If famous is La Jolla then I was Schenectady

When I was in my late twenties, I went to the doctor because my thumb had swelled up to the size of…an extremely swollen thumb. After examining my thumb, the doctor, who was very young and pencil-shaped, told me to sit tight while he got his fellow doctor. He brought in a female doctor who was also very young—but more hamburger-shaped—and she said, “Yes, you’re exactly right about the patient.”

They stood before me and broke the news: I had gout.

“But isn’t that what old men who drink a lot get?” I asked.

“Yes. Do you binge drink?” he asked.

“If you’re asking me if I go to frat parties and do keg stands, no,” I said. “If you’re asking me if I enjoy a few bottles of wine once or twice a week then yes.”

The two sat there and exchanged smug, knowing looks. They struck me more as two yuppie colleagues who fancied themselves medicinal mavericks than actual doctors. In fact, I could clearly picture them screwing in the parking lot while shouting, “You nailed that Hematospermia! Oh God, tell me more about the primary sclerosing cholangitis you spectacular wizard doctor!”

“So you’re telling me that the antibiotics I’m taking are in no way causing this swelling, even though I have allergies to other antibiotics—allergies that have produced similar effects?” I asked.

“We said you have gout.” Frick, she was a bitch.

For an hour after the appointment I was visibly upset. My dear friend, Sarah, tried to give me a pep talk.

“You can be the modern-day poster child for gout!” she offered.

“Like the Gardisal chick?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t want to be Gout Girl.”

“It’ll be great,” she promised. “I can see it now: your face on TV. You can be ‘Out and about with gout’. You’ll destigmatize the disease. Do trade shows. Be rich and famous.”

I wasn’t convinced that my calling in life was to be the hot chick with gout, but at the same time, I had a good friend who’d made a nice chunk of money doing Dr. Scholl's commercials. What if…?

But no, I knew the humping, inept doctors were wrong. I stopped taking the antibiotic and within a few days, my thumb returned to its normal size.

The message I left on the doctor’s machine went something like this: “$%@&@ing &(*#Y&#()#ing piece of shit %^^&#*#ing #$@^&# idiots ^^#*#*(@$@* scare me for no reason $@#&ing parking lot bimbos take your Ronald McDonald MDs and shove them up your %%^#%^@*&ing asses!”

I tell you all this—what? You thought I was just rambling?—because poor Junior has been on antibiotics for the last week and he’s covered in a horrible rash, and I pray he didn’t get my allergies. We almost went to the ER with him, until a friend suggested Benedryl.

Duh. Of course.

"Hi, we're the Mullets, and we're first-time parents."

(Junior, if you ever read this, Mommy swears she stopped doing keg stands when she was 25. The funnel was just so much easier.)

Obligatory blog post title. Please don't throw popcorn

On this 'versary of my blog
I'd like to thank that little frog
And think of all the dreamy men
Who sometimes dribble in my den
They come from lands both far and wide
And take from me my precious Tide
But still I love them quite to death
Oh joy to me I'm...

...I'm...

Married with a kid. And I have a blog. That's a year old.

Yah, shit, that about covers it.

(You may send gift cheques and BMW 328i Sports Wagons in Cherry Red to Mrs. Mullet c/o Mulletville. Thanks for reading!)

What's next? Chuck's phone number scribbled on a bathroom stall?

So you know how I just wrote that my brother-in-law said that “men aren’t meant to be stay-at-home moms?” Well, today Larry—that’s his name, Larry—called me to say that he met someone on a plane and that after chatting the guy up, the guy said he’d hire Chuck. All Chuck has to do is send him an email.

Uh huh.

Sit back and relax as we listen in on the conversation with the plane dude, as retold by Mrs. Mullet:

Larry: “So you work in Massachusetts? That’s kind of near this place called Mulletville, right?”

Guy: “No, it’s not even close.”

Larry: “And you work for a communications company?”

Guy: “Not really.”

Larry: “That’s great. Cause I’m related to this guy Chuck. I see him at family functions a few times a year. The guy can really drink. Do you think you could hire him? Cause right now he’s a pussy stay-at-home dad and I’m worried that the next time I see him, his caring and generous nature will make me feel so small and insecure that I’ll need to call his wife and tell her that real men aren’t meant to be stay-at-home moms.”

