Hi, Jack Shit? I'm Mrs. Mullet

Today my newly pregnant friend Jen—if you don’t feel like reading the post below, Jen’s hot and the Russian mafia know it—texted me that she is an emotional wreck.

She wanted to know if that’s normal and when it will stop. I told her yes, it’s normal, and that she’ll probably start feeling better when her baby is six months old and starts sleeping through the night.

To which she texted back: "I hate you!"

That went well.

I thought about telling Jen that she is going to hate a lot of people in the next nine months: the nurses who weigh her, strangers who touch her belly and tell her she's "huge!", non-pregnant friends who can drink and stay up past 7:30 p.m., the postman, her fiancé, Kathy Lee Gifford (for the mere fact that she's so fucking annoying), and yes, probably me.

But that was way too much to text. I had no choice; I had to write this: "It'll be fine."

You might think, so what? People say that all the time. But you don’t understand. I was going to be different!

The whole entire solar systemic reason I started this blog was to share honest observations about pregnancy and childbirth. I fancied myself a kind of resource, if you will; a no-holds-barred, give-it-to-me-straight source of expert advice. (Are you rolling on the floor laughing? Cause I sure am.) I mean, one of my very first posts was this.

When I was pregnant, I loathed mothers who patted me on the shoulder and told me everything would be fine. I knew they were lying because I knew I wouldn't be fine. I had to expel another being from my body and then I had to care for that being.

No one can be fine.

I promised myself that I was going to be different. No lies, no sugar coating. I was going to be the woman who told THE TRUTH.

Here! Here!

But it’s not that easy is it? A friend who is freaking out because she cried about being out of dog food doesn’t necessarily need to know that this is just the beginning and that nine months from now she’ll wish an empty dog bowl was her biggest concern. She doesn’t need to know that she is an ant standing before that Empire State Building known as motherhood and that she will never, ever be the same.

Nope.

After Jen texted back “thanks” I opened up wide and swallowed my blog in one entire bite.

I.know.jack.shit.

The child should request to switch wombs

I am in the best mood ever, and I haven't even been drinking! First, they closed my office at noon because of the impending snowstorm.

Second, my mom babysat this morning and she brought a baked ham with her. I'm terrified that one of these days she's going to fall in the street and all her little baked goods are going to roll out from under her and that people will laugh. Until then, bless her for feeding us.

Third, I got the most amazing gift from Juicy Alligator. He's the silliest eggplant man I've ever seen. I'm even more in love with him because he has a moustache. And he’s all mine! (I feel like I'm talking about one of the Golden Tickets from the Willy Wonka wrappers, but I can't help it.)



It's called the Edward Murphey Award; it's for any blogger who frequently finds that if anything can go wrong, it will. I’ve been running through the list of blogs I read and while plenty of them make me laugh, no one embodies Murphey’s law like my friend Jen.

Jen doesn’t blog but she should. In the 10 years we've been friends, Jen has:

• had her car stolen twice

• gotten into 11 car accidents

• had her identity stolen by the Russian mafia

• had her Facebook account hacked

• been forced to move from an apartment because the upstairs bathtub fell through the floor

• dumped a man who days later became a billionaire thanks to a dog toy he invented that sold, well, billions

• quit her job and sold her condo to see the world with her traveling nurse boyfriend only to catch him in the arms of another man (yes, man) weeks before departure

• been burned by a tanning bed bulb and begun litigation

• spent a year eating microwave popcorn for dinner, which enabled her to lose 20 pounds (losing weight is glorious, but not being able to poop sure isn't)

• asked to be moved away from a chatty co-worker only to be seated next to a compulsive whistler

I think that's it. Before you start feeling too bad for Jen, consider this: She is so good looking that one morning, her boss was trying so hard to catch her attention as he passed her on the highway—by waving, shouting, changing lanes—that he hit the car in front of him.

I'm not saying physical attractiveness trumps the mafia, but when you're the one responsible for 10 of your 11 car accidents and you only get one ticket—and it's a phony ticket containing the officer's phone number and an invitation to dinner—the sun is shining on you in all the right places.

But back to the eggplant man, I’m going to print him out and put him in a Christmas card for Jen. She needs all the help she can get. Especially since…drum roll…she just found out she’s pregnant.

I'm nervous for her.

Juicy Alligator, can we get a mini eggplant please? And maybe a horseshoe to go along with it.

Junior has spoken

And the winners of the sage green Snuggies are...

Temple and C-3PO.

Not only will these two spectacular people be receiving Snuggies in time for Christmas, Temple said, "I will totally wear it and send you a picture of me posing as the old Obi-Wan! I may even try to get Matt to be a sand creature..."

(Does Matt know he's got a rockin' Star Wars-themed night ahead?)

And C-3PO promised, "If I win the green Snuggie and pose with it, you will post the pictures for all the world to see and for my humiliation forthwith."

You heard it here. Public humiliation, Snuggie-style.

May the force be with them.

Oh shut up! I had to say that!

(If you are new to this blog, I swear I do more than peddle as-seen-on-TV products. I swear!)

Screw you and your damn gingerbread houses

Well, my pets, soon two lucky people will be in Snuggie Heaven. While you hem and haw over who those two people might be, take a fricken gander at this.



Dinner. Voi-la-fuckin-la.

NPR, this is all your fault.

