Call RotoRooter! My $80 face is in the drain!

I'm sick. I spent yesterday lying in bed. The entire day. I cannot remember the last time that happened. Maybe the year I was born. Or the year I dated a gymnast. Though that wasn't really lying. More like letting someone practice his front handsprings on my thighs.

Ah, the limber days of youth.

As hard as I tried, I could not get off the QVC channel. The spokespeople are so fricken convincing. They get you in some kind of mind meld. You find yourself standing in front of the TV shouting "yes! yes! It is magic!"

Before I knew it, two hours had passed and I'd ordered $80 worth of make-up. Now I'm nervous. I don't know how to apply make-up other than the rudimentary slapping on of foundation and mascara. I can make up my face, but whenever I go for night time glamor/drama/glitter (you know, once every decade), I look more like an uptight hooker (I have a fatal wardrobe condition known as always-dressed-like-it's-a-workday).

I told Chuck about my purchase and how 2010 will be the year I look more polished and do you know what he said?

"Don't! You'll only look uglier!"

My husband. It's a wonder I ever let that gymnast dismount.

Chuck quickly backpedaled, saying that women who wear make-up 24-7 look extra horrible without make-up because you forget what they look like au natural. He said he likes my natural beauty. Blah, blah, blah. I guess I forgive him.

But I do not forgive the people who created this:



Ignoring the irony that's ravaging my insides (extra ass in our thin-obsessed society? are you kidding me?) I must ask: Am I the only person who doesn't know about this product? I almost fell out of bed laughing when the commercial aired. Between all the padded products on the market (like the Victoria's Secret Miraculous™ push-up bra, which adds two cup sizes), you'd think we were a bunch of flat chested, bony-assed stick figures.

(Obviously we're not. According to the American Demographics journal, the average American woman is 5'4" tall, weighs 145 lbs. with a dress size of 11 to 14, has a 36-37" bust, is about 29" around the waist and close to 40" around the hips.)

I want to know: What happens when you meet a guy and decide to get horizontal? What happens when you remove your undergarments and you have no ass or breasts? I want to be a guy for a night just so I can witness the metamorphosis. Just so I can say, "Is it just me or is all your booty on the rug?"

I guess in a way it's like washing off make-up. Like, "Is it just me or is all your pretty in the drain?"

Wow, man. Daytime television gets you thinking—about incinerating your TV.

Happy New Year! I hope you—and your booty—have a great night.

In hindsight, coming home smelling like fish would probably suck. Oh, and sorry about all the bags and asses

I have a nasty case of the post-holiday blues. Apparently they’re pretty common, seeing how the world is ending in 2012 (why, John Cusack, why?) and it’s no longer good enough to overhaul just certain aspects of your life, like your snaggly cuticles or inability to stand up to your boss. No, now you must change everything:



Talk about pressure. I like how the Yankee magazine people added “for the better!” Just in case you weren’t sure. Just in case you thought this was an article on how to royally fuck up everything.

EVERYTHING.

The year 2010 is particularly traumatic for me because I am turning 35 on January 4. I had assumed that self-reflection would help smooth my descent into 2010 and close-to-middle-age-dom. You know, a few days of Who am I and how did my ass get so big? But after Googling “dying inside after Christmas” I stumbled upon an article that said not to peer inward.

According to Susan Battley, PsyD, PhD, a leadership psychologist and clinical associate professor at State University of New York at Stony Brook: “If you keep looking back at the old year—especially last year—you will get into a downward spiral.”

(I'm curious what the "old year" might be if it's not "last year." 1982 maybe?)

Battley believes in something she calls Three BAGs Full. A BAG is a Big Audacious Goal. She says that three is the absolute maximum and that one might be more realistic. I like the idea of only having one to three goals, but I absolutely detest the word audacious; why not Big Ass Goal?

Alas, the BAG acronym is her brainchild, not mine.

The perky Battley is nice enough to provide suggestions for people’s BAGs. I was nice enough to provide my responses:

• Learn a second language. No. I don’t feel like it.

• Volunteer. I already do; every night I volunteer that night’s culinary disaster to the garbage can.

• Make more money. Bite me.

