Here's some information you might want to sit on. Or you could sit on Hugh Jackman

I was never one to talk about poo before I had a kid, and I swore I wouldn’t do it after, but you really can’t help it, can you? Especially when you have friends over for a round of Wii and everyone puts down their joysticks to watch the real match: Junior vs. His Large Intestine.

Despite our best efforts (vats of stewed prunes, moon howling, pear juice), Junior just can’t seem to produce anything larger than what might come out of a rodent. In a word: Raisinets®.

So this morning, I took him to his pediatrician, Dr. L.

Depending on the visit, Dr. L. is either charming or churlish. He looks like House; he acts like House. He is more apt to talk about Hugh Jackman’s enviable physique than cater to my paranoid questions (in all fairness, they’re not that paranoid). He asks us every appointment if we like his bright yellow Audi. He doesn’t appear to change his socks.

The funny thing is, he thinks I am crazy. When I asked him whether he thought Junior would be developmentally happier in daycare or at home with a nanny and a playmate (the question came out more like “should I give him his daycare wings and set him free?”), he patted my shoulder and said in all earnestness, “Mrs. Mullet, your son is not a caterpillar.”

Today, Doctor L. listened patiently as I described Junior’s symptoms (a tomato-red face, popped blood vessels, grunting) then told me to sit down.

“Junior has CMD,” he said.

“What’s CMD?”

“It’s pretty serious.”

“What? What is it??”

“Colonic Motility Disorder.”

“What?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Junior is extremely constipated. And now they have a fancy name for it.” He waited for me to laugh.

And he waited…

And waited…

I might have laughed had I not had a similar experience with my dermatologist, who told me he couldn’t remove the mole above my eyebrow because I would forever have a permanently raised eyebrow. He warned me I would always looks suspicious, or rather, that would people would feel I was always looking at them suspiciously.

For years I kept the damn mole. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I made an appointment and said I would risk the suspiciousness—just please get the damn thing off my face—and he burst out laughing.

He had been kidding.

What’s with all the doctors who think the you’re-dying-just-joking shtick is funny? I’m thinking of starting a petition called “Raisinets® have feelings, too” and bringing the dipshits down.

Mwahahahaha. Are you with me? I swear I won't look at you funny.

(If you want to read more about CDM because you think you might have it—ew—read about it here.)

How do you recover from the most exxxciting night ever? You do the Macarena

Yawn. Stretch. Crack.

Is it really after 10? Does my brain really feel this clear and mountain-fresh clean?

Yes. Yes it does.

Last night was our first childless night since March, when we let loose and did this. If you don’t like happy little cookie people, I'll give you a quick synopsis: Chuck and I hit Lenscrafters and downed a 6-pack in the mall parking lot for Date Night I. Do I even need to tell you that expectations for Date Night II were much higher? I mean, through the roof higher.

So hold on kiddies, here we go:

Venue #1: Mulletville’s version of a lounge bar
After dolling ourselves up, Chuck and I walked to downtown Mulletville and had some sliders. And beer. And Red Headed Sluts. I ran into the publisher of the local paper. Apparently my editorial board contributions have been completely unremarkable because I had to re-introduce myself for the 15,000,000th time. Chuck and I befriended an octogenarian named Corky, whose wife left him to clean his dentures in some Sam Adams while she played Black Jack at the casino.
Time of departure: 6:45 p.m.
Tab: $38.72


Venue #2: WalMart
Chuck bought the new Hellboy and I bought Woolite. For shits and giggles I threw a Glamour in the cart. Just to, you know, keep up appearances.
Time of departure: 7:25 p.m.
Tab: $31.86


Venue #3: Mulletville’s version of an Irish pub
After we pulled into the driveway and realized it wasn’t even eight o’clock, we decided we were utterly pathetic. So we walked back to downtown Mulletville and hit one last bar, where we had more Red Headed Sluts and I ran into a co-worker dining alone. Apparently my graphic design contributions to my company have been completely unremarkable because I had to re-introduce myself for the 15,000,000th time. The cure for his contrition? More shots.
Time of departure: 8:44 p.m.
Tab: $40.11

Venue #4: Home
Chuck popped in Hellboy and I promptly fell asleep. Can you blame me?

Ok, so we have become the lamest couple on the planet. But you know what I've learned? A night without Junior is good for the noggin. And I've still got it: Corky thought I was cute. Really, really cute.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve already missed a wedding ceremony this morning, and I don’t think blogging is an acceptable reason to miss the reception.