Guy: “I see.”

Larry: “The fact that I heard him humming a Dan Fogelberg song once only confirms my darkest fears that he is sensitive. I don’t even like music, that’s how manly I am. So do you have a job for him?”

Guy: “No.”

Larry: “And your email is rick@staples.com?”

Guy: “Whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”

Larry: “Great, he’ll be in touch.”

One final note: I would never, ever move to Massachusetts. It is home to the worst drivers in the world, and if you think I am kidding, the next time someone cuts you off take a gander at his license plate (that's right: his. Men cut people off; women tailgate. It's practically law).

I'm so certain of this that if the traffic offender is not from Assachusetts, send me an email and I’ll give you $10,000,000.*

* In Monopoly money. Hello, my husband is unemployed. Did you not just read this post?

Random Tuesday thoughts

Did I lose a follower because I wrote about the uniball? I couldn’t help it. How could I tell the Driver’s Ed story without it? People shouldn’t be offended by testicles. Testicles is a fun word. It rhymes with vestibules, and everyone loves those.

How is it possible that the 15 people who googled “frogs in my formula blog" spent exactly zero seconds on my blog, while the one person who googled “how do you know if you're skinny?” spent an hour? Maybe I’m only interesting when I’m a surprise. If that’s the case I guess I should pop out of more cakes.

I gave away my grandfather’s microwave oven yesterday. When he died six years ago, my dad gave me the microwave and some of the frozen dinners my grandfather hadn’t eaten. It felt like he was giving me an equation: microwave + dinners = meals, but there’s some of kind universal law against eating your grandfather’s Swanson Roasted Carved Turkey dinners after the fact. It never felt right, even though there were times when I was very, very hungry. (In case you’re wondering, I threw away the turkey dinners a year ago on his birthday because Chuck called me weird for still having them. Yah, I held on to them for five years, but I’m the woman who held on to a note for 25 so are you really surprised?)

In three days I will have been blogging for a year. A year. I’m still trying to figure out how that happened. Last year at this time I was a stay-at-home mom trying to get my kid out of the Amby bed (the link's vintage Mrs. Mullet, baby). This year at this time Chuck is a stay-at-home dad trying to turn our child into his Viking minion. I’m still trying to figure out how that happened. So is my brother-in-law, who recently told me that “men aren’t meant to be stay-at-home moms.” Ouch! Chuck, you have my permission to take off your apron and strangle him with the ties.



How can this shirt cost $250? I think I owned its twin in 1984; it was $14.99 and came from Bradlees, and it wasn’t stylish back then either. Marc by Marc Jacobs this is Mrs. Mullet by Mrs. Mulletville telling you that your overpriced, ugly shirt sucks ass.

A special thanks to Keely for giving me the opportunity to be annoyed, enlightened and nostalgic all in one post. If I thought I'd make it through Customs I'd hop over the border and give you this:




(Me! That's me in there!)

I almost went next door and bought a loaf of bread. But no nuts. Please no more nuts

I’m not angry anymore, even though yesterday morning upon waking Chuck grilled me with “What time is it do you really not need anyone why haven’t we had sex on a picnic table?”

Sweet Chuck.

But nope, I’m not angry. Instead, I am hung over. Miserably. And it’s all because the fondue restaurant I went to last night served bread crumbs with its $40 fondue samplers instead of bread chunks or meat, like the menu promised. There was more food floating in the damn sangria. Which is why I chose that as my meal.

I ended up spending the night at my friend’s house and making the Drive of Shame back to Mulletville this morning.

I may have been driving a little too fast, but that was because I thought I might throw up and because I looked so horrendous I didn’t want people to look in my window and see me as they were driving by. That would have caused screaming and violent swerving.

Mr. Policeman didn’t care about any of that. He was having a bad morning, too, and could have given two shits about the reasons why I went through a light that was clearly no longer yellow. But there’s always that hope that if you say the right thing the clouds will part and Mr. Policeman will shake his head and laugh and tell you you can hit the road without that $300 ticket he was going to give you.

So I reached into my grab bag of “perfectly acceptable reasons why I shouldn’t get a ticket” and came up with this: “Mr. Policeman, I passed the point of no return.”

