cat ran in and swatted at the maimed cat. I nearly tripped on them both.
Most people might have said, “You know what? Tonight’s not a good night” and tabled an attempt at a sticky marshmallow concoction with a tired bipolar toddler as an assistant, but I’m not sure what got into me. I needed to make the damn treats.
So I forged ahead. (Red wine, gulp gulp.) I melted the butter and marshmallow.
That’s when Junior saw Chuck mowing the lawn and screamed, “Outside! Outside!” He ran to the door. One cat had Rice Krispies stuck in its fur; the other in its cast. I had goo in my hair. Then, this happened:
The damn spatula broke in half. Still, I forged ahead. (Red wine, gulp gulp.) I kept melting the butter and marshmallow dear God would it ever be melted why was it taking so long—“Outside, Mommy! Outsiiiiiide!”— and then finally, it was melted and I was ready to pour in the damn krispies, which were crunching underfoot (or was it the cat’s leg?).
I reached for Junior’s hands so he could help me mold the krispie goo into fun shapes like stars and vodka bottles, but guess what?
Freshly melted butter and marshmallow is hot.
Poor Junior.
Needless to say, there were no fun shapes. He wouldn’t even take a taste. I shoved enough in my mouth for both of us and washed it down with red wine.
I feel like such a fool. But I did it. And now I know to never do it again. Or at least wait until he's 35.
Happy birthday Junior. Even though we'd never be in a commercial, I love with all my sticky, gooey heart.
I’m starting a summer camp. Would you like to enroll? You can eat donuts and drink beer and file your nails and pick your nose: anything you want. The name of my camp is Camp Manynutsintree.
Camp Manynutsintree is a camp for sensitive people who overreact when dealing with their families, and by “family” I mean plain ole family, step-relatives, in-laws and long-lost relatives who have no teeth and live in the backwoods of Pennsylvania and who keep writing you letters asking if they can move in with you (everyone has one of those, don’t they?).
You check yourself in; ergo, you must recognize that you are prime Camp Manynutsintree campmeat. Let’s use a hypothetical example to illustrate who might be the ideal camper. Let’s use, ah heck, Chuck’s sister.
Let’s pretend that Chuck keeps calling his sister and inviting her and her children to the house so that Junior might actually be able to hang out with his cousins and not have to be introduced to them every time he sees them like they’re strangers off the street.
And let’s say that when Chuck’s sister keeps declining and using the excuse “I have so many errands to run” he finally asks, “Like what?”
This is where Chuck’s sister hypothetically freaks out and yells, “Are you serious?” and he says, “Yes!” and she makes up a bullshit list of laundry and grocery shopping. Later in this fictitious day, Chuck’s mother calls him and says, “I hear you and your sister had a terrible fight” and Chuck says, “We did?”
Yes, Camp Manynutsintree would be perfect for someone like this. It would also be perfect for someone say, like me, who hypothetically called Chuck’s sister later that make-believe week to see if she was coming to Junior’s birthday party this weekend, then freaked out when she hung up on me. Later in this fictitious day, Chuck called her and said, “I hear you hung up on my wife” and Chuck’s sister said, “I did?”
Turns out she was baking something, dropped the phone when she answered and, not recognizing my work number, decided not to return the call. I mean, ehem, that’s what I’m pretending happened for the sake of this illustrative example.
While enjoying the rolling hills and sparkling lake of Camp Manynutsintree, you’ll view pictures of benign exchanges between relatives. Every time you react with anything other than a forced smile, your buttcheeks will be zapped with non-lethal electrodes. This process facilitates what is known as a “proper conditioned response." It also facilitates minor weight loss.
If you enroll by July 30, you’ll receive the special rate of $49.95 per day. The typical stay is one week, though you can stay for longer if you’d like an extended break from your spouse/children/pets.
Since there’s no money-back guarantee, Camp Manynutsintree provides you with a roll of duct tape and some cement blocks, in case you just want to off your family members instead of turning your oversensitive frown upside-down.
Camp Manynutsintree: If nothing else, your ass will be smaller.
My poor coworker, Judy, was back at work today after spending the weekend in Maine. On Friday, she had confided in me that she and her fiance, Dan, were going to stay with friends and that while they were there, they were going to elope.