The oh-so-long road of self-suckitude...made better only with German engineering

No sooner had Chuck and I moved on from my residence in his ass than he finds out he’s not getting the pink slip—at least not this year. After.all.that. Of course, I came home from work and shared the good news with Diana, who got all teary and told me she’s so relieved because she’s never been happier nannying for someone, blah blah. She went on for a good 10 minutes. When she was done she said, “Now you know how much I like you guys. I hope you feel the same way?”

Fucking A. It hit me that in the three months she’s been in my home I have not once said, “Great job!” or “Thanks for liking my kid and my cats and my crumbling front walkway and my Mulletville neighborhood and my psychotic mother.” Not once.

The woman drives more than 45 minutes to come to my house. She brings educational toys and homemade hummus and an uncanny amount of cheese with her. She didn’t get angry when we brought her son’s gingerbread cookie man toy to Cape Cod and I accidentally spilled rum and Coke on it and changed its song from “Let’s make cookies!” to a sticky, creepy “whah smake wookieeeens.”

I like her. And I never even told her. I mean, I told her today but still, I feel like I should send her a card. Or flowers. Or a sweater made from my cat’s fur balls (it was Pablo Guero’s idea.)

Folks, if you have a nanny, put down your mouse and call the woman (or manny) and tell her how much you adore her in a nonsexual way. There should be a freaken nanny holiday. That way dipshits like me would stop for a minute and appreciate the sweet set-up they have.

I think I’ve covered my atonement for the month? Though there is that poor boy I devirginized back in ’92…oh God, and my gym teacher. And that Boy Scout.

Screw the Furminator. Only a 535i xDrive BMW Sports Wagon in cherry red can save me now (5-speed, please). I promise I'll send loving thoughts to all I've emotionally maimed as I'm driving...I swear!

Carrie Bradshaw's voice makes self introspection feel icky

So you like pictures of hairballs but not of a frog and a bear canoodling in secret. Interesting.

I didn’t arrange them like that; when I went to put Junior down for bed last night I caught them red-handed. Then I called Chuck in to have a peek and he laughed—probably for the first time in awhile.

The mood in the house has been downright shitsville, and I have myself to thank. I thought I had gotten to the point with my husband where I understand the concept of space. Normally when something is bothering him—like an impending pink slip—and he holes up in his Man Room until the wee hours of the morning saving the world (excuse me, playing video games) I don’t linger in the doorway. I let him do his thing.

But lately, as I’m lingering in the doorway, my mouth is spewing out this:

What’swrongwhat’swrongwhat’swrong?

I can’t understand why he avoids me.

The thing is, I know that the more you push, the more someone retreats. But I can’t help it. I’m like a chainsaw going after a melancholy bunny rabbit with a broken leg. If I could just catch it, we could get this over with.

This morning it finally came to a head. Chuck yelled, “Is this what Junior’s wearing today?” The TV was on and I was blow-drying my hair so it sounded like “Wha wha wha wwwa waaaaaa wawawaaa?” (that’s a Peanuts rip-off, I’m aware). I calmly stopped what I was doing and shouted back about four gazillion decibels louder “I CAN’T HEAR YOU WHEN YOU SCREAM AT ME!”

Why didn’t I just say, “I HOPE YOU SHRIVEL UP AND WASTE AWAY YOU VILE CRETIN”?

Sigh. That’s what happens when your husband interrupts an internal conversation you’re having with him while taming your frizz; a conversation that goes something like this: “Please, for the love of God smile and let’s move on with our lives!”

I apologized, but on the way out Chuck spit on my car, then backed into it.

That Chuck!

No, really, he called me at work to apologize for being in such a funk. I was immediately contrite for how I have been trying to cheerlead him into sunnier pastures instead of letting him wallow in his muck. (Really, I’ve been downright annoying.)

After we hung up, I got to wondering (ew, how very Carrie Bradshaw): Why is it so much easier to apologize after someone else has done it first? Why do we needle our partners when we know they need the opposite?

And why, oh why, didn’t the frog and bear just tell me they had a tawdry thing going?

When stuffed animals go bad

If you're a dog lover, check in next week when I tackle the Kyjen Hardcore Firehouse Dog Toy With Squeaker

Well, this is a first. Someone wants me to expand on something. Usually it’s the opposite (oh, you may not have requested it directly, but I've heard your disgruntled rumblings).

