Dear John, I absolutely hate your stupid effin slippers

I think I want to break up with the nanny. Little things are starting to bother me, like the fact that as soon as she walks through the door she takes off her shoes and puts on fluffy slippers, ala Mr. Rogers. Then she puts even fluffier slippers on her son (I’m not exaggerating: His feet look like they’ve been engulfed by navy Sheepdogs).

All of this slipper wearing makes Junior’s socked feet look very naked and small. Which makes me feel neglectful and guilty.

To compensate, I’ve started layering Junior on top. Sweatshirts, afghans, Snuggies—whatever’s handy. So when she glances at Junior’s barren feet, that little voice in my head (not Winona, not Dudley Moore, this is more like Janice Dickinson) relaxes.

“Yah, bitch, my kid’s roasting from his neck to his waist! Suck it!”

Oh, hold on, Dr. Phil wants to interject.

“Mrs. Mullet, could your resentment towards your nanny’s slippers also be caused by the fact that another woman is getting cozy in your home? Don’t you, perhaps, envy her domesticity?”

Hmmm. Could it be about more than slippers? Could it be that she gets to play with Junior during the day while I dress up as a reindeer?

But wait! It’s not just that. Otherwise, why would her freakish preoccupation with our cats make me want to spit? Like, after we did this to the really fat one





she kept pestering me: “Isn’t he cold? He doesn’t look very happy.” I wanted to knock her lights out.

(Personally, I think he looks ecstatic.)

It didn’t stop there. She even said something to me about the kitty’s anxiety in the can. Hello, I know why the cat is having difficulty relieving himself: There’s a woman with fluffy hair and feet staring at him! Haven’t you ever heard of the website www.cantpoopbecauseweirdpeoplearewatching.com? (Not to be confused with www.cantpoopbecausenormalpeoplearewatching.com.)

I will gladly listen to observations about Junior’s stools; I will not, however, have someone feeding me commentary about my cat’s bathroom habits. For the love of all that’s holy!

So yah, I guess this is the crux of it: She’s over-mothering my household. Apparently my home—which is cold, slipperless and poopless—needs some fixin' by Mary Poppins-meets-Dr.-Doolittle.

Oh, great, Paris Hilton wants to say something: “Mrs. Mullet, your butt is, like, way hotter.”

Gosh. Do you really think so? Cause I have never, ever, ever thought about the fact that my perky buns outshine her dumpy U-butt. Not once.

The family that wears blankets together stays together

This is quite possibly the most asinine advertisement I have ever seen. The Snuggie looks warm as hell and yes, I'd probably wear one seeing as we keep our heat at a balmy 61 degrees because we, um, can't afford to set the thermostat any higher (I just ordered 10 panels of the ever-luxurious thermal curtains). But would I ever wear it out of the house and risk looking like a pajama-clad monk? I mean, the shot of the family in the stands is priceless if only because they look utterly ridiculous.

(I must confess: Part of me can't wait until Junior is in high school and Chuck and I can put on get-ups like this and wave to him from the stands. "Hi, sweetie!")



I have one question though. Is it like a hospital gown in the back? Because that would really, really suck to get a southerly breeze when you're frying eggs in the front.

Ahoy! I bring word from King Peckerhead

I was absolutely tickled to get a personal message today from none other than Ruane Nipple. Mr. Nipple and I go way back. I was delighted he reached out to me before the holidays. I hope and pray that his mother, Bertha Buttcheek, will be able to bring her famous fruitcake to Mulletville this year. Little Sammy Sphincter must be getting so big.

Imagine my surprise when Mr. Nipple neglected to give me updates on his darling family and instead wrote the following:

Show your sweetheart how much you love her!!!
Only today: CLICK HERE

His company. It was high time to get rid of him. A smile with mount. Now, said the general, dropping rapid travelers had the habit of regarding his consequences). From the vedic point of view, virtue of all these monsters and it was not without an.

Dammit! This man lied. He promised that if I turned off my comment verification setting I would not get spammed.

I.Am.So.Gullible.

Although.