• Join a dating service. Ok, but I’ll have to check with Chuck first.

• Change careers.

Aahhhhh, change careers. Now there’s something I can dig my teeth into. Why, just yesterday as Junior and I were watching the sea lion show at Mystic Aquarium, I was thinking that exact thing. I marveled at how active the sea lion trainers were; how their jobs were so hands-on and varied. Then I thought about my own job and how I spend 35 hours a week sitting on my ass.

Why? Why did I choose such a sedentary career? Why, when the high school guidance counselor separated us into groups of those who’d like to sit for a living and those who’d like to stand, did I pick the sitters? If I’d played my cards differently, I could be tossing raw fish into the mouth of a 600-pound sea creature and paying my bills all at the same time! Just me, my perky butt and fish.

Heavenly.

So, that’s one of my BAGs. In 2010 I’m going to change careers. At the top of my list are: belly dancing instructor, Mulletville investigative reporter and professional dart-ist (don’t laugh: the average salary for professional dart player is $73,000). Wouldn’t that be sweet poetic justice?

My second BAG is to learn how to stuff stuff into stuff. Like these:



and these:



Yep, that about does it. The new me: a belly dancing, food stuffing dart thrower. Aim high, Mrs. Mullet, aim high.

(Admit it. You want me—even in my 35-year-old faded glory. You do!)

Happy, um, holiday wrap-up. There's some cheer in here, I swear

After having a buttload of company this last week, I feel like the parade has kicked me off the float and continued down the street without me. Luckily I’ve been feeding my face so much that I have the extra padding to support a fall. A very long fall.

God, I hate holiday pudge.

I couldn’t help it though. I’m a nervous eater, a social eater and a solitary eater. I also eat when I see someone crying into his food instead of putting it into his mouth—like my brother. He barely touched his food. Instead he spent four days at my house sleeping and playing online poker.

He’s decided not to get back together with his ex fiancée, Holly, but he still missed her, and so did I. Not just because she puffs, but because I am now the cheese that stands alone again. The sad, little cheese amidst a family of sausages (more specifically, my single father, my brother and Chuck). Sausages that fart too much, have a tendency to be sexist and who blame perfectly reasonable rants on fluctuating hormones.

Bastard sausages!

Poor Mrs. Mullet.

The last family trip we went on to France (pre-Junior, in 2004) was so traumatic I can’t even look at the pictures. Well, no, the reason I can’t look at the pictures is that I look like absolute shit in all of them. My testoster-filled company gave me no lead time in the morning. They’d wake up and want to jump right into the car. There was no time for primping or preening or even showering.

Even by French standards, I don’t think a shower every four days is unreasonable.

Not only that, they wouldn’t let me read the map. They wouldn’t let me drive. They wouldn’t even let me play darts at the pub! I was so furious about that, I got drunk, grabbed a dart from my brother’s hand, hucked it at the board and yelled, “How’s that for someone with tits?”

(I’d like to lie here and say I got a bull’s-eye but the damn dart hit the board and fell to the floor, confirming my dickhead family’s assertion that I couldn’t throw darts. I did, however, catch the attention of an Irish man who liked my bravado and wanted my number. Too bad dumb Chuck was standing next to me.)

Knowing this, you can imagine my complete lack of interest in a Sausage and Cheese family trip, part deux, which would now include a toddler.

A male toddler.

Holly, will you marry me?

(Pssssst, Chuck? This is why your Christmas gift of a GPS was lukewarmly received. If I want to use a map—which I am perfectly capable of doing—I will use a godamn map!)

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Beards

I recently learned that my aunt shaves her face with a razor and that my cousin had eyebrows tattooed on because she plucked them off and they never grew back. I wish I'd known that before I bought their Christmas presents. Shaving cream is a lot less expensive than electronics.

My brother’s ex-fiancée Holly came over last night. She brought a bottle of wine and fancy cheese. I fed her tator tots. I guess that qualifies as our second date.

Holly now knows the relationship is officially over because my brother set his Facebook status to "single." Fucking Facebook.

Things were going great (well, better) until my brother called my house phone and left a message. She cried when she heard his voice. I jumped up and gave her her Christmas present—I thought it might cheer her up.

