I need your help! SOS! WOK! PAN!

Did you know that I am single-handedly keeping Morningstar Farms in business? Me and the company are such good pals I'm a Facebook fan. I'm a member of their prestigious Insider's Club. Junior's on their Chik Patties like a...oh crap, it's early, insert witty simile. Or is it metaphor? Did I mention it's early?

I'm begging you, if you know of any good toddler cookbooks, tell me what they are. Junior wants to dress up as a Morningstar Farms Veggie Riblet for Halloween and cute as he'd be, it'd be so nice if we could wean him off the pre-made stuff and onto something Mama Mullet made.

P.S. Please, please, puhleeeze don't suggest Jessica Seinfeld's kiddie cookbook. I think the family has enough money and the cover design is so hokey!

P.P.S. I was not paid to write this post. Not even in black bean burgers.

Yet another reason why big-handed men are show stoppers

I saw a doctor in Mulletville today about my busted knee. Turns out I’ve got Chondromalacia Patellae. If you’ve never heard of that before, it means that my knee mistakenly believes it’s attached to an 85-year-old body and has decided to eat itself. Luckily I don’t have the flatulence problem of an octogenarian, but I’m sure my hiney will be the next thing to go. I can just sense it.

News of my condition put me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. More foul than usual. That was unfortunate because I had a meeting scheduled—for the newly formed Mirth and Recreation Committee.

Yes, that’s right: Mirth and Recreation Committee.

Because working 35-80 hours a week isn’t enough. Sitting in a veritable petri dish of germs and dysfunctional personalities isn’t enough. Now, instead of setting us free at the end of the day, my company has devised another committee whose intent is to entrap us—under the guise of merriment.

Hah! If I wanted to channel recreation through my workplace I’d get smashed, strip off my clothes and spray paint enormous penises on the building.

The head of the Mirth and Recreation Committee (who henceforth shall be known as The Head) had other things in mind, namely an after hours cookie and punch get-together with a roaming magician.

Sound like fun? No! A magician can pull a Ferrari out of his ass; it still doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m not home with my child. I just want to go home!

For once, I got some support when I said as much. It was decreed that the get-together would be held during lunch and that the magician would do a demo beforehand so the committee could determine whether or not he’s entertaining or annoying. Oh, how I wish there were a trap door.

Everything was going smoothly until The Head said, “How will everyone know when the get-together is over?”

There were harrumphs, nervous coughs, talk of the get-together last spring that lingered and lingered.

Someone raised her hand. “What if we signify that it’s over by having people clap?”

Yes! Yes! The Head loved that. What a brilliant idea! Why market the event with a run-time of noon to one when instead you could shoo everyone out with ambiguous thunderous applause?

Genius!

Then, from The Head: “Who shall start the clapping?”

Everyone shrugged their shoulders. Who indeed?

A smile spread across The Head’s face. “Hold your hands up. Whoever has the largest hands shall begin the clapping.”

As I raised my hands high in the air for inspection, I fought the urge to simultaneously bang my head on the table. Right now, it’s the only body part that’s working. And even that is questionable.

(If you're having a nah-uh moment, let me remind you of this and this.)

If I get any sexier I'm going to have to end this blog

I’m finally back from the David Gray concert in New York City. Yes, that was Saturday night and today is Tuesday, but I fell so in love with David Gray that I decided to sit on top of his tour bus for a few days, just to be close to him.

In a few words, underpasses suck.

I didn’t need my husband’s athletic cup during the show, but I could have used a sweat guard. We were in the third row and I could practically see the sweat flying off Mr. Gray’s body. Unlike Hunk-o-mania, I jumped up in the air to lap it up.

Yes, I am that much in love.

But like everything else, once something good crosses the border into Mulletville, it turns to shit. So now instead of basking in the warm glow of my newfound amour, I am hobbling along with my head down.

Why? My knee is busted.



I get sharp shooting pains when I walk, and I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s from carrying a 40-pound toddler? Perhaps it’s from running through the halls of work and trying to compensate for my still-healing sprained ankle by hopping on one leg?

Or maybe—and I think this is the most logical—my body dislikes Mulletville so much it’s decided to simply fall apart.

I’m being serious, here. I need a change. I’m in a big, fat funk and I don’t know how to get out of it. All I know is that the present situation isn’t working. My work environment is toxic. It’s a matriarchal system gone horribly, horribly wrong. My hometown depresses the hell out of me. It gets dark after lunch (slight exaggeration, I guess). I miss my son. I now limp on both sides of my body. And every Monday I sit next to a guy in a meeting whose Thoreau coffee mug always seems to be pointing at me. It reads:



Which makes me think of Oprah’s saying:

"If you do not listen to the whisper, you will then get a message, and if you don’t pay attention to the message, you will get a crisis, and eventually if you ignore that you will get a disaster. The first hint of fear, the first whisper that something is out of order, pay attention!"

Blah, blah, blaoprah. Let's rewind and read that Mullet-style:

"If you do not listen to the smushed finger and smashed car door, you will then get a smushed toe, and if you don’t pay attention to the smushed toe, you will get a sprained ankle, and eventually if you ignore that you will get a busted knee and pitiful case of woe-is-me. The first hint of a mullet, the first hairdo that is business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back, pay attention!”

Now look, I’d much rather lend my ear to Thoreau than Oprah, but the woman’s got a point. I think the Universe has been shouting at me (and my finger, toe, ankle and knee) for a while. I’m not sure what we’re going to do but holy shit, if I’m still blogging about my same woes in six months (or if I'm typing with a salad tong taped to my shoulder because I've lost my arm), I will end this blog.