I must admit I am intrigued by this cryptic prose smattered with poor grammar and unfinished sentences. I want to know more about this fast-paced fleet of nomads dropping an unspecified substance. What could it be? LSD? Powdered sugar? And what’s with the vedic stuff? The vedic was one of the first White Star Line ships to be sent to the scrap yard in the 1900s. Did that upset the monsters? Were they spooky old sea monsters with four eyes that swallowed ships? ’Cause that’s kind of what I’m envisioning. Tentacles with suckers and fangs gnawing on rickety wooden boats as little seamen screamed for their lives.

Speaking of seamen, I’m sure you can guess where the “click here” takes you? Yup, a virtual candy store chocked full of Cialis, Viagra and EnhanceRx Capsules.

I don’t get it. Can someone explain the reason for the crappily written story? And while you’re at it, can you forward me the Nipples' new address? The Christmas card I sent to 456 Titty Terrace never made it.

Thanks.

I'm way behind on thank yous for the awards and mentions I got from some awesome bloggers (though they may be rescinded after that post), so here goes:

Thanks to Two Greyhound Town for these awards:





C-3PO over at Football said the "Most Freakin' Sexy" alum award was coming my way, but it never did. I guess he's still too busy on his back to get around to sending it.




She Lives gave me this awesome nod:



And I've been tagged with the Bookworm meme by My Funny Dad, Harry. That is next on my to-do list.

In the spirit of the upcoming holidays, if you haven't gotten an award please take one (or two, if you're greedy like me). When you post it/them on your blog (a) be sure to tell me and (b) be sure to tell everyone Mrs. Mullet gave it/them to you.

The proof is in the...antlers

Fine, fine, I tried to gloss over the whole reindeer thing. I thought Rico would keep your minds occupied. Lord knows he's alive and well in mine.

Sigh. You want pictures? Here:



It's 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.

How many Ricos do you know? Hmmm?

This is going to seem like it’s coming out of left field, but we have a new janitor at work. And his name is Rico.

Every time I hear his name it takes me back to winter 1996. Picture it, if you will. Chuck and I had just gotten our first apartment together in Portland, Maine. I had a job as an editor at a gourmet food magazine, which is pretty surprising since I once tried to use turkey breasts to make chicken parm. Chutney? What the hell is chutney?

We got an apartment on a hilly street in Portland (if you’ve ever been to Maine and have experienced ice storms, you know that this was a bad idea). The rent was cheap, only $375, but there were concessions. Not only did we have plastic on the windows, we had Styrofoam under the plastic. We could see the basement through the floor boards in the living room, which was actually convenient because I didn’t have to walk downstairs to see whether or not the washing machine was free. The next door neighbor liked the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz so much that she jimmied little men out of aluminum cans and hung them on her porch. A fleet of them. Cold, clanging tin = really fucking annoying.

Chuck hates the winter, so he bought himself a few LLBean thermal underwear suits (you know the kind where you can unbutton the ass?), and I would torture him with my cold hands. Amazingly, he stayed. Ah, young love.

Our landlords, who lived above us, were Carol and Rico (aha, so here's where Rico comes in). They were both chefs at a restaurant downtown, and when they stayed in and cooked, the smells that used to waft down their stairs were amazing. Chuck and I would sit by their door with our mouths wide open and wait for morsels of food to blow across their kitchen floor.

Fine, that’s an exaggeration but not by much. Remember how I said I wanted to birth a banana nut bread? That’s nothing new. Our cupboards were stocked with fancy sauces and rubs (I was the new products editor so people sent me samples all the time) and I didn’t know what the hell to do with them. We were so close to being culinarily satisfied. So….close…

Thankfully, wine saved us.

Rico also liked wine. And gin. And vodka.

And every Sunday night, Carol would let him go downtown and get as hammered as he wanted, as long as he took a taxi home.

So there’s me and Chuck our first week in the apartment, quivering under blankets, looking out our only non-Styrofoamed window, and what do we see? A drunk Rico sliding down the driveway, cursing the ice and snow, tripping on shovels, yelling at the tin men to “shut the fuck up already!”

I’ll never forget his bobbing head. Chuck and I would just stop and stare. After a few months though, it wasn’t such a sight. It started to feel like, this is the way things are supposed to be. Like the fog horn and annoying tourists and rocks through the new Starbucks’ window (remember when people actually hated Starbucks?): It became part of the Portland landscape.