“I love it!” she said. Then she burst into tears again. Turns out the colors in the scarf I’d given her—turquoise and pink—were going to be the colors in her bridal party.

Brilliant.

She’s only 22 but she knows she loves my brother. She also knows she wants to settle down and have kids. She said she’s known since eighth grade, when her teacher asked everyone what profession they wanted to pursue and she answered “I want to be a mom.”

Do you know that the teacher wouldn’t accept her answer? She made Holly pick “an actual profession” (the teacher’s words).

Blasphemy.

Holly's present is the only one I've bought so far. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for. Maybe for things to be 100% off. Oh wait, that's shoplifting.

We're having 20 people for Christmas Eve. I'm terrified. Last year my gravy looked like simmered brain in mud sauce, and we all know what happened the last time I tried to cook meat.

If you read about a family that spent Christmas Eve in the emergency room, you'll know they belong to me. Except for the bearded woman. I'm not ready to admit I know her just yet.

It's a scientific fact: Connecticut is Hell on Earth

When we woke up this morning we couldn't open our front door:



Those are our cars (we don't have a garage, so Chuck covered them with tarps):



And this is Chuck shoveling:



If you could hear him now, he sounds something like this:

"F**ing snow. F***ing winter. F***ing cold. F***ing Connecticut. I hate Connecticut!"

Chuck's not alone. In fact, he's commiserating with a fellow shoveler as I type:



The fact is, everyone's talking smack about Connecticut. It recently ranked number 50 on a list of the states ranked highest for happiness levels. Number 50. New Jersey ranked higher.

New Jersey.

I think this article says it all. I'd summarize for you, but Chuck's lying in the middle of the road right now and I think I should ask traffic not to run him over.



Sigh. If we lived in Jersey, this would never happen.

The real truth is that women are more obsessed with breasts than men

I’m going to switch gears now. I’m sure you’re devastated that I’m leaving my sexy reindeer boots behind but trust me, it’s for the best. If I kept going on the boot topic, I’d eventually confess that I have an entire fleet of sexy animal boots. Then you’d probably break up with me.

Yes, now I'd like to talk about work. Specifically my co-worker Sarah, who came back to work today after her three-month maternity leave.

Three piddly months.

In the five years I’ve been at my job, I’ve seen a lot of new mothers come back to work. Some look chipper (it’s true, they’re overly happy to see you); others have that wide-eyed, freaked out look. The look that says Where’s my baby and how can I get back to him? Judging from the size of Sarah's bulging eyeballs, she was the latter.

When I ran into her, she was in the breakroom. She was hunched over, making herself a cup of tea, minding her own business. I was about to ask her how she was doing when a swarm of women burst through the door and started firing:

“Are you breastfeeding? I did for a year. Is the baby sleeping? I let mine cry it out. You should, too. How was your labor? Mine was 46 hours. Did you deliver vaginally? I did. Did you get stitches? I did. Have you pooped yet? I cried when I did. Split me right open. Are you going to have another? Mine are nine months apart. Get it out of the way. Who's watching your kid? Did you put him in daycare? Are you breastfeeding?”

I don’t know Sarah very well but judging from the way she was shrinking into her sweater, she’s not the kind of woman who would hold up a sign like this:



I wanted to grab her by the arm and whisk her away to an underground cave. Or at least fart or belch or pee on the floor—anything that would draw people’s attention away from her.

I understand that some people are genuinely curious about how a new mother is doing, but it seems to me (based on my own experience and that of my friends), that a big part of motherhood/parenthood is inquisition and subsequent verbal annihilation. Think I’m exaggerating? After our children were born, my friend and I were going to write a mommy book. Some of the chapters were:

Why do you care if I breastfeed? Really?

Don't hate me because I get out of the house a few days a week

Does hurting me help you?

Take your homemade organic, gluton-free, farm raised, free range, sugar free baby food and shove it

Motherhood: This shit is hard enough without your two cents

Now look, maybe my friend and I are hanging around with the wrong people or maybe we’re overly sensitive fuckheads who don’t know our leaky breasts from our stitched up anuses, but I was in flashback hell watching Sarah field questions then defend her parenting choices.

