Who are the perverts in your neighborhood...in your neighborhood...in your neigh-bor-hood hey!

After reading that my mother gave Chuck and me edible body chocolate, hundreds—okay, two—of you said you couldn't imagine your mother giving you such a lurid gift. That's fair. But you have to understand something: My mother is very, very pretty, and after a lifetime of being chased for sex, the woman's got it on the brain.

Seriously. If you'd been ogled and propositioned nonstop for 60 years by men (and some women), you'd have to absorb some of that eventually. It's Newton's third law. To every action—in this case, a large group of perverts heckling one person— there is always opposed an equal reaction—in this case, the transformation of said person into one ginormous pervert.

It's science, baby.

But enough about her. I want to talk about me, and what it's been like to live with a beautiful, blonde, buxom, oversexed mother.

Picture it: 2002. Or 2003. I don't fricken remember. Chuck and I were on hiatus. I was renting an apartment in an old Victorian house. The landlord was a 70-year-old man named Mr. Rogers. He wasn't a sprightly 70. He had a gray pallor, was skinny and had a jiggly turkey neck.

To say that Mr. Rogers was a packrat would be a gross understatement. My apartment was at the very top of the house, and I often had to climb over refrigerators, velvet chairs, boxes, newspapers and mattresses to get to it. Sometimes I had to climb over Mr. and Mrs. Rogers (they drank a lot of Wild Turkey).

It wasn't a dirty house—they had a maid—it was just incredibly cluttered. And a little Munsters-ish.

Why am I telling you all this? Because even though Mr. Rogers looked like he was at Death's door, he somehow managed to scale his mounds of mess to get to my apartment on the nights my mother stopped by.

My mother and I would be sitting there, and we'd hear a soft knock. I'd get up and open the door and there he'd be in a red silk bathrobe and khaki pants, holding a glass of bourbon. He'd tell me he needed to talk to me about something, like the gas bill or the new parking "situation" and while he was talking he'd float closer and closer to my mother.

One night, he was so intoxicated by her (ok, and Wild Turkey) that as he was leaning against the wall staring at her, he started sliding down the wall in his silk robe! Just imagine Frank Perdue dressed like Hugh Hefner in your living room. And knowing he wants to bone your mom.

I...

I...

Wait, what the hell was my point?

Oversexed mom...perverted landlord...traumatized daughter...

Oh hell, you caught me. I just wanted to tell the Mr. Rogers story.

I'm not regifting, I'm regenerating love

Lookie, lookie what I found next to the laundry detergent: an unopened box of Chocoholics’ chocolate “tattoo set” given to me by my mother, pre-Junior.*

How it came to reside in the laundry room, I have no clue, but it sure is a stroke of luck. The heat from the dryer has probably kept the jars’ contents from getting cold and crackly, which means I can whisk this gem right into Valentine’s Day 2009 and no one will be the wiser.

Yes! Think of all the post-IKEA fun I can have “tattooing” words on Chuck’s backside. Phrases like “let’s not make another” and “thank God for birth control.”

Or maybe, like the box suggests, I’ll use the “provocative” enclosed stencil sheet to write chocolately instructions on my lover (Chuck, that's you). Instructions like “Let’s go to sleep instead” or “Brush your teeth again, please, we had garlic for dinner!”

I'm kidding. Of course. I don't know how to cook with garlic.

*The woman wanted a grandchild, what can I say? That same year for Christmas, she gave Chuck this:



It also mysteriously ended up in the laundry room...

I'm not 100% sure I like children

Last night I went to bed at 7:45. And it wasn’t one of those gee, yawn, stretch, I’m pooped maybe I’ll hit the sack. It was I am going to die if I don’t lie down and shut out the world.

Why the tizzy?

I brought Junior to IKEA. On a Saturday.

Idiot!

All I wanted to do was buy a topiary tree for my office. Trees and plants keep dying in my office, but that doesn’t stop me from trying again. If I admit that plants can’t live in there, what does that say about human life? Anyway, a coworker overheard me talking about the $19.99 topiary trees, and she sweetly asked me to pick one up for her. As did the coworker next to her.

So, here we go: IKEA. Saturday. Junior. Three topiary trees.

Chuck happened to mention to his sister, Angela, that I was taking Junior down to IKEA. She offered to meet me since she lives a few minutes away and has two little girls who like to pet Junior (I’m serious, they brush him with their hands, which is very cute but also very show pony-ish).

I like Angela because even though she’s not on lithium she acts like she is. She says she’s taking the B family of vitamins. I think I took those vitamins in college—from a bong.