So today, as my boss was telling the office that we have to dress up as reindeer for the company Christmas party (oh fricken joy!), I was looking at Rico as he emptied my recycling bin, and all the while I was trying to think how the following conversation might go:

“I knew a Rico once…”

Christmas list: one foil hat

Forget the Rose Petal Cottage Butt Playhouse. What Junior really needs are some hand restraints.

His favorite new trick is smacking Chuck and me and scratching! Who is this demon child and what is his return address?

So far, nothing we’ve tried has gotten him to stop. Not the firm but calm “no.” Not the gentle restraint of his hands accompanied by the purposeful yet stern gaze into his eyes. Not even the loving affirmations (e.g., “I love you despite the fact that you have left claw marks on my fragile winter flesh”).

Nada.

You’d think my prior experience would help. My brother, Ted, was the most difficult child ever birthed. He was already into his terrible ones when I was nine, so I have vivid—nightmarishly accurate—memories of him in all his toddler fury. You know how dogs can smell diseased cells in humans? Ted had that same kind of extra sensory perception. If he even felt that there was something you wanted him to do, he would put up a fight.

The only way to guarantee success was to mask your brainwaves with a little foil hat.

I’m kidding. Though I would have tried that just to get him to concede. Just once. I swear, battling him was like trying to pop a blimp with a matchstick. He left me no choice but to resort to sisterly measures: I knocked him around, tied him up, broke his toys, tried to push him off cliffs.

Sadly, Chuck won’t let me do any of those things to Junior. He’s all Mr. Mom: “We have to set a good example, blah blah, rainbows and rose petals.”

Fool. When did dads get so nice?

To appease my sap of a husband, I spent a fair amount of time online today looking into child-friendly remedies.

The first site I found suggested I keep a log of Junior’s outbursts to see if there’s any trigger. Yah, here we go:

“Wednesday. Let Junior push buttons on microwave. Over and over. Praised him as he repeated the word “moon” again and again and again and again. Listened to Sesame Street soundtrack for hundredth time. Turned on Noggin network. Unscrewed bottle of wine. Watched Yo Gabba Gabba. Drank straight from bottle. Fell to floor as Gabba Gabba creatures infiltrated fatigued brain and attacked compromised brain cells. Got smacked by Junior.”

Nope, no patterns I can see.

Site #2 said:

Be prepared to be hit or bitten repeatedly. If you feel you are beginning to lose your cool, separate yourself from your child. Tell the child "that’s enough hitting, now I need a break." Then remove yourself from the room.

Come again? “That’s enough hitting, now I need a break”???

Yah, mommy’ll be back in five, but don’t you worry, after that she’ll be ready for another smack down.

Child psychology experts my ass!

Tell me, reassure me, hold me—this is a phase, right?

Junior, Junior, let down your hair. Your frog prince is here to refill your Windex.

Do you hear someone shouting from the rooftops? It’s me.

IT’S ME IT’S ME IT’S ME.

Look! There’s a little boy vacuuming.



He’s playing with the iPlay® Home Vacuum Cleaner. And the vacuum is blue. Not hussy Barbie pink.

I found this progressive lad when the Young Explorers catalog was accidentally delivered to my doorstep. I’m happy (enough to take a picture, obviously) but…

The copy says the vacuum sounds just like “mom’s upright.”

Come on. Young Explorers, I was willing to have your love child until I read that. (I still might be convinced, but it would take a lot of heavy petting.)

At least it's better than the Rose Petal Cottage Playhouse by Playskool.

Do you see what it says? Here, I'll read it to you:

“Every girl needs space to call her own…”

Is that supposed to be some kind of demented spin-off of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One's Own? I really hope not. Because I believe Woolf was referring to the need for women to have a space of their own for self-expression, exploration and growth. Not—I repeat, not—for folding socks or baking muffins.

You rat bastards.

The fabulous marketing copy continues: “…and this fabric-covered playhouse gives little imaginations a place to roam free…and help little homemakers feel right at home. [You can even] slide the halves together to form a one-room dwelling!”

How fabulous! Nothing like instilling in your daughter a sense of domestic strangulation.

Mommy, Mommy, the walls are caving in and I haven’t added the fabric softener.

Playskool can bite me. They make Motrin look like Gloria Steinem.

Wanna guess what Junior's getting for Christmas? One Rose Petal Cottage Playhouse please.