I was washing sippy cups this fine evening—now my favorite pastime—when a program about childhood obesity came on. While I was listening and scalding my hands, visions of people’s blogs started running through my mind—more specifically, blogs belonging to women who are posting pictures of their homemade advent calendars, cookies, lemon bars, and crafty what have yous. The stuff is pretty and the women know it, otherwise why would everyone and their mother be writing about them?

For God’s sake.

Anyway, one of the people who called in to the NPR show started talking about how all these poor fat kids are coming to school with prepackaged lunches and how the lack of parental meal planning is a major contributor to the extra pudge.

And that’s when I saw him: Junior, 2018. A 500-pound third grader who can’t bend over to tie his own shoes. His nickname: Junior Whopper. All because I don’t know how to cook and I send him to school with Oscar Meyer Lunchables. Day after day after nitrate-ridden day.

I threw down the sippy cup and picked up the eggplant that’s been sitting on my counter for an entire week and I thought, tonight is the night. Chuck’s working late, I’ll surprise him with homemade eggplant. I’ll channel all the crafty maternal know-how that’s percolating in the blogosphere and I’ll make it work.

Alas.

Halfway through my eggplant endeavor, I started drinking and stopped giving it my best. Maybe it was the rising smoke or the succulence of that third Otter Creek Copper Ale. Maybe I just couldn’t shake the vision of my baby lumbering down the hallway, getting pegged in the head by spitballs spat by other people’s children—children of parents who can bake, macramé, and Chia pet. Yah, that’s a verb (I swear to God if the Chia pet people read this and send me samples I will scream!).

So fine, I can’t blame it solely on NPR. Clearly the eggplant people should start labeling their damn produce with cooking instructions. Or maybe Oscar Meyer can start doing Velunchables made from carrots and green beans and save me from having a catastrophic meltdown.

Speaking of meltdowns, I have a pan to soak and a 6-pack to finish. Oh, and I need to wake up Junior so he can pick a winner. I'm surprised he slept through the smoke alarm...well, tonight's smoke alarm anyway.

Giveaway: You'll be the talk of the town. Literally

Here's Chuck modeling one of the samples we got from the Snuggie people (I swear he's in there!):



I cannot wait to play Obi-Wan Kenobi later tonight.



If you, too, would like to spice up your sex life—I mean, ehem, stay warm while having your hands free to talk on the phone and pick your nose, now's your chance to win a Snuggie of your very own. Just leave me a comment promising me that if you win it, you'll wear it. (Also leave me a way to get in contact with you.)

I have two sage green Snuggies to share, along with an accompanying book light. I'll put all the names in a hat and let Junior pick two.

A word of caution: This thing is a static electricity monster. As I was taking it off, I stopped to turn off a light, and I almost electrocuted myself. Also, if you're not going to sack out on the couch in your Snuggie, you're probably better off with a good ole bathrobe. Walking around is cumbersome and your buns get a serious chill.

Good luck!

This is open to U.S. residents only. Leave your comment by Tuesday, December 16, 9 p.m., EST

Kathy Griffin, watch out!

The Snuggie people are sending me samples so I can share them with you, all the beautiful people who mocked the Jedi get-up while at the same time expressing a secret, hidden desire to wear one. Move over Furminator! I may not be sharing Prada and Dolce and Gabbana but by golly, the "as seen on TV" wares are still hot.

Something that's been on my mind lately: I haven't listened to Ani Difranco since college, mainly because Chuck and Junior are music hogs so we spend way too much of our time listening to Irish jigs and Raffi, but guess what? Difranco's a mom and she has come out with a new song about it. It's turned up on a bunch of blogs and 95% of the comments have been "made me cry," "how beautiful," and "it's simply transformative."

I guess I'm abnormal because my first reaction was ick. I tried to feel moved by the lyrics, but I haven't been able to muster anything beyond blech. I don't feel more beautiful because I'm a mother. In fact, I started to feel more attractive when I lost the baby weight and bags under my eyes and started to look less like a new mom and more like my former self. I mean that literally: not my new-and-improved mom self, my former self.

I want to know: do the lyrics below move you to tears or closer to grabbing the barf bag (or somewhere in between)? Be honest.

Present/Infant

lately i've been glaring into mirrors
picking myself apart
you'd think at my age i'd of thought
of something better to do
than making insecurity into a full-time job
making insecurity into art
and i fear my life will be over
and i will have never lived unfettered
always glaring into mirrors
mad i don't look better

but now here is this tiny baby
and they say she looks just like me
and she is smiling at me
with that present infant glee
and yes i will defend
to the ends of the earth
her perfect right to be

so i'm beginning to see some problems
with the ongoing work of my mind
and i've got myself a new mantra
it says: "don't forget to have a good time"
don't let the sellers of stuff power enough
to rob you of your grace
love is all over the place

there's nothing wrong with your face
love is all over the place
there's nothing wrong with your face

lately i've been glaring into mirrors
picking myself apart

Phew. Now that we are done with those sappy lyrics, I am going to pour myself another beer. I took the day off so I could bring Junior to visit his great-grandmother in the old folks home and I am wiped. Plus, I am obsessed with Entrecard and I've been away from it for a few days.

I know, lewser. Big fat lewser. I know. But I have Snuggies and sexy reindeer boot pictures to share! Who's better than me? (Collective "everyone"? Yah, I thought so.)

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.