It was ludacris I tell you, just ludacris

Ok, I’m done with all the laundry. If I wasn’t working, I probably would have left the laundry for a week or so. But it’s unnerving to have to deal with a mound of shit at home and at work. So I sucked it up and did it. And tomorrow when I go back to work I will suck it up and do it all over again, only instead of laundering Junior’s pajama bottoms I’ll be proofing trifolds.

Ah yes, Mrs. Mullet: sucking it up and doing it since 1998.

Don't worry—that's all the woe-ing is me-ing I'm going to do. I mean, I just got back from a fabulous trip to Baltimore. My friend and I drank, ate, slept and shopped at our leisure. Chuck did a great job watching Junior. It was wonderfully wonderful. Except for one fricken thing.

Do me a favor and click on the video below and turn your volume up as high as it can go. I’m serious.



Can you hear yourself think? Yes? Then crank it louder.

LOUDER.

Do you want to shoot your computer? Ok, good. You’ve just experienced what Mrs. Mullet and her friend experienced Friday night in their hotel room. We returned from dinner at the respectable hour of 10 p.m. and…

10:10 p.m. Brrrring, brrrrrring.

Front desk: Yah?

Mrs. M: What is going on? My toiletries are shaking.

Front desk: Huh?

Mrs. M: The noise. My toiletries are shaking from the noise.

Front desk: Your toiletries?

Mrs. M: Is there a rap convention at the hotel?

Front desk: No, just two proms.

Mrs. M: Two proms? What time are they over? We can’t take the noise.

Front desk: Midnight. In 10 years no one’s complained about the noise.

Mrs. M: Well, I’m complaining.

Front desk: I’ll have someone close the doors to the ballroom.

Click.


10:23 p.m. Brrrring, brrrrrring.

Front desk: Yah?

Mrs. M: Did they close the doors?

Front desk: What? Oh yah, they did.

Mrs. M: The room is still shaking. We can’t take it.

Front desk: They closed the doors. I don't know what else to tell you.

Mrs. M: My glasses just fell off the nightstand!

Front desk: Ma’am, the proms will be over at midnight.

Mrs. M: Then I’d like to invite someone from your staff to sit with us until then.

The hotel finally moved us. At midnight. So there we were, dragging our bags from one side of the hotel to the other. In our pajamas. And of course we got into an elevator with a group of kids from the prom. The elevator was about 150 degrees from all the teen perspiration and hormonal what have you. Some kid in the back told me and my friend that they were kidnapping us to “party hard” with them.

At one point in my life, a drunken 17-year-old who had a key to his own hotel room might have been appealing. But at that moment, as I stood there in my pilled pajamas and glasses in that Godforsaken, sweaty drunk-on-Smirnoff-and-I’ve-got-a-smushed-Trojan-in-my-back-pocket teen angst tropical heat, I could think of nothing I wanted less.

Nothing.

The next day, we celebrated our pubescent encounter by getting my hair cut. Seriously. I haven’t had a haircut since November. And you know what? We walked into a salon, found a hairdresser whose 2:30 was a no-show, and when she asked what I wanted I told her to give me the hairdo she had. And…

3:23 p.m. Brrrrring, brrrrrring.

Chuck: Yah?

Mrs. M: I just got my hair cut!

Chuck: Yah?

Mrs. M: It’s really cute. Longer in the front, shorter in the back.

Chuck: Holy shit. You got a reverse mullet?

Click.