There's one in every family, plus, a giveaway

Sunday night. Five p.m. Chez Mullets. Cupboard is bare.

Mrs. Mullet: “Bald man-stallion*? My aunt invited us over for Sunday dinner.”

Chuck: Silence.

Mrs. Mullet: “Do you want to go?”

Chuck: Silence.

Mrs. Mullet: “Are you listening to me?”

Chuck: “I think I’m going to pass.”

Mrs. Mullet: “You’re married with a kid. There are no passes.”

Chuck: “I don’t want to see your aunt.”

Mrs. Mullet: “Why not?”

Chuck: “Because."

Mrs. Mullet: “Because...?”

Chuck: “Because she tries to kiss me. On the lips. Every time.”

Mrs. Mullet: “Bullshit.”

Chuck: “See?!” Whips out our wedding album. Thumbs to page gazillion. Points to this



Mrs. Mullet: “You can take a little tongue for pot roast...”

* So shoot me, I'm trying to make amends for my wandering eye.

Is it cheating if I just touch it for a second?

I really needed a night out. Even Junior, who is normally “Play with my trains, Mommy! Play with my trains, Mommy!” said, “Go to a bar and have a drink, Mom, you deserve it.”

Such a sweet toddler.

So last night I met my friend Jenna and her friend at a bar. Jenna’s friend was a man, and he had thick, wavy hair. Somehow I ended up sitting between them. Somehow I fought the urge to run my fingers through his thick, wavy hair all night. I kept catching glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye. It was vibrating on his head like some kind of vixenous cabana boy, one that cried, “Squeeze me, baby! I’m yours!”

He caught me staring—he even offered to let me touch his head—but I knew that once I started I would have embarked on a long and frenzied journey, one that involved joyous screeching and people staring.

God, I miss having thick, wavy hair in my life.

Sometimes when Chuck and I are lying in bed I arrange my hair so it's covering his forehead; then I caress it—just so I can pretend for a moment that I’m with someone who has hair in which I can frolic.

Ok, I’m totally kidding. Chuck and I don’t lounge in bed enough for me to play Twister with our heads. But you get the point. Instead of this



I’d just like to have this for a day



I’d also like to not be so hung over right now. But at least they make Tylenol for that.

P.S. Chuck, I'm sorry about this post. If you'd wear your damn Halloween wigs more than once a year we could get through this together. Baby.

I take one freaken nap a year and this is what happens

I decided against the lobotomy. If I can't say no to red wine with a brain, imagine what would happen without one. Instead I called in sick yesterday and took a long nap.

Things were going swimmingly until I woke up in a panic. I had dreamed that I was standing over my boss's desk and seen this manual:



I'm actually a little scared to go to work today.

But then again, which of my office tales could anyone possibly take offense to? George's alleged threesome? The Speed Oglers? The creepy doll family? My Legend of Billy Jean co-worker? The Breastfeeding Task Force? The ponytail sex freak?

See, I have [sweating profusely] nothing to worry about.

(Pray for me.
Pray for me.
Pray for me.)

When someone says rustic, you should probably ask her to elaborate

I'm baa-aaack. Where have I been?

Here.



In the Cabin From Hell.

Right after I posted my sandwich love story last Thursday, my cousin, Megan, called me. Her mother, Michelle—my mom’s sister—and she were renting a cabin on a lake in New Hampshire. She thought it would be great fun if my mother and I joined them for an extended all girls' weekend—with Junior, of course (I guess his testicles aren’t mature enough to count as contributing to the hormone pool).

Megan assured me it would be the perfect way to celebrate my mother's birthday so Friday morning into the car we went.

You know how when you start driving toward your vacation destination and bad things start happening (traffic from construction work, torrential downpours, broken sunglasses, forgotten cell phones, misplaced wallets, etc.), you start to think, “Gee, maybe we should turn back”?

We should have turned back.

It rained for four days straight.

You might assume that an indoor day trip or some other recreational distraction would solve the problem of what the fuck do we do it's raining again? but no, Aunt Michelle had used vacation time to stay at a cabin on a lake and godammit we were going to stay at the cabin.

And when I say "stay" I mean:

• drink in the lovely aroma of mildew and wet towels

• fend off spiders and wriggling bugs that clearly wanted to eat our flesh

• sleep in twin beds in one room around Junior’s Pack 'n Play

• try to navigate a toilet that leaned to one side every time you sat down

There were some rays of sunshine, like an unexpected visit from my mother’s other sister, Diane. After watching her guzzle beer from a can for three days, Junior started pointing to fellow campers carrying cans and shouting, “He’s drinking a beer!” Funny? Maybe, but not so much when it’s a six-year-old holding a can of Pepsi and his mother gives you the how-does-your-two-year-old-know-beer-comes-in-a-can look.