It was her second marriage, so Judy wanted something small and private. Just her and Dan on a beach with a Justice of the Peace and the friends with whom they were staying. Dan is a folk singer in the making; he wrote a love song and wanted to serenade her. He’s a shy guy, but he was comfortable singing in front of friends. Above all, they both wanted something intimate.
When I walked by her office this morning, I couldn’t wait to hear the details. I rushed in and asked, “How was it?”
“Strange! Terrible!” She burst into tears.
I nodded. Getting married is strange and terrible—but there was more.
What happened was this: Because they’re not familiar with the beaches of Maine, Dan and Judy told their friends to pick one for the ceremony. The day of the ceremony, the four piled into the van, along with Dan’s guitar and the Justice of the Peace, and headed off to...
....a carnival!
“We got m-m-m-married in front of two h-h-h-h-hundred people I didn’t even k-k-k-know!” she blubbered.
Yes, instead of taking Dan and Judy to a secluded beach so they could wed, their friends brought them to a noisy carnival. Dan and Judy said their vows into a microphone in a gazebo—“Everyone was d-d-d-d-drunk and yelling!”—while onlookers snapped photos and whistled. When they were done, people chanted for Dan to sing.
“His v-v-v-voice was cracking he was so nervous. S-s-s-someone threw beads and hit him in the eye.”
When Judy finally stopped crying, I feebly said, "At least you'll always remember it."
Then I backed slowly out of her office, because a woman who has just said her vows in front of 200 drunken townies is probably mad enough to knock your teeth out. And I really don't want to start looking like a Mulletvillenite.
I had something funny in mind for today's post. Chuck, Junior and I spent the weekend camping with friends and their children, and if six adults stuck in the woods with five children under the age of five doesn’t scream funny, I don’t know what does.
But then when we got home, I took Junior to Mulletville Park and everything changed.
When the planets align correctly, Mulletville Park can be a very nice place. There’s a pond you can walk around, picnic tables, ducks with mullets; it’s quite enjoyable.
Alas, today was not a day of celestial convergence. In fact, as I drove home, I vowed to never return and to write a letter to the mayor of Mulletville that read: “I’d rather live on a sinking, splintered river boat on a smelly polluted river of rotting fish and West Nile-infested mosquitoes alongside a family of lepers than in this town.”
The first problem with Mulletville Park is that the children’s playground is nestled in a spot at the top of a cliff. You can’t see it from the parking lot, so you never know if it’s crowded or not with other people’s brats. It’s like going on a blind date: You just have to hope it doesn’t suck too bad. Getting a stroller up and down the cliff pathway is harrowing. There should be a fricken t-bar.
The second problem is that there is no one in charge. The Mulletville police stop in from time to time to bust drug dealers, but not often enough. People swim and fish in the pond. The ducks quack and preen. Dogs roam. Radios blast. Ice cream trucks speed by. Drug dealers hide in trees. Chipmunks rally against squirrels. The Mulletville track team runs. It’s anarchy, I tell you.
Anyway. Today.
Today at the children’s playground it was me and Junior, two dads and their toddlers, and two moms with their older kids. A group of teenagers was sitting on a bench. Everything was going fine until one of the teenagers started fighting with his girlfriend. And oh my God, I know sometimes I have a bad mouth, but I was not prepared for:
F***ing whore F***ing bitch F***ing slut
And the worst of all disgusting, horrible words: F***ing c***
Shouted. Repeated.
I started to shake.
I am terrible in public situations involving conflict. Terrible. When a fight breaks out, I freak out. I often wish I could morph into a 350 pound muscular man with menacing facial hair and an authoritative voice so I could go around breaking up fights—instead of running from them—but all attempts thus far have been unsuccessful.
I looked at the dads to say something, but all they were doing was glaring. There was more:
F***ing whore F***ing bitch F***ing slut
And the worst of all disgusting, horrible words: F***ing c***
And more.
And more.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. If I could have willed myself a pair of testicles, they would have been the size of watermelons. I inched closer. I was so close to saying something and then, from below the cliff:
“Riccccccccckkky! Riccccccccckkky!”
His peeps were calling him. The group disbanded and disappeared.
I wanted to rip Ricky's head off. I wanted to shout to the parents, "Why didn't anyone say anything?" But then, why didn't I speak up? Why did I expect one of the dads to save the day? Sure, they would have fielded a punch better, but I can look tough.
Or not.
And Ricky, your name sucks. If you want to verbally abuse your girlfriend, why the hell do you need to do it on a children’s playground? I think that says more about your character than your trash mouth.