Why does this keep happening? When did the word "mother" become synonymous with "interrogate" and "judge"?

And holy divulge! Did Sarah (tired, overwhelmed, shell-shocked Sarah) really need to hear about another woman’s experience with cracked, bleeding nipples? Is the verbal vomit born out of a desperation for female camaraderie? Is it the equivalent of the locker room ass smack? If if is, I think we can do better. I’d give a million dollars to a woman if I saw her smack a new mom on the ass instead of hear her ask, “Are you breastfeeding?”

“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”

It’s like we’re all trapped in a little tornado of verbal vomit serum and we keep circling and swigging, circling and swigging.

Right down the drain.

Sexy reindeer boots. Remember, you asked to see them

Okay, this is what they look like:



I Photoshopped out my legs so you wouldn’t be able to guess my true identity (you already have the top of my head from the post below; what more do you need?).

They were expensive, but well worth it because they really dress up a boring skirt. Drawbacks are that they're a little clunky on stairs and sometimes the smell of reindeer is off-putting. And you can't sneak up on someone—the jingling bells give you away every time. It makes surprising your partner (or random guy at the bar) nearly impossible. Which kind of sucks, because who doesn’t want to be surprised by a woman in thigh high black patent boots with reindeer hooves, bells and stuffed reindeer heads?

I mean, really.

I was lucky enough to have bought my sexy reindeer boots as part of the 2008 Sexy Reindeer Holiday Collection, which included a sexy reindeer whip and a free canister of lube.



Yes, I said canister.

You're jealous, I know. And you're probably asking yourself, Where can I get a pair of my own sexy reindeer boots? I'm sorry to say, I have the only pair on planet earth. I bought them from QVC while tripping on acid—at least, I think it was QVC—and I haven't seen another pair since.

But wait! If you're interested in a sexy reindeer boot knock-off, check out this site. These puppies come with "spring loaded cloven hooves." They can't touch my plushy, jingling temptress boots, but it looks like you wouldn't need a whip. A swift kick to the forehead might yield the same result.

Maybe.

Can we all move on now?

(If it wasn't for this blogger, this post would have died a quick death, which probably would have been better.)

Why office holiday parties make me want to run away and hide

The post below is from December 4, 2008. I thought I'd repost it before I write about my 2009 office holiday party, so you can enjoy two year's worth of suffering.



Behold the photo we had taken for the office holiday card. I'd show you my face, but I'd like to retain some of my dignity.

The card is the pre-cursor to the office holiday party next week* for which it has been suggested (i.e., mandated) that we wear red sweaters, brown skirts and "sexy" reindeer boots (this is from a boss who made me wear her hooker heels, remember?) to accompany our antlers and red noses...

I sent the photo to my friend. This is what she wrote:

"It's sad and funny at the same time."

I love getting kicked when I'm down. On all fours.

* Oddly, I never actually wrote about the 2009 party, nor can I locate my sexy reindeer boots. They've got to be around here somewhere.

Don't tickle me there, Elmo!

I would never say that I have the perfect child but up until now, Junior has been pretty wonderful. He says please and thank you. He sleeps from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m., and bedtime isn’t a battle. He’s a good eater. He loves to take baths. He likes the clothes I pick out for him. Unless he’s overtired, you can reason with him. And he’s affectionate.

I think I’m going to keep him.

Lately I don’t think Chuck feels the same way. It could have something to do with the fact that he feels like a stray dog in his own home. Junior’s been a bully lately—a tyrant, really. If Chuck tries to get him out of bed or read him stories or feed him, Junior yells, “NO! NOT YOU! MOMMY DO IT! GO AWAY!” He’s even stuck out his leg to kick Chuck.

My friend thinks Junior’s acting out because Chuck is home with Junior full-time and Junior is sick of Chuck, whereas I am somewhat of a novelty. You know, like that dusty bobble head belly dancer on the dashboard. But why the hostility?

Chuck put it best: “It’s like Junior suddenly has something against me.”

Not only does Junior not want Chuck when I’m around, if Chuck and I are talking, Junior will yell, “Stop talking to Daddy! Talk to ME!”