Revised agenda: IKEA. Saturday. Junior. Three topiary trees. Chuck’s sister, Angela. Two little girls.

Angela happened to mention to Chuck’s step-father that we were taking Junior and the girls to IKEA and since he is retired and does nothing but craft life-sized wooden cows in his free time, he offered to meet us. (I’m not kidding, the backyard of Chuck’s parents’ house looks like a miniature dairy farm.)

Revised agenda #2: IKEA. Saturday. Junior. Three topiary trees. Chuck’s sister. Two little girls. Chuck’s step-dad.

I won’t bore you with the details of our trip except to say that there was something happening in the children’s section of the cafeteria that was straight out of Lord of the Flies. Furniture was thrown. Children were beating their chests and jumping against walls. Boys screamed. Girls screeched. The goings-on were so traumatizing that they instilled in me a profound and all-encompassing fear of Junior’s fifth birthday party, recess, playgrounds—basically anything having to do with children.

I’m pretty sure I ate; the crusty piece of macaroni I found wedged into my shirt collar is evidence that at some point food was near my mouth.

And then, the store.

Oh holy mother, the store. Junior wanted to touch everything. He wanted to yell “fast! fast!” then show us how he could run fast. For the hour it took for us to wind through that evil maze of a store, I bent over to remove his hand from stemware, lifted his 25-pound writhing body as he tried to pull curtains down from the wall, wrestled him into the carriage only to have him scream “down, down!” Basically, I laughed, cried, stretched, ran, jumped—I might have even thrown up at one point.

And I hadn’t even gotten the fucking topiary trees yet.

Finally we got to the damn plant section, which was the last stop before the registers. I crammed the trees into the carriage and wiped my dripping brow (I had long since abandoned most of my clothes, because it was a hellish 90 degrees in the store) and raced to the registers.

The end was in sight.

I paid for the trees. We all walked to the door. Stood a moment. And everyone said goodbye. Leaving me to push a carriage full of trees and a child to the far corners of the slushy parking lot.

You know what? That’s fine. I bought the trees. I didn’t ask for help. But after I had put Junior in his car seat and thrown the trees on top of the stroller, bags of sand and other miscellaneous and unnecessarily large hatchback items, I sat in my front seat and contemplated dropping Junior off at my mother’s and buying a one-way ticket to an island where liquor is plentiful and so is silence.

Until yesterday, I never would have associated IKEA with things like anarchy and Armageddon. But leaving the world of babies and venturing into the land of toddlers and children is a trip best taken with booze and small steps.

IKEA, until Junior is 21, I have to break up with you. Or at least meet you in back alleyways when no one is looking. And Junior, your fifth birthday party is going to be me, you, your dad and a leisurely stroll in the woods.

Emphasis on leisurely.

For once, it wasn't the French

If my husband, Chuck, and his best friend were dogs and they died and went to Doggie Heaven, they would run and frolic and sniff each other’s butts in all the euphoric glory that non-sexual but intimate contact can bring two men who are in love with each other but don’t want to make out.

Whew. I’ve wanted to say that for years.

Now that you know that Chuck is in non-sexual love with his best friend, you should also know that Chuck was very hurt when he read someone’s comment from my last post that said “Chuck’s best friend is a dick…”

After I was done holding him, I gently reminded Chuck that over the last 12 years, his best friend has been a dick. When I first came along, he referred to me as the nameless “Chuck’s girlfriend”—for almost a year. If he wanted to hang out but Chuck was hanging out with me, he’d have a tantrum. He told me flat out that he liked Chuck’s ex better.

And then there was the bag of rocks.

I don’t know if you’ve ever known someone who wears rocks around his or her neck, but Chuck was the first person I’d ever met who wore a totem bag—and I thought it was the weirdest thing ever. But if you saw that pouch against his tan Magnum PI chest, you’d overlook it too.

Chuck’s best friend also thought the rock bag was the weirdest thing ever. Sadly, this shared sentiment did little to bring us together. (Because emotionally he is equivalent to a pre-schooler.)

Anyway, fast-forward to 2002, when Chuck and I took a vacation to Paris.

Day one. Sacré-Coeur.

Chuck: This is boring.

Me: Do you smell something funny?

Chuck: Yes, French people.


Day three. Zara (what, you think I only wanted to see Parisian monuments?)

Chuck: Kiss me.

Me: No. You stink.

Chuck: Come on.

Me: Did you buy French cologne made with vomit?