Holy shit. You guys are nuts. I hope I never cross any of you! Oreos with toothpaste filling? Syringes full of Ex-Lax? Open tuna fish cans hidden under desks? And (my personal favorite): stolen dirty underwear origamied to look like a wrapped sandwich?
No lack of imagination here.
But, I am so upset! You came up with so many glorious, vengeful ideas for Steve the Lunch Stealer and I can’t use one of them because look what was waiting for me today after I got back from my mid-morning meeting:
Not only did Steve come through with a replacement lasagna, he also left me my very own Sharpie pen so I can mark up my lunches with NOT STEVE'S LUNCH till the cows come home.
I heart Steve. I like how he bitchslapped me then came through in the end. What a catch!
The end.
(Was this anticlimactic? Cause I can still, like, give him food poisoning for fun. The hallways at work are so long; it's always entertaining to see a sprinter.)
Yesterday when I went to get my frozen lunch from the freezer it was gone. There was one frozen lunch and four boxes of frozen corn in there, all marked "Steve," so I walked down to Steve's office.
"Did you, um, eat my lunch by accident?" I asked nicely.
"Did I? I might have."
"Veggie lasagna?"
"Shoot. That explains why the box didn't have my name on it."
Awkward, drawn out pause.
"I, um, don't have a lunch now..."
"Right! Have my tofu lasagna."
Yuck. I would rather sprinkle moldy cheese and gizzards on my toes, mash them into my shoes, run five miles and lick the goo off than eat tofu lasagna.
"I don't really like tofu," I said, this time not as nicely. More like, Hey, jackass, you ate my lunch, how about $5?
"Shoot, sorry," he said. "Next time write your name on the box."
I was about to say, "Ok, sure," but why? Why was it my fault he ate my lunch? So I said, "Next time eat the lunch with your name on it."
I shot him death rays, but he was already back to typing. Apparently we have not progressed from our days on the playground.
I need a plan. A carefully hatched plan of revenge. Yeeeessssss. Mwaaahahahahaa.
Our poor kitty is doing just fine, thank you. I particularly enjoy the thunks as she drags herself across the kitchen floor. And how Junior tries to pull her leg off as he screams, “That’s mine! That’s mine!”
Yes, everything belongs to Junior these days, including things that are melded to other creatures.
But let’s get back to me. I didn’t even get a chance to write about our weekend in Assachusetts (oops, did I forget the “M”?). We stayed with friends at their beach house. As purdy as their beach house was, it was very small.
Like, when we pulled up to the house, our car was bigger.
Shudder.
Our friends let us use their guest room, which was generous of them, but the minor caveat—that Chuck and I had to push twin beds together if we wanted to sleep together—was a major pain in the ass. Nothing says personal hell like sleeping in the fucking crack.
Even though Chuck promised he wouldn't push me into the crack, it's where I spent most of my time. I kept telling him that it wasn’t imperative we spoon, but he chose this weekend to get all soft on me.
“I’m not sleeping apart on a holiday weekend!”
Silly Chuck. I guess he hasn’t referenced his Nuptial Manual lately. It clearly states that on holidays celebrated with heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, you spoon. On holidays celebrated with explosives and fire, it’s perfectly acceptable to sleep wherever you want as long as you get a good night's sleep.
By the second night I was scoping out other places to crash, like the bathtub and roof. A hotel room was also an attractive option, though our friends wouldn’t hear of it.
Oh how I wanted to hear of it.
Did I mention that our friends forgot to mention that their other friends were also staying with them? Junior bunked with us, which meant he had a bird's eye view of us from his Pack 'n Play.
He woke up at 6:10 both mornings.
“Hi, Mommy! Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? What's that? Bird’s fyin’! Juice, mommy? What’s Dadda doin’ Mommy? Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? I took a nap. Dadda's sleepin'. I want some juice, Mommy. What's that? Juice, mommy? What’s Dadda doin’ Mommy? Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? I took a nap. Bird’s fyin’! Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? Juice, mommy? What’s Dadda doin’ Mommy? Whatchoo doin’ Mommy? I took a nap.”
After I pulled myself out of the crack, Chuck and I walked Junior to the beach so he wouldn’t wake up the rest of the matchbox. You know who else is at the beach at 6:15 a.m.? Other parents of kids who wake up too early at their friends' beach house.
We made some nice friends; I think next time we’ll stay with them.