I’ve never dated someone who's overly possessive, but I think this is what it must feel like. It’s a little unnerving. So I Googled “Naked Hugh Jackman”—oops, I mean, “toddler wants daddy gone”—and stumbled across an article entitled “When a boy wants only Mom.”

The doctor sounded like she knew what she was talking about, so I read on.

Holy heart attack. I wasn’t prepared for “oedipal complex” or “developmental crisis” or the doctor’s assertion that “This classic phase can be interpreted to be a developmental working through of two of the most powerful emotions we will ever experience: love and hate.”

Fuck. Did I suddenly become a parent to a teenager? I thought kids under three were supposed to be cuddly little hellions? You know, kissy-kissy one minute and poke-your eyes-out the next. I can handle bipolar. I’m not ready for potentially scarring life lessons. It’s like thinking you’re playing Level 1 of a video game and suddenly you’re trying to kill the…

…You know what? I know so little about video games I can’t even come up with an evil character.

The end of the article states:

“A sense of well-being is the result of experiencing love and hate in a family that is able to contain and transform these primal energies, without making anybody go away! Somehow, this tempers the polarities of the primary forces inherent in life and renders us more capable of experiencing the ups and downs of living with less distress and more equanimity.”

Huh? With what magic gadget does one transform primal energies?

I think I want to go back to the newborn stage when all we worried about was whether or not Junior had gas. It’s really hitting me that our child’s emotional health depends on us. And, frankly, that concerns me. Cause before I embarked on my "toddler hit man" Googling session, I was planning on using this juvenile picture as my post:



Me and Elmo. Caught canoodling on the couch. Chuck took the picture. Right before Junior sicced his fleet of Thomas the Trains on him.

Poor Chuck.

Poor Elmo.

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy come on, sugar, paint my toe

I never wanted to have my portrait painted. I’m not complaining that someone offered, I’m just saying that it wasn't on my top 10 list of things to do (in case you’re wondering, #1 is go to bed and #10 is hang glide. I’d also like to see the Grand Canyon).

Last night I went to my last sitting for Mr. Painter—with my clothes on, of course (remember how you all helped me decide whether or not I should disrobe? That was so special).

For some reason, the sitting was particularly boring. It dragged on, and somewhere between 5:00 and 5:01 I really started to dislike Painter Man. I gave up hours of my life to sit for him; if I’d known it meant I’d be listening to him wax philosophical about his passion for art, I’d have declined.

Plus, he talks to himself. After having a child I’m more sympathetic to this affliction (what parent doesn’t talk to him or herself?) but I never knew if he was looking for affirmation from me. Like when he’d shout, “Keep it together, Mr. Painter! Oh, you louse! What were you thinking with that shade of blue?” I never knew if I should interject with “I’m sure you’re doing a great job” [freak].

Since this was our last hoorah, I thought I’d amuse Painter Man with my clever observation about how portrait painting is the perfect cover for having an affair (think about it: you can’t answer your phone and you go home in different clothes. What more do you need?) But instead of applauding my ingenuity, he got all serious on me.

“It's one of the gray areas of my profession. Some of my models assume that certain extras are part of the modeling arrangement. I have to very nicely tell them it’s not.”

The room grew very

very

quiet.

I started to wonder if he thought I was coming on to him? Ack! The last thing I'd want to do is sleep with someone who'd shout out “Keep it up, Mr. Painter! Oh, you louse! What were you thinking with that hip thrust?”

And then I started to get silly. Cause really, what would a portrait painting pick-up line sound like?

“Oooooh, is that a paintbrush in your pocket or are you just happy to see my left breast?”

(Oh shut up. I triple dog dare you to come up with something better.)

When he was finally done painting, he invited me to take a look at his masterpiece. I have to admit, he captured my likeness. Fictitious DDD breasts and all. And now I want the painting. Bad. It would look so nice over the bidet.

There’s only one problem: Anyone have an extra $10,000 lying around?

Getting dumped at Christmas sucks

Chuck and I put up our Christmas tree this weekend. It’s a fake tree and for as much as I hate its synthetic, shiny branches it was ridiculously easy to drag up from the basement—pre-lit—and plop in front of the window. Add a few pine scented candles and voila, our redneck neighbors won’t be none the wiser.