Ah, screw ’em.

(Are you wondering where Diane slept? I’ll tell you: on an air mattress in the kitchen. Climbing over someone to make coffee while holding a toddler who’s shouting, “She’s sleepin’ Mommy! She’s sleepin’ in a bed! Look, Mommy! She’s sleepin’!” really bites.)

On Monday afternoon, the sky finally cleared and we were ready to sing Happy Birthday to my mother (Aunt Michelle wouldn’t sing unless the sun was out—at that point I was ready to club her and drag her body down to the lake). I carefully brought the cake across the campground—I’d kept it in the community fridge in the main lodge all weekend—and as I was walking, I tripped over a tree stump



and fell cake-first into my mother’s car door. Then the cake fell on the ground.

How very fitting.

And now I’m home. My lobotomy is scheduled for tomorrow morning.

Shall I read between the teeth marks, my love?

Dear Chuck,

First, thank you for making my lunch today. When we were sitting at dinner last night and I told you about my stay-at-home mom friend, Marcia, who lovingly makes lunch for her husband every morning, you took the clue and got your ass in gear. I could have done without the mound of mayonnaise and three slices of cheese, but I'll chalk it up to you being new to the whole weight conscious aspect of my life.

Second, you really were listening when I told you how Marcia personalizes the lunch each day by leaving a love note in her hubby's lunch bag and how I'd swoon over such affection. Your interpretation of said conversation was a bit lacking, however. Taking a bite out of my sandwich and leaving a note that reads, "Bite me" hardly oozes hearts and flowers—though you were consistent in your message. As someone in marketing, I can really appreciate that.



Let's regroup and try this again next week, shall we?

Kisses and donkey farts,
Your wife

P.S. George's status on Facebook is "single." I'm just sayin'.

Loose lips sink moldy cubicles (also known as I'm not gone yet)

Do you have a family member or friend or co-worker who is always in the know? And is that person’s tongue so loose you sometimes worry it’ll drop right out of his or her mouth and slither down the street, slapping everything and everyone in its wake with such force, people and objects will be rocketed into outer space?

Yah, me too. Her name is Patty, and she works at my company. She knows—or portends to know—everything about everyone. For this reason, we call her Patty Post.

As fascinating as it is to talk to her (or rather, let her talk at you), I sometimes feel dirty afterward. Dirty as in I ate a bag of Funyuns, washed it down with some Nutter Butters and a liter of Pepsi, then licked a sugar bowl.

Anyway, missing co-worker Georgie Porgie came back yesterday morning and had the nerve to act like nothing had happened. After covering for his ass all week, I felt I deserved an explanation or, at the very least, a fricken thank you.

Nothing.

So while I was in the break room, I casually mentioned to Patty Post that George was back. And I waited.

0.2 seconds later I learned the reason(s) behind George's absence. Apparently, George hasn’t been getting any lovin’ from his wife. For, like, three years. And even though he and his wife have an agreement whereby she declared a complete loss of libido and gave George clearance to go to the “massage” parlor whenever he needed to—no questions asked—George decided to pop in and see his neighbor while his wife was away on business for the week.

Not only did George “see” his neighbor, he also “saw” her husband.

Over, and over, and over.

And over again.

Patty fed me so many scandalous details—weeklong orgy! midnight toga parties! weed and booze!—I upturned the entire bottle of Cremora. The whole time I kept thinking:

a) George and his neighbor and her husband?

b) OMG this explains why I was feeling feisty while sitting in George’s cubicle: all his unrequited lust must have impregnated the stagnant air and attacked my brain

c) George and his neighbor and her husband?

By the time Patty was done, I didn’t know where to put my Cremora. Up my nose? Down my pants? I felt I should do something for dramatic effect.

Whether or not the story is true (and I’ll never know; Patty claims her source was a neighbor of a neighbor of a friend of the husband), a few things are clear:

a) Patty can weave a damn good tale. She should get herself a blog. Or an agent.

b) George may very well be leading an exciting home life. He should get himself a blog. Or an agent.

c) Except for one person—me, hello—George just got a lot more popular with the ladies and the men at my office.

Schwing!

George better be at his desk tomorrow

Thank you, everyone.