Day five. Bateaux-Mouches.

Chuck: Kiss me.

Me: You smell so bad I think I might throw up.

Chuck: Come on.

Me: Oh God, stop the mouche. I need le bucket.


Day seven. Air France.

Chuck: I can’t take it anymore. What the hell is that smell?

Me: People are looking at us.

Chuck [touching his neck]: My totem bag is wet.

Me: I think we should break up.

Chuck [sniffing his rock bag]: That mother fucker!

Chuck opened the bag and out came blobs of moldy cheese, along with some raisins. Suddenly he understood why his best friend had wanted to borrow his totem bag right before we left on our trip.

He thought it was funny. I wanted to kick Chuck’s best friend in the nuts.

Until Chuck said sadly, “I guess I’ll have to throw it away.”

If our lives were growth charts, this is where I would make a notation that Chuck’s best friend rose 0.00091876 points in the amount I was able to tolerate him. And if you’re wondering why you don’t know Chuck’s best friend’s name, it’s because I live by tit-for-tat and he hasn’t earned it yet.*

* Okay, not really. We’ve gotten to be really good friends.

I kind of thought I looked hot on my back

Chuck’s best friend: Hey, know what’d be cool? A ski weekend.

Chuck: Plan it. We’re there.

Chuck’s best friend: Why is Mrs. Mullet holding herself and whimpering in the corner?

Mrs. Mullet: Sit down, Chuck’s best friend, and let me tell you a story….

When I was a sophomore in high school, one of my good friends was Karen. Karen was beautiful and mean, which means that only the aesthetically elite had the balls to approach her for a date. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that her attitude and looks incited a lot of jealousy. When a field hockey puck knocked out her front tooth during gym class, girls—and some female teachers—raced to see it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Karen in all her beastliness.

Do you know that that bitch still looked good? She just looked like a hot chick who was missing a tooth. And she knew it. If you can still make the basketball team drool with a gaping black hole in your mouth, you pretty much walk on water.

Oh, how I hated her.

Chuck’s best friend: What does this have to do with skiing?

Mrs. Mullet: Shut it, buttlick. This is my blog. Ahem…

When Karen invited two other friends, Tricia and Liz, and me on a weekend ski trip, I said yes. I had concerns that they were better skiers than I, but Karen assured me we were all at the same level.

We started off on a Green Dot trail to warm up, but it soon became apparent that Karen, Tricia and Liz were mere steps away from the Olympics. (The back flips, tail grabs and 180s kind of gave it away.) Like savvy hunters they were ready to attack and kill the mountain; like a cowering piece of shit, I was ready for a plastic fork and salad bar.

Still, I was determined to stay with them and be cool. We boarded the chairlift.

Karen must have seen the sweat pouring down my face as we headed up the mountain at a 90-degree angle because she assured me that we would stay on Green Dots and go slow until I warmed up.

Karen was a fucking liar.

When we got off the chairlift, there were nothing but Black Diamond trails as far as the eye could see. I had no choice but to attempt one.

In all fairness to my "friends", they waited patiently at the bottom of every vertical hill and yelled instructions. But it’s hard to hear when you’re skiing on your ass and heading for the woods. Or careening towards the Ski School toddlers who have braided together and are not moving even though you are shouting, “I can’t stoooooooooop! Holy shit mooooooooove!”

I’d like to say that I learned my lesson about trusting Karen, but she was convincing and charming, and I fell for her Black-Diamond-is-really-Green-Dot trick again and again.

Was I complete moron?

Yes. But really, she kept promising me that Black Diamonds intersected with Blue Squares that turned into Green Dots and that I kept missing the turn-offs.

Finally I’d had enough. On the next trip up the mountain, I told Karen that after that run, I was heading for the lodge. She apologized and told me that she’d take it extra easy on me because I was frazzled. She felt bad. She knew I was frustrated. I was a good friend.

And that’s when we got off the lift and I saw this:


I’ll give you the abridged version of what happened next: I shouted, “Screw it” and threw myself down the cliff ala John Cusack in Better Off Dead.

That’s when I met Mr. Mogul. If you’re not familiar with moguls, they look like this:



Moguls aren’t meant to be skied on one’s back, but I had no choice: My knees buckled on the first bump and I had to succumb to the ice humps. Thank God I was able to keep my legs closed.

When I finally slid to a stop, it was directly under the chairlift, which was stopped. That’s when the clapping started. Slow at first, and then gaining momentum. Karen, Tricia and Liz swooshed down and asked me if I was dead. The world was spinning, my ears were ringing, but I clearly heard a man yell, “You’re hot!”