So there I was: glass of wine in one hand; hairy psycho Santa in the other. I stuck him on a branch and stood back to inspect his placement.



Then, the questions started. Is the ornament next to one that complements its colors? Is it the appropriate weight for the branch? Is the size of the ornament relative to its position on the tree? Should the ornament be grouped with ornaments similar in theme? Is the ornament facing in the right direction?

OMG.

I don’t enjoy the mental check list, but it’s ingrained. My mother took tree decorating very, very, very seriously. She had four siblings and, as she tells it, never got to put the ornaments where she wanted. Which is why when I was a child, after I had put up an ornament, she would sneak over to the tree when I wasn’t looking and move it. While Alvin and Simon duked it out on the record player, my parents duked it out treeside.

My father [to my mother]: “Why did you move that snowman?”

My mother: “It looked horrible there.”

My father: “Let her decorate the tree.”

My mother: “It’s my tree, too.”

My father: “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

My mother: “It was on the wrong branch, facing in the wrong direction. Next to a gingerbread house!”

My father would move it back. My mother would yell. My father would go outside to his tool shed. My mother would slam the bedroom door.

Finally, I could decorate the tree in peace and quiet.

My parents finally divorced in 1983. That same year, my mother married a man who got her two Christmas trees, which she decorated all by herself. The downstairs tree had a pink and red theme; the upstairs, white. Meanwhile, at my father’s house, my father threatened to ignite the tree as my three-year-old brother and I bickered over ornament and light placement.

Kidding. Kind of. Poor pops.

Anyway, I couldn’t help but think of all this Saturday night as I stood there with my ornaments. I thought about how Chuck and I might actually make it as a couple because he could give a shit about what branches I hang the ornaments on.

I thought about my brother Ted and how he called off his engagement today (I didn't even get a chance to find #22 on ebay). On the phone he asked me if I wanted any ornaments. His now former fiancee had brought a tree back to their apartment and its chances of being decorated were pretty slim.

I thought about the boxes of ornaments that sit in my father’s basement and if, because he doesn’t get a tree anymore, he thinks about someday giving them to me?

I thought about my mother’s two enormous trees and how she wants to give me all of her ornaments someday. All of them.

Then I thought about Chuck’s mom and how she loves fluffy, tacky ornaments and how she likes to give us ornaments every year—sometimes stockingfuls at a time.

It hit me: Someday I’m going to be smushed in an avalanche of fucking ornaments. Choked by Santa hair. Hobbled by sleighs. Hiney-poked by this bad boy:



The question is, will Chuck still be there to save me?

The one book that can save your marriage

Yesterday (Friday), the plan was this: Junior, my brother Ted, his fiancée Holly and I would meet at 5:00 p.m. and go on the Saybrook Stroll (Chuck would be busy ghostbusting). There would be free hot cider, free horse-drawn carriage rides, free caroling, and free holiday badabing badaboom.

At three, I called Ted to see if he and Holly had left Boston yet to meet up.

“Bad news,” he said. “I told Holly I need the month of December off.”

“From what?

“Our relationship.”

“What? What about working it out? What about the fricken Saybrook Stroll?”

“Relax. She’s on her way.”

“You dumped her and she still wants to hang out? On a Friday night? With me?”

“I know. Weird.”

You know how just this week I said: “I swear, if my brother breaks off the engagement, I will date Holly myself”?

Well, we officially had our first date. I, a haggard woman with a toddler (seriously, by Friday I’m toast) and she, a 22-year-old buxom blonde, carted Junior around Old Saybrook for four hours. She cried. I tried to navigate Junior through crowds of people cradling hot cider, a free toothbrush and a bobbing red balloon.

I don’t know who needed my ear more: poor Holly or Junior, who was having a meltdown because the wind was blowing his balloon to the left, when he wanted it to blow to the right. I swear, you show a kid majestic Clydesdale horses with bells and he obsesses about the direction his balloon is floating in.

Aagggggggggghhhh.

Over dinner, Holly cried into her pizza. My heart broke for her. She really loves my stupid, flatulent brother. The more she talked, though, the more I realized that Francine Pascal covered the exact problems Holly and Ted are having in #22 of her Sweet Valley High book, “Too Much in Love.”