In response to the question, “Should Mrs. Mullet get negged for Portrait Painter Man” an astounding number of you—36!—said yes, I should do it.

Hah. It’s so easy to suggest someone else take her clothes off. (For the record, 11 of you said no, 6 of you didn’t care—yet you cared enough to vote—and 8 of you stopped reading after the heinous foot picture.)

And now…dun dun dun…my decision:

Forgettaboutit. No way, no how. Nope.

I know—you think I’m a wuss. Actually, I was all set to say yes. I had even psyched myself up for it (as much as one can). But then, I went back to Portrait Painter Man’s studio for another sitting, and we started talking about how he chooses poses. I joked, “Surely I’m the first to sit astride this armchair [because it’s such a silly pose]” and he put down his brush and showed me his collection of paintings featuring other women sitting in the exact same pose. Some were naked. Ok, many were naked.

And I had an ew moment. Like, ew, I don’t want to join his collection of girls. I thought I was special. Now? I feel so…so…cliché. Sniffle, sniffle.

But I’ll get over it.

Something else factored into my decision, and that was lack of time (or, rather, lack of desire to lose any more time sitting on top of an armchair). And it, um, is a good segue into my next decision. I’ve been struggling lately to manage work, life, cuddle time with Junior, couch time with Chuck, groceries, stressing, vacuuming, laundry, eating, sleeping. I need to fricken relax more. I’ve had an idea for a children’s book for 10 years—10 fucking years!—and it finally hit me that it’s not going to write itself. So I’m cutting back on my posting. I realize I’m probably committing blog suicide by doing this, but it’s a chance I’m going to have to take.

Fully dressed, of course.

For once I'm not talking about George the monkey

George—the man who has been missing from my company all week—is still missing, so I sat in his stinky manspace all morning trying to help his team streamline their workload. Our company is broken into teams, which are really catty little bitchhoods comprised of a whiner, a slacker, a token hot person, a token weird person, and someone obsessed with finding or providing snacks.

To spearhead someone else’s team is not only impossible, it sucks monkey balls sprinkled with cow dung.

Where the fuck is George?

Some of George’s friends have called his house and cell phone. No answer. Someone else did a drive-by. Nothing. I don’t know George well, but his team doesn’t seem too concerned so either:

a) He is dead and no one cares or

b) His team killed him and they’re doing a bad job of hiding their ambivalence

Sitting at someone else’s cubicle is weird, especially when you are used to having an office with a door that closes and locks—and especially when the person whose workspace you are inhabiting may have been eaten by an alligator or engulfed by an oversized mullet. I may have actually befriended the mold; in a sea of gray boxes, it’s a nice reminder that the natural world still exists.

Where the fuck is George?

Although…

Don't tell anyone: George’s cubicle is carpeted in gray, well, carpet and being around all the carpet has actually made me kind of randy. I think it’s the subliminal reminder that at any moment I could be lying on the ground, you know, doing it. Or it’s the 3.3 pounds I’ve lost. Or maybe the mold spores have infiltrated my hypothalamus.

Or, most likely, it’s the token hot person three cubes over.

Speaking of lying down without clothes on, I realize I made a major faux pas. According to the "Should Mrs. Mullet get negged [for Portrait Painter Man]?" poll, there are still two days left to vote. Since I said I’d make my decision based on the results, I can't possibly jump the gun and make a decision now.

Whatever was I thinking?

I'm starting to think the missing man may have been eaten by mold

Holy crap.

Someone in my department up and decided to drop off the face of the planet, so I've been helping to pick up the slack. His cube and his team are across the building, which means marathon sprints down the halls every time there's a team meeting.

I've lost 3.3 pounds in three days.

Know what else? The missing man has some kind of mold infestation in his cubicle. Whenever I'm forced to sit there, I sneeze. So much so that the dude sitting next to me now holds up a little sign that reads, "Bless you" because he got tired of saying it.

He also sighs before he holds up the sign. Bite me, okay?

I'm sorry I haven't been around much—all the extra work and sprinting mean Mrs. Mullet is an absolute slug by the end of the day. But I'm sure the body, er, man, will turn up any day now.

Oh, and I finally made a decision about the posing nude thing...but eek! It's already 7:52 a.m. and I only have one eye mascara-ed.