I looked up and saw an attractive man leaning out of his seat. The sun glinted off his ski mask. He was just My Type.

He was smiling at Karen.

Fucking bitch.

I haven’t skied since.

Chuck’s best friend: So you’ll take some lessons.

Mrs. Mullet [to Chuck]: Hand me that steak knife.

Random Tuesday thoughts

Why does Junior only get sick on days that Chuck has doctor's appointments or family deaths? Chuck's at the gastroenterologist's right now and I'm home from work tending to profuse puke. And why does Junior like to puke in Chuck's slippers? No sooner had the wonderful customer service woman from LL Bean patiently explained how to clean vomit off sheepskin then Junior upchucked into them all over again.

Speaking of puke, why did Chuck have to take his brother out to celebrate his 21st birthday in my car? Of course he puked. The only thing worse than driving to work in a freezing cold car that reeks of puke is driving to work in a warm car that reeks of puke. For this reason alone I am hoping the weather stays in the low 30s.

Why can't people listen? The man across the street who was laid off months before Chuck keeps shoveling our walkway then asking for money. I told him if we wanted him to shovel we'd ask him. He suggested I leave a note in the window that reads "yes" or "no" instead. I agreed, but in the dark crevices of my mind I thought of other things I'd like to leave on that note. Something like "we're poor too, dipshit."

My hot flame from second grade who found me on Facebook finally posted a picture. It appears that his hotness also peaked in elementary school.

Why does Junior take two-hour naps for Chuck and sleep until eight? I think it's a male gene conspiracy.

How is it possible that my boss grows a flaky booger in her right nostril every day at 3 o'clock? I know this because she pops into my office to check in at that time, and when I look up I can see into her nose and there it is! The same shape and size and everything! Can someone explain how this is possible? If someone marries her I hope he'll bring this up nicely.

Why does Chuck tell me, "It looks like you'll be getting that new bathroom you wanted" like he's giving me a present? We have to redo the bathroom and as far as I know, both of our names are on the checking account and my hands will be laying grout or stripping tile or whatever the hell you do to old bathrooms too.

Why am I blogging during Junior's naptime instead of writing "NO" on an index card and taping it to the front window? (Yah, it's snowing again.)

For more randomness, hop over and see the Un Mom, the swearing brainchild of this mental snack.

Spoonfuls of whoopass

Behold my act of rebellion:



Yes! It’s a floozy of a snow-woman, with erect nipples and tarty red cheeks. She may be wearing nice jewelry, but don’t let her fool you. She’s 100% bona fide Bad Girl.

She’s everything I want to be and more. Everything.

Why? Because my image is at stake! Last night over dinner, Chuck’s cousins told me I reminded them of a “modern day Mary Poppins.”

Jim Jiminy what?



I have nothing against Mary, but you have got to be kidding me. I don’t carry an umbrella, I don’t float, and I certainly do not sing to birds. I'm also not that happy. Mary is Xanax happy. I'm, like, Tums happy. And just because I look squeaky clean doesn’t mean I am. I can be badass and do bad things and you know, rough people up and stuff. I’m really intimidating in my cable knit cardigans and striped socks.

Don’t fuck with me, yo!

Of course, I couldn’t tell the cousins any of that because the conversation went like this all night:

Me: “Is your pork chop raw? I—”

Cousin #1: “It’s like my Aunt Edna used to make. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Edna talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Edna talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk honey glaze talk talk talk talk talk talk talk celery salt talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Edna talk.”

Cousin #2: “It wasn’t Edna! It was Winky. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk. Talk Winky talk talk talk talk talk talk horseradish talk raisins talk talk Winky talk talk formaldehyde talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk cracked peppper talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Winky talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk Winky talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.”

After dinner, I sneaked downstairs for some Tylenol. I thought the maelstrom was behind me. Then I opened the medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom and saw this:



My virginal Poppins eyes were appalled. Who would put such a personal item in a guest bathroom—and next to Junior’s baby lotion? Then it hit me: My brother and his fiancee stay in the guest room all the time. His buxom lover must have stocked the medicine cabinet with her lubricant du jour.

Ew, ew, ew.

I did what any woman who has been likened to a Disney character and who now knows that her brother’s girlfriend experiences vaginal dryness would do: I went back upstairs and drank a lot.

I.Am.Tough.*

*I'm really not bad. I can't even kill spiders. Though I did get an F in Oceanography once.