Note: In all the hubbub I totally forgot to mention the winner of the numbers! Congratulations, Baby News.
And found that one of our fat cats had broken her leg.
Since neither of our cats really moves, we are quite perplexed.
Ever spent a holiday weekend trying to find a veterinary hospital that's open? Ever had a veterinary assistant who was intent on giving your cat a cast to match her coat, even though you insisted that a plain white one was fine because there were a million other things you'd rather be doing on the fourth of July than watch a young guy who was obviously smoking something pick yellow and black tape for your fat cat's leg?
When I was in sixth grade, I had a friend named Rachel. Rachel’s mom was a doll fanatic, so Rachel’s bedroom was full of dolls. Like this
And this
Even though Rachel had trouble sleeping at night because hundreds of frozen porcelain faces were staring at her, her mother wouldn’t let her get rid of the dolls. When I slept over, we’d lie in bed and beg the dolls not to kill us in our sleep. If we were feeling particularly brazen we’d huck rolls of toilet paper at them and hope they’d fall behind the dresser. If they didn’t, we’d really freak out because the maimed doll would be staring up at us from the floor like this
And we all know that pissed off dolls can slide across the floor and under the bed and attack you as soon as you close your eyes.
Poor Rachel.
Well, no, poor me. Rachel is now living a happy doll-free existence while I work with…
The Doll Family.
Yes!
Mr. Doll works in the office next to mine. He has pale, transparent white skin and watery blue eyes. His lips are always a little pink. When our paths cross and he looks at me, I flashback to Rachel’s room and see this
Mrs. Doll is a stay-at-home mom to their two children. She visits all the time. She has long, shiny blonde hair and those same freaky eyes. Like this, without the, um, hat or pearl choker
She has a habit of standing in front of their kids, who are eerily quiet, and freezing you mid-step with her doll eye mindmeld. When she finally steps aside so you can greet the children, they stare up at you, like this
I have to refrain from covering my eyes and screeching “No God noooooooooooooo!” I know no one wants her children to elicit that reaction. But one day, so help me, I know it’s going to slip out.
Lately Mrs. Doll has been all, “Don’t you have a two-year-old son? Would you like to do a playdate?”
Inside I’m all I don’t know if I can spend more than two minutes looking at your creepy doll face and scary doll kids what if they eat Junior. Outwardly, I’m all “Suuuuuuuuure. Of cooooooooooourse. Let’s do thaaaaaaaaaaat.” Big nods. Big steps backward.
When I told Chuck about it, he told me I was being ridiculous.
Who me? Ridiculous?
I’ll tell you what: If we do schedule a playdate, I’m bringing my toilet paper.
Happy Fourth of July! May it be filled with fireworks, wieners and quality beer.
Last year at this time I was mentally preparing to go back to work after spending a year at home with Junior. It was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever made. For old time's sake, I took a stroll down memory lane. If you'd like to join me, I offer this.
Despite all the things that have changed in a year—Chuck getting laid off, Junior learning how to talk (incessantly)—there are things that haven't changed. I'm still pissed off most of the time (maybe it's time for a kickboxing class or yoga), and we still live in Mulletville.
Last night, though, as I was walking around the neighborhood with Junior, I decided to try to focus more on the positive. Even though I'm afraid to leave my downstairs windows open at night because we were robbed by a crackhead (minor detail) and every bump makes me jump, there's a historic green within walking distance, and a park nearby with a pond (everyone loves a good pond). We don't spend much on eating out because our only options are Wendy's, the 99 and Fred's Fry Shack. We rarely sit in traffic. We're far enough and close enough that in-laws can visit; they just need to make a phone call before hopping in the car.
We live by a beautiful stone church and hear church bells all day. All.Day. When there are weddings, I am reminded of all the ways friends and families celebrate their love for each other and hope for the future. I've been really successful at not yelling, "Don't do it! Run!" When there are funerals, I am reminded that we are here for such a short time. Seriously, a blip.
One night, a few weeks ago, I walked Junior up to the church door to admire the flowers. A priest appeared. Italian accent; like something out of the movies. He touched Junior's head and blessed him.
Now, I'm not an overly religious person. I believe what I believe and I'd prefer to keep that to myself, but I often look back at that moment. Blessed on a walk. Sure we had to step over some crack pipes to get there, but it was a touching moment. And remember, this post is a half-ode.