I lost my blogging mojo so I'm using a poll to distract you

Ok, so the real reason you haven't heard from me for a few days is that Chuck came home from his stupid camping trip on Thursday night, and I just didn't feel like writing anything—mainly because it would have sounded like this:

%#(%@^&%#@^&%@^&*%!(*&lousysack(*@)^)(*&(*@)^)&@%#^&%@#^&peckerhead%@(^&%^&@#%#(%@^&%#@^&%@^&*%!*@)^)&campingforaweekdipshit(*@)^)

And that's no fun.

But everything's fine now. Except for one thing.

Do you remember Portrait Painter Man? I met him through work eons ago, and he asked if he could paint my portrait. Stupidly, I said yes. I say stupidly because it’s boring as hell sitting still for hours. Limbs fall asleep. Sometimes I have gas and really need to toot. I’ve been sitting for him for months now.

Also, Portrait Painter Man has horrible, ugly feet like this



and enjoys painting barefoot. As much as I try not to look at them, there they are, like something out of a horror movie. Plus, he likes to talk about his art—yawn—and technique—stretch.

But he’s almost done and I have to say, even though I’m just another lady to join his vast collection, he did capture Mrs. Mullet’s likeness. Except for the enormous fictitious jugs. But I suppose I can let that go.

As we were finishing up Saturday morning, he asked if I would consider posing for another painting.

In the nude.

After I’d regained my composure I said I’d—nervous giggle—think about—nervous snort—it. When I got in the car, I called Chuck: “I'm still mad at you. Can I pose nude for a painting?”

First he replied, “No.” Then, a few seconds later he said, “But if it’s on your to-do list, I won’t stop you.”

Right, because my to-do list looks like this:

1) Learn Italian
2) Get the hell out of Mulletville
3) Experience extreme awkwardness/humiliation posing naked for painting

No.Help.

I contemplated the question the whole ride home. I weighed the reasons to say yes:

Portrait Painter Man is a respectable artist who charges up to $30,000 for his figure paintings. He is well-known and admired. When I’m 80 I can pretend I'm the woman from the Titanic movie. Blah blah bah.

Then I contemplated the reasons to say no: I will have to be naked. He seems to have painted everyone and their mother in the nude. I will have to be naked.

I emailed my friends and asked them if I should do it. Responses ranged from “What is the purpose of the portrait of you nude?” (I’m guessing to see me naked?) to “I probably would do it, it will be cool to see when you’re old and fat.”

Such helpful people, I swear. When I got home, I Googled “reasons to pose nude” and discovered a bevy of helpful sites.

A bevy.

Like, this hilarious article, an anonymous "I Pose Nude" Forum & Chat Board (you know, in case I decide to do it and things go awry), and, probably least helpful, the reasons why Kate Hudson loves to pose for nude photographs.

No.Help.

So, look, I’m on the fence here. I’d be more inclined to do it if Portrait Painter Man didn’t:

a) already have such an extensive collection of paintings of naked women in his studio

b) have such grotesque feet.

But when else will someone ask to paint me nude? This seems like one of those things that only happen once in a lifetime. Then again, so does getting struck by lighting, and no one's lining up for that.

So, fess up: Would you do it? Should I do it? I added a little poll on the side; I’m thinking* that I’ll make my decision based on the results.

*I said thinking.

I added my own fruit

You haven't heard from me in awhile.

And this is why.

Isn't it beeyooteeful?

When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will...freak out in the shower

When I was in college, my mother had a dinner party. I had gone home for the weekend and was in bed early with a fever (don’t you love when college kids bring their foreign germs home and infect the household?). Around 11 p.m. I walked into the living room, sat on my mother’s friend’s lap and tried to pull the curtain off the rod so I could use it as a blanket.

According to mother, I turned to Mrs. Mattie (the woman whose lap I’d chosen) and said, “There’s a tick in my bed.”

And so begins the sleepwalking phase of Mrs. Mullet's life.

I don’t think it has anything to do with the fever; I think it’s genetic. My dad used to move furniture in his sleep. I’ve never rearranged the living room, but I have walked dorm and apartment hallways and for some reason, I have always tried to sit on my roommates while they’re sleeping and tell them about insects and/or animals in my bed and/or room.

They loved me.

The idea of sleepwalking seems funny, but it actually sucks to wake up and not know where the hell you are or what you're doing. It also sucks to have someone say, “Do you know what you did last night?"

If I’m going to do something remarkable in my bed, I’d like to remember it.

Anyway. Last night.

I awoke as I was about to climb into the shower. The light was off. I was holding a can of Diet Coke. It was 3:45.