Small Town Mommy left me a request:

I know you have sworn off of all things cat, but I want to hear more about the Furminator. I keep finding that same ball in a pile on my rug (usually after being ingested by a cat). Perform a public service and talk more about your Furminator.

I’m going to assume that by “small ball” she is referring to cat hair and not her child (come on, that’s fair, my cats are large enough to ingest my child) and go from there.



STM, I, too find the same ball of fur on my rugs (see above). Every time the damn cat sits, he leaves tufts of fur. He has a dreadlock on his ass that’s the size of a jumbo muffin. We try to have him professionally shaved every so often because the sight of him cleaning himself and eating his fur makes me vomit uncontrollably, but he doesn’t like to leave the house.

In fact, the last time I dropped him off at a pet spa, the receptionist left me a nasty message an hour later telling me that I had to get my animal right away because he’d bitten the groomer and it’s the spa’s policy that if an animal bites the groomer, the animal must be picked up within 30 minutes or they charge you a fee. (They could have been creative and named the fee something like “your pet sucks so bad fee" but they weren’t—they were just blandly angry. Yawn).

I got there as soon as humanly possible, but the receptionist was still a bitch. And the poor kitty! He was in a half-shaved, half-crazed state. He looked like he had mange! And they still wanted me to pay.

Which I did. Right before I asked her when I could make another appointment. (If you’re going to behave like an asshole then I am going to behave like a moron, it’s called the ying and yang of commerce.)

But let’s get back to that Arnold Schwarzenegger of fur removal shall we?

At first I wasn’t that impressed, but once you get going and the fur starts flying, it’s hard to stop (I mean it, I'm thinking about doing it right now). The biggest problem was the stupid cat. I had to chase him from room to room then jump as he lunged for my hand. At one point I put a pile of treats in front of him so he’d sit still. I wanted to get my Furminating hands on his fluffy belly so bad, but that would have required a muzzle.

The pile I so diligently documented took about 20 minutes to harvest. I’m guessing it was about five Starbursts high (see below). The nice thing is that the brush keeps collecting fur no matter how full the teeth are, so you’re not constantly stopping to clean it. Next time I might order the larger model— the Equine Tool perhaps—because the cat is the size of a small pony.



My only concern is that the brush is metal and you have to rake kind of hard to catch the fur, so I worried I was hurting him. But when I was through with him, he looked about 10 pounds lighter and happier. And yes, shinier.

So, wrapping up, I’d highly recommend the Furminator if: (a) you have time to dedicate to brushing, (b) your pet will sit still long enough to get the process going and (c) you remember not to wear socks while you’re Furminating because you will look like Sasquatch when you’re done.

STM, I hope that answers some of your questions.

This is the Furminator Queen officially signing off. (Seriously, I feel like I'm starting to infringe on Daisy's turf.)

Nothing says baptism like milk jugs and a wet monkey

I’m happy to be off the cat kick and on to…monkeys. That looks like a monkey, doesn’t it? Chuck thinks it’s a bear. Its name is Mel and thanks to Junior, it was dunked in holy water about 50 times this morning.

At the ripe age of 16 months we finally had Junior baptized. We would have done it sooner, but Chuck had to take Catechism classes and I had to quit my Wiccan knitting circle.

Kidding.

Junior did so well—up until the actual water part. It didn’t help that the priest spoke broken English and kept losing his place in the book. By the time he was ready to douse my kid, Junior was a mess. The only thing that calmed him down was the sight of Mel in the cistern. He’d yell “bat” (bath), pick Mel up and chuck him in again.

Luckily, the priest had a sense of humor. Unluckily, no one told me that the flash from the camera was capturing my leopard-print bra oh so clearly.



Guess who was taking the pictures? Chuck’s dad. The same guy who had a bird’s eye view of my gals that whole picnic back in July (I'm not going to link to that post because I'd like to put the past, ehem, behind me).

Seriously, the guy must think his daughter-in-law is hooter-hyper. Maybe I'll write him a letter:

Dear Chuck's dad,

Please stop taking pictures of my goods, even though I appear to be showcasing them at every family function. In truth, I am a woman of granny bathing suits, not, as you would seem to believe, bursting bijongas. It’s, um, too bad you have actual photos that would seem to prove otherwise. See you at Christmas (I’ll be the one wearing the turtleneck, wink wink). Best, Mrs. Mullet.


Ah hell, maybe I'll just let it go.