Are you married to a hotdog head?

Stop me if you’ve heard this one:

A wife is doing the dishes. Her husband comes up behind her and says, “Why don’t you take a break?” She stops doing the dishes but starts folding clothes. Again, her husband comes up behind her and says, “Why don’t you take a break?” So she stops folding clothes but this time she picks up the vacuum. Exasperated, her husband comes up behind her again and says, “I thought you were going to take a break?” She turns off the vacuum and says, “Well, why don’t you stop following me around and start cleaning up around here so I can take a damn break? Weinerface!”

Oh wait, sorry, that’s not a joke, that’s this afternoon’s conversation.

Ooops.

If you're skinny but you think you're fat I just bought you a ticket to Get the Hell Out of My Life

Now that it’s officially over with the nanny, I’ve decided to break up with some more people. Seems like a good time, seeing how it’s a new year and winter (I don’t know about you but the background of dead, lifeless trees always seems to bring the duds in my life to the forefront). And I like the idea of doing some human house cleaning; it makes me feel productive.

The first person I want to dump is my coworker Danielle. Sometimes we get lunch, sometimes we sit together at work functions. I’m dumping Danielle because I’m tired of having this conversation over the morning coffee pot:

Her: “You look so skinny!”
Me: “No way, you look so skinny.”
Her: “Shut up. I look like a house.”
Me: “You look great.”
Her: “I’m gross.”

Danielle easily weighs 30 pounds less than me—easily—so if she thinks she’s fat and gross how the hell can I look skinny? It’s mathematically impossible. Not only is this “conversation” pointless, it belongs in Legally Blonde and last time I checked, I was not Reese Witherspoon.

Danielle, you’re a talking floor lamp, and your duotone crimped hair is an unfortunate lampshade. Plus, you walk like you just got off a horse, which I guess is what happens when you don’t have any fat to support your gluteus maximus.

Bye, sweetie.

The second person I am dumping is a former co-worker friend, Wendy. (If there are any Wendys reading this, I’m sorry, but I have yet to meet a Wendy that wasn't a little nuts. Maybe there’s a Wendy out there who’s my BFF and I’ve yet to meet her but until then, I’ve got to go with what I know.)

Along with being a truth-bender, Wendy is a former corporate big shot turned stay-at-home mom. There are rumors she was let go, but she’d never disclose that. I’m ditching her because I’m tired of having this IM conversation:

Her: I’m having so much FUN playing Twister with the kids!!! I LOVE not working!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Great.
Her: Next we are going to bake brownies!!!!!!!!! I’m STILL in my bathrobe!!!!!!!!
Me: Super.
Her: Did you have a good holiday vacation (I don’t know what that word means anymore because I’m on vacation ALL THE TIME!!!!!!!!!!)
Me: Yep.
Her: Well, have fun at work.

Wendy, Wendy, Wendy. Me thinks you doth tell me too many fucking times that you’re thrilled to be home. Last time I checked, staying home with two kids was not a vacation, unless you’re just plain dumb. And playing Twister in your bathrobe with your kids sounds a wee bit tricky (do you really want your three-year-old son straining for the blue dot that’s under your liberated crotch?).

If you were a real friend, you wouldn’t feel the need to exclamate your affected jubilation all over my computer screen. Sometimes Windex doesn’t get it all off. You’re obviously insecure and petty, and life’s too short to let people such as yourself populate my heart.

While we’re at it, did you really think I would let my child drink from those mangy, slobbery sippy cups you dropped off? Who recycles chewed-on sippy cups? If you wanted me to keep dental records of your children in my home why didn’t you just bring them over so they could gnaw on my woodwork? At least then I’d have a personalized memento of our friendship.

You’re gross, and we’re through.

Aaaahhh. Much better.

Yep. Just me, Hugh and a couple of St. Bernards. Flutter, flutter.

The nanny’s last day is tomorrow. I’m sad to see her go, so it’s a good night for random distractions and the History Channel’s “Armageddon Week” just wasn’t cutting it (all I have to say is, if 2012 is really the end of the world that is so not fair! I want to see 40 so I know whether or not my wrinkle cream is working).

Ahem. One of my favorite bloggers, Small Town Mommy, tagged me with the seven random things about me tag. Marcia, Marcia returns. I’ll be succinct this time cause, like I said, the damn Mayan calendar said we only have five years left and I’d hate for you to feel you spent one minute longer than necessary reading about me instead of, you know, kissing your grandma.

Here goes:

1. I’ve seen Steve Tyler from Aerosmith twice in person. He has a summer house in the same town in which my grandparents lived. Once, I saw him tasting carrot juice at a health food store. The second time, the chain broke off his bicycle as he was riding past me. Both times he reminded me of a Pez dispenser. Holy jaw.

2. Several years ago, when I was traveling in Spain for a photo shoot, my company assigned me a French photographer for the two-week trip. One night, over cognac and goose liver paté, he asked if I wanted him to seduce me. I mulled it over, taking into account that a) he wore boat shoes and had Donald Trump hair, and b) he’d just told me that his marriage broke up because—among other reasons—he put a fake turd on his mother-in-law’s chair and no one in the family thought it was funny. Needless to say, the answer was absolument non.