Over breakfast, I stupidly opened my mouth and told my mother (she spent the night since Chuck's—still—away). All day, she called me at work. Why now? Why Diet Coke? Why when she's here? (Gee, I don't know, could the stress of working full-time, watching a bipolar toddler and having my mother at my house for the last few days somehow spur my subconscious into overdrive? Could it be?)

Nah.

I actually think it's this:



It's one of those Top 1o tricks to frizz-free hair thingamabobs and it says to pour dark beer over your head.

Except we don't have any. (Doesn't that seem unnecessarily cruel, given my current circumstances?) All month I've been thinking I'm going to pour the damn beer over my head once and for all and blog about it and share my findings with the world!

In its own special way, my darling subconscious must have tried to cross off one of the items on my to-do list.

Aww.

Now, sadly, instead of insider frizz information, all I can offer is an unsexy sleepwalking shower story involving Diet Coke and a comatose mother. Yah, sorry about that. Tomorrow I'll, you know, make up a shower story involving musk-scented bath gel and three 25-year-old gymnasts, ok? Oh, and dark beer.

This is my fourth and last installment of "When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will..." series, which will chronicle my adventures while my good-for-nothing husband frolics in the woods all week.

When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will...go to bed at 8:30

I'm not kidding. I am so—

—Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will...encounter something from her past (dun dun dun)

The environs of Mulletville are duping me! I keep wanting to write snarky posts about the mini trips I take to its hot spots, but the experiences keep getting lovelier.

Curses!

Yesterday, my friend and I went on Buttonwood Farm's hayride through the sunflowers. No one wheezed or got poked in the butt (at least not that I'm aware of). The hayride wasn't crowded even though it was a gorgeous Saturday. You can buy bunches of sunflowers after the ride for $5 and the proceeds benefit the Make-A-Wish Foundation. (How great is that?)

The best part? During the ride you can get licked by cows. Yipee!



They come right up to the tractor and eat hay out of your hands. Their tongues are rough, purplish and disgusting. If you try to put your toddler's hands close to their tongues, your toddler will shriek, "Nooooo, Mommy! Noooooo, Mommy!" at such a loud, bloodcurdling decibel you're certain DCF will be waiting for you after the ride.

On the way back to Mulletville, my friend and I stopped at an antiques store. Which is when I found this:



It's ugly right? It took me a minute to figure out why it looked so familiar, and then it hit me: It was my mother's. When my parents divorced in 1983, my father kept the house and my mother moved out. Whatever she left behind, he sold in a tagsale (ah, memories). This picture, my friends, has apparently been touring the Connecticut circuit for 26 years. My mom's initials are actually on the back of the frame.

When I was a kid, the picture gave me the creeps. I thought the picture was of a caveman baby (cavebaby?) and its bearded father and that they were somehow related to us. Why else would my mother hang a picture of cavepeople over the kitchen table?

The toothless antiques dealer who sold me the print for $1.50 corrected me: It's a baby and its mother (yah, I shared my cavebaby story with him). The "fur" is just a shadow.

Uh huh.

I'm not sure where to hang it. I could put it in Junior's room and continue the cycle of cavebaby torture, or I could let it collect dust under the bed alongside our other unhung treasures.

What about you? Has anything from your past ever made its way back to you when you least expected it (exes not included)? And where the hell do you think I should hang it?

This is my second installment of "When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will..." series, which will chronicle my adventures while my good-for-nothing husband frolics in the woods all week. Jerk.

When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will...play with her buttonwood

Chuck’s camping for the week (I swear he drugged me and I drooled out a “yes” when he asked if he could go), so this morning my friend and I are taking our toddlers to majestic Buttonwood Farm for a hayride through the sunflowers.

After I stopped laughing hysterically at the hokey song on the website (click it, you’ll see what I mean), I allowed myself to get all goofy with how purdy and picturesque it could be.

Can’t you see it? Wet cow patties warmed by the sun. Smelly hay poking you in the ass. Connecticut’s haze and humidity beating down on your gnat-swarmed face. Junior shouting, “It’s mine!” at every passing sunflower.

Aaaaaaaaaaah.

Then there’s the asthma thing. My friend has already warned me that if her daughter has any problems breathing because of the hay, we are jumping off the wagon and booking it back to the car.

Today is starting to look a little like this in my mind:



Buttonbutt Farm? Your sweet taste of the country better be super sweet. Cause it's been a long week.

This is my first installment of "When the hub’s away, Mrs. Mullet will..." series, which will chronicle my adventures while my good-for-nothing husband frolics in the woods all week. You want excitement? Get it here, baby.