I have been waiting to use the perfectly reasonable “point of no return” for 17 years. Ever since my high school Driver’s Ed/gym teacher, Mr. Narache, shared the gem with me during a Driver’s Ed driving lesson. (Side note about Mr. Narache: His pants were so tight that when he sat down, one of his testicles was forced to the other side, thus forming the dreaded and unsightly uniball. For this reason, he was known as Mr. Na-crotch-y. Understandably, this made driving lessons even more awkward and uncomfortable than usual. I mean, driving around with your gym teacher is bad enough without the looming uninut flashing in your peripheral vision like a neon sign. And sometimes it was so close to the shifter! What if my shaky hand accidentally missed the knob and whacked his bulbous flesh balloon? The horror!)

According to The Crotch, if you were approaching a stop light, you were supposed to pick an object near the light and dub it your point of no return. Once you hit that spot, you were free and clear to blow through the light—even if it turned red—because slamming on your brakes would mean that everyone in the car lurched forward, which would cause the uniball to balloon up even more from the pressure.

And no one wants that.

Sadly, the point of no return logic was lost on Mr. Policeman. He wasn’t familiar with the term and he didn’t want to be enlightened. The good news is that he didn’t give me a ticket. I think when he saw the apple chunk stuck between my teeth, my raccoon eyes and Mulletville address he thought, “Get this rednecker the hell back to her dirt mound.”

And here I am. Going to bed. At 7:30 p.m.

For more Mrs. Mullet uniball stories click here. If you've had enough uniball stories you can relax, I only know one man and one goat that suffer from the condition. So I'm done.

Maybe I'd be nicer if I were waking up next to Bill Murray. Nah

I'm pissed off so if you're all sunshine and hearts right now then shoo, go read this.

Why would I be pissed off on a Friday, you wonder? Or maybe you aren't wondering—maybe you already left and I'm talking to myself at this point. If that's the case fine, I don't need you, I don't need anyone. (Do you know I actually said that to someone once? I was drunk and on a date and it wasn't even appropriate, I just wanted to say it for dramatic effect. We had just had sex on a picnic table near the Family Dollar. Yah, that's right, I had sex on a date and it wasn't in a bed. Now you know that Mrs. Mullet is also Miss McSlultlet. Ooooh).

Anyway. Life is starting to feel like Groundhog Day and it's all my husband's fault. Every morning—and I mean every—begins with this: "What time is it?"

For fuck's sake, the man needs to get an alarm clock that affixes to his forehead. I'm sorry his vision is 5/-25000, but that's not my fault. It's the fault of his hunting and gathering ancestors. When they were stalking lions and picking berries and they couldn't tell a boulder from a bush, they should have been eaten or poked in the eye by a branch instead. Then his wretched eyeball genes would have died.

Though shit, that means he wouldn't be here. And we wouldn't have our kid.

Ok, fine, scratch all that. My point is this: If he asks me one more time upon waking "What time is it?" I am going to perform lasik surgery on him myself with some gin and a wire whisk. Can't he at least make it the second thing he asks me in the morning? What's wrong with yawning and scratching and "Hey, how did you sleep, honey?" or "Would you like breakfast in bed?" and then "What time is it?"

Or what about yawning and hugging and then "Would you like breakfast in bed?" and then scratching and then "Should I buff or shine your shoes?" and then "What time is it?" Switch it up a little. Give me some variety before I douse myself in lighter fluid and jump off the roof in a ball of bright orange flames.

Doesn't someone write scripts for this type of thing? No? Fine, I'll do it then. I will write the "How to find out what time it is when you can't see the clock but you don't want to drive your wife crazy with the repetition of your question" manual.

And I'll do it myself because…

Wait for it…

Just one more second…

I don't need you, I don't need anyone!

(Do you feel gypped because I said that even though we haven't screwed under the fluorescent lights of the Family Dollar? Don't. When she was in her late teens, Miss McSlultlet was also Miss McGetitoverwithalready).

How to make friends when you're the new girl

Lisa. New secretary at work (not mine—I'm not that important). Straight out of college. Attacked the file cabinets with a vengeance. Labeled a drawer this:



Marlene. Her boss. All day: "Lisa, can you do me a favor and get me a file?"

Giggles. Guffaws.

The speed oglers ain't got shit on this file cabinet.