(Laugh if you will but I went through a hardcore Sweet Valley High stage in middle school and for some reason, this particular book stayed with me. In fact, it may explain why Chuck enjoys such free reign—that lucky bastard.)



As per the back cover of the book:

Bill Chase and DeeDee Gordon have been happy together for a long time. But lately DeeDee has become too dependent on Bill. She wants to do everything and go everywhere with him. Bill feels that he doesn't have any room to breathe and decides it's over between them.

Elizabeth doesn't know why DeeDee is acting the way she is, but she knows DeeDee's strange behavior is killing her relationship. Can Elizabeth help DeeDee regain her strength and independence before it's too late?

So, perfect Christmas gift, right? But now, the questions.

Do I give Holly #1-#22 so she can get acquainted with the series and my intentions aren’t glaringly obvious? But the poor girl only has a month. What if she's a slow reader? What if she only makes it to #6 Dangerous Love—about a motorcycle tearing a couple apart—and she becomes even clingier? Do I just give her #22 and a cheery card along the lines of "Hey, you should totally read this book geared toward awkward teenage girls. It's, like, awesome"?

Or maybe I'll just see how our second date goes.

Damn you, farting brother. Damn you.

P.S. Special thanks to this site for making this post possible. The noggin was a wee bit rusty.

I'm really impressionable right now so be gentle

I had such a tasty post planned for today. I was so giddy as I typed, I swear I pitched a tent. Then, because I feed on praise and reassurance, I ran the post by Chuck. I waited for him to pitch a tent alongside me.

Instead he fell out of his chair, clutched his heart and stammered, “Please, pleeeeeeaaaaaase, don’t post this.”

Before your imaginations run amuck with naughty ideas about what the post was (Chuck on a bearskin rug?!), let me explain: It was a lengthy post of all the reasons why my sister-in-law is not my favorite person. In my defense, the post was more of an investigation, not a gratuitous exposé. I’m not an unfair bitch. In fact, in writing the post, I had actually hoped to arrive at a different conclusion: that she registered lower on Mrs. Mullet’s Beasto-meter than I had previously suspected.

Sadly, results were conclusive.

Chuck’s reasons for asking me to not post the post were justified. Some of our friends read my blog, and because we are an incestuous little group here in Connecticut, word could get back to her. Then, instead of pretending we like each other at families parties, we’d have to, you know, acknowledge the fact that things aren’t working out. (Oh, the horror of facing reality. The liberation would be crippling.)

However, even though I understand my husband’s reasoning, I couldn’t let it go. It might feel good to throw caution to the wind instead of meeking around. And really, if the extent of my outrageousness is a somewhat inflammatory blog post, then wow, I’m a snoozer. I mean, I don’t have pink hair. I’m not setting cars on fire. I’m usually in bed by 9:30. You might as well call me Pollyanna.

Besides, my post was in the name of scientific analysis. There’s an official Beasto-meter, for Pete’s sake.

So I kept bugging Chuck. Nicely. Like a wolf with four mouths and 10 canines might bug a little furry rabbit that’s limping along with a broken leg. You know, tickle, tickle.

Finally, he caved. But he made me promise one thing: in the post, I must refer to my sister-in-law as Chuck’s best friend’s cousin’s uncle’s step-mother’s father’s adopted sister’s great aunt’s grandmother’s niece’s son’s neighbor Edwina.

But now that he's given me the green light, I feel...anxious. Not so fresh. I want to know: did you ever post something about someone that you wish you never had? Did it come back to bite you in the ass or was it freeing and fabulous?

I promised myself when I started this blog that I wouldn't talk about this. But just this once, ok?

Last night after dinner, Junior was racing around the living room when he suddenly announced, "I need to use the potty!"

Chuck scooped him up and plopped him down on his special chair. I thought, holy moly, this is it: the end of diapers. Chuck and I waited patiently as Junior looked around the kitchen.

"Junior? Are you—"

"—I NEED A BOOK! I NEED A BOOK!"



Yep, Dad's been doing potty time. One Dune book at a time.