A weekend-long vegetable orgy is in order

Does this sound like you? Peel back the cover. Fondle the goods. Yawn. Stick it in. Tap your foot. Count the seconds until it’s over. Clean up and live in dread of the next time.

Yah, me too. It’s kind of what happens when you microwave one too many Morningstar Chik Patties and you look over at your child and he’s already shaking his head saying, “Nooo, noooo” like a frightened peasant woman who’d rather eat yak than another godamn chik pattie.

You have to understand: Chuck and I are Cereal People. The staples of our diet have been Special K, Honey Bunches of Oats, and beer. I did deviate one year when I ate a lot of frozen corn (Chuck was doing his own thing with General Tso’s chicken), but we have been remarkably content with food stuffs that float in milk.

Which is why one of my bridesmaids gave me this for my wedding present:



And why she inscribed it with this:



Well, isn’t that cute of her. She who can cook! She who can go into a supermarket, randomly select ingredients, go home and whip something up. Something that people will eat instead of pushing it around on their plates then politely suggesting pizza.

Want to know what I made Chuck the first night we lived together? Chicken parm. It was easy: I baked a few turkey breasts, slopped on some American cheese, then doused it with jarred spaghetti sauce. The next night I fried up some Italian sausage in butter then tossed in undercooked pasta and Italian salad dressing. Don’t forget the side of candied carrots.

Cereal, as you see, was just a natural progression.

Do you know how I yearn to breeze into my kitchen and successfully use exotic things like cumin and leeks and capers? Some days I daydream about the nanny coming over to find a counter full of freshly baked goods sprinkled with Juniper berries and Cardamom and shichimi-togarashi, whatever the hell that is. She’d stuff her face all day then go home and tell everyone she knows that Mrs. Mullet feeds people the right way. She’d say how satisfied she and her kid and Jager are. And I’d feel satisfied.

See, that’s the crux of it—I want to be culinarily fertile. I want to leaven a lasagna, birth a moist banana nut bread, souse a Succotash.

But more than anything, I want my son to go “mmmm” when he eats something I made. Not something from a box. Not even from a recipe. But from La Cucina de Mrs. Mullet, dammit.

Do they make a chik pattie patch? Gum? They’re just so springy!

Shield yourself: It's all coming out

I beg to differ with WYM: Bodily functions are NOT fun. They are not fun at home and they are certainly not fun when you take Junior to the grocery store to buy Tylenol and he upchucks on his slippery winter coat and starts sliding down your slippery winter coat and the two of you look and smell like alleyway rats trying to engulf each other in a horribly awkward embrace.

Yes, no sooner had I finished writing about Junior's Raisinets® woes than he decided to give us the gift of every bodily function possible, along with a fever. But you have your own kids; you certainly don’t need the grimy details of mine.

I want to tackle a tag I got a bit ago from TAWM. I feel kind of Marcia Marcia for doing it, but I kind of still smell like puke, so indulge me?

I’m bored with the generic seven things so I’m changing the tag. Ready for my rebel roar? Here are the 7 important things I’ve learned because of blogging:

1. I don’t have to have a vagina to be a good writer (scroll past the creepy photo to BS Sunday).

2. People are in need this holiday season. This mother needs underwear.

3. I should never call myself a bad mom because this person has already claimed the title.

4. Mom fashion is regionally elitist. You’re only a cool mom in your bunny boots if you live here.

5. I should be a better person.

6. Dads are people, too. Lovable, in fact.

7. Stuffing your pants full of weed, cigarettes, crack pipes, and condoms will get you in trouble.

If you think some of those are strange, check out this woman who sports a monkey in her spare time. (Yeh, that's shameless self promotion but I told you I was having a Marcia Marcia moment, didn't I?)

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