3. I daydream about moving to Ouray, Colorado at least once a week. Mostly the daydream involves me being an avid hiker who owns several ginormous dogs and is married to Hugh Jackman.

4. My husband is an occasional ghostbuster who has hung out with the guys from TAPS. I’m thinking of starting a blog about it: “Frogs in my Ectoplasm.”

5. I wish I’d come up with http://mulletville.blogspot.com. It’s just not right that a blog with that name is dedicated to bicycling.

6. When my grandfather died I took a pack of his unfiltered Camels (he used to leave cartons of them in a big box in his closet to let them dry out because he liked them crispy). If the History Channel is right about 2012, I figure that’s a great time to have a smoke (by that time they’ll be so crisp I’ll be able to smoke them in one puff).

7. I really wanted to be a weatherwoman.

Phew! I am passing this tag on to Dads, dads and more dads:

Dad to Two

C-3Po at Football and Keggers

And Practically Joe because he always makes me laugh.

If they choose not to do it, I'll be fine. Sniff, sniff.

Stay-at-home Viking Dad, day two

I came home to find Elmo armed and guarding the fort. I swear, if Junior starts swigging Mead and playing the mandolin I will go ballistic. One Viking is enough. (Though Chuck does get extra stars for labeling things.)

Oh, who am I kidding? This made my week.

The 2009 Freak Flag: softer colors, sublter hues but just as resilient

All the hype. All the build-up. Alas, my birthday (aka Date Night III) blew serious chunks.

On Saturday, Chuck and I dropped Junior off at my mother’s then had lunch at my favorite Indian restaurant. We even had a gift certificate from good ole Granny. But after stuffing ourselves full of Chicken Tikka Masala, garlic naan and a carafe of wine, we both looked like we were expecting.

The ensuing espressos and cloves were mere stupidity. As was the shot of Jack.

The rest of the afternoon consisted of me asking Chuck what he wanted to do and him telling me he didn’t care, it was my day.

My day. It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? A whole day to do whatever the hell I wanted. But there was one problem. I didn’t know what the hell to do! Something was off. I couldn’t shake the blech. The blah. The macaroni brain. So Chuck did what every good husband does when his wife is behaving like a freakazoid: He took me to the outlets.

And that’s when I started behaving like a psychotic mother in a Lifetime movie. It was like every little kid had a marshmallow head, and I wanted to eat it. Was the little boy in front of us Junior’s age? What words was he saying? Would his parents mind if I held him and called him Junior? Could I please smell his hair and kiss his fat cheeks?

The evil voices in my brain started telling me that my mother had tricked me into thinking I’d like some alone time with my husband and to sleep late. She didn’t care about me. She just wanted Junior all to herself! She just wanted me to suffer!

Can you guess what happened next?

Why, yes, of course. Chuck smacked some sense into me, we went home, etc., etc., watched the entire first season of Weeds, had a birthday toast, etc., etc. and slept until 11:30 the next morning, around which time my mother brought my child back to me and my wonderful husband served me breakfast in bed.

All of this leads me to believe that actually being 34 is going to be fine. It was the damn metamorphosis bullshit that sucked balls*.

Wow, does anyone else see a Hallmark card somewhere in there?

*It could also be seasonal affective disorder (SAD) or my potassium levels or maybe, just maybe, I have become every obsessed mother I ever mocked.

I want my house back. Now

Dear Glade,

I am asking—no, begging—you to come up with a Houseguests Be Gone spray. I think it would make a lovely addition to your fine family of products. It would also make my year. I don't care about the scent. It can be fish butt musk or banana cream skunk. It really doesn't matter. As long as it makes guests sniff the air and exclaim, "Gee! I must be hitting the road."

Thank you kindly,

Mrs. Mullet

Flaming shots of absinthe

I made one crucial mistake when bemoaning the lack of New Year's Eve festivities at our house. I forgot that Chuck is a party animal and that no matter how small the crowd, if you’re coming to our house, you will be inebriated within five minutes of arriving at our front door.

No ifs, ands or buts about it.

My husband’s motto is “18 for life.” Personally, I despise the saying because it implies a complete lack of regard for responsibility and/or maturity and what wife wants to hear that her husband thinks he should be able to behave like...oh shit, I don’t know one delinquent celebrity who is 18! A Jonas peckerhead? Miley Montana?

Crap, I’m ancient.

Part of me knows he is kidding about the whole 18 for life thing. (Hah, hah, right honey?) Although now that he’s going to be home with Junior I do worry I will come home one day to find them doing a collective crotch scratch to Skid Row while shot gunning apple juice.

Crap, I’m nervous.

But really, back to New Year’s Eve. Chuck bought a bottle of absinthe and practically pitched a tent when a Polish friend of a friend mentioned she could light the shot on fire, which is popular in her home country. Everyone tried it, even my father (yah, go ahead, chuckle ’cause my dad was here—he’s 21 for life yo!)

Crap, I’m hokey.

Tonight, I’m afraid there will be more flaming shots of absinthe because Chuck has invited a whole new slew of people over for a little birthday pre-game (that’s how he explained it but I know the truth—the man will invent any reason to party).

The good news is that if tomorrow's Date Night III is tame and tequila-less, I have valid reasons why.

Crap, I'm going to be 34.