Swear.to.blog.

(Hah! I'm so clever!)

I'm hoping this is the kind of function where my privates won't be under attack

I’m going to see David Gray in NYC tonight with my girlfriends. My friend is bringing her dog, so her dog can stay with her sister while we go to the concert. For reasons I don’t quite understand, the dog will be wearing a diaper.

I didn’t ask.

I’m a little nervous because the crew that I’m going with is the same crew who planned my bachelorette party in NYC four years ago. Picture me, a sweet little engaged lamb, carefully packing my overnight bag for my last hoorah. Now picture my friends at the chotchkie store, buying penis shaped straws and lollipops.

I thought we were going bar hopping. Instead they took me to...

To...Hunk-o-mania.



Yes! And it was as gross as it sounds. Hundreds of brides-to-be and their friends sat at tables in what seemed to be an abandoned factory. The room had the smell and feel of a petting zoo. A dark petting zoo with sweaty, gyrating men everywhere. Men danced on stage and their oil and sweat flew off in big chunks and hit you in the face!

Ok, that might be the tequila talking. I had a lot tequila.

Women screeched and screamed as the dancers worked the crowd. Sometimes I’d look over and see a dancer holding a woman around his waist as he thrust her up and down. The women seemed to enjoy this. I must have been snarling at the dancers because no one tried to pick me up and dry hump me.

The grand finale of the night was when each bride-to-be was called up on stage so she could enjoy a personal dance. There was more thrusting and screeching. Some women were placed on the ground and ploughed. Others were stretched and pulled into positions I’ve only read about in Cosmo. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw a live enactment of the much heralded Wheelbarrow position.

Then it was my turn. The sweaty, oily man sat me down in a chair. I'm sure I looked grossed out (and, ok, cross-eyed from the tequila). He approached me and gyrated. He tried to spread my legs. I believe I put up some resistance. When he finally pried my legs open, I looked away and that’s when he made a fist and jabbed me—in my crotch!

Not a Vin Diesel kind of jab, but enough of a punch that it stung.

I got up and walked off stage. My friend asked me, “How was it?” and I shouted, loud enough so everyone could hear: “HE PUNCHED ME IN THE CROTCH.”

I thought that after my declaration I’d fall into the sympathetic arms of the sisterhood, or at least the establishment. Alas, some chick in the bathroom was on her knees as she thanked her dancer for her dance. She didn’t care about my mangled privates. And the manager? When I told him what had happened, he asked if I wanted him to rub it all better. Bastard!

I was so irate that I demanded we leave. I started towards the door and then I fell. Flat on my back on the concrete floor. I was in a cab by 10:15 and in bed by 11.

Rock on!

So you see, when my darling girlfriends tell me we are going to a concert in NYC I am a little leery. I haven't actually seen the David Gray tickets. All I know is that we are getting a 2:30 p.m. train.

Should I bring my husband's athletic cup?

My fondest memory ever, plus a winner

It was 8:43 a.m. I had just started up my computer when I heard a door slam across the office suite. I heard someone yell, “Don’t ever talk to me again!” And then I saw my boss running toward her office, away from another woman in the suite. My boss slammed the door. Her sniffling was audible through the paper-thin wall that separated our offices.

It was my first day of work.

After the sniffling subsided, I heard her doorknob clicking. Then, a few expletives. Then I heard what sounded like a high-heeled shoe kicking the door. There was grunting. More sniffling.

"I'm trapped!" she yelled.

A few minutes later the maintenance team arrived. They tried opening the door. No luck.

“You bent the hinges,” one of them said. “Did ya have an extra bowl of Wheaties today?”

“Just fix the damn door!”

Moe and Curly Maintenance Men spent the next few minutes chuckling as they pried the door hinges and took the door off of its frame. Instead of taking the door with them when they were done, they propped it against the wall outside my office.

What followed was a day of raised eyebrows and questions by curious passers-by:

“What happened here?”

“Someone have an accident?”

“Temper, temper.”

It was my first day of work.

Now, a mere five years later, here I am designing the Bon Voyage card to my herculean boss so we can all sign it and wish her the best of luck. She’s taking an early retirement. Moving to New Hampshire to make cheese or plant carrots or whatever it is that crazy people do when they decide they no longer want to torture their underlings.

So I’m sitting here looking at this fricken card. And I really, really, really want to write, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.” Cause it’d be a special reference to that incident on my first day.

So.Very.Special.

Somehow I don’t think she’d get it.

But do you know who did get it? A Nut in a Nutshell!



Thanks to the True Random Number Generator, she's now the proud owner of a Diamond Edition Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Blu-ray Combo Pack DVD. I hope that whenever she sees the wicked witch she thinks of me. Er, I mean, of my suffering.

Congrats!

I covered Junior's ears, then my mind went to a naughty place

Tonight I took Junior to the indoor play area at the Mulletville mall. I overheard this conversation between a married couple as they hovered over their twin toddlers:

Mother to daughter, who was sitting on slide: “Abigail, it’s your turn. Go down.”

Father to son, who was standing in line for slide: “Jeffrey, don’t rush your sister.”

Mother: “Abigail, Jeffrey is waiting for his turn.”

Father: “Jeffrey, Abigail will go down when she’s ready. You can wait.”

Mother: “Go down the slide, Abigail.”

Father: “Don’t rush her, Jeffrey.”

Mother: “Abigail! Your brother is being very patient, now go down the slide.”

Father: “Jeffrey, you back up and give her space!”

Mother [pushes daughter down slide]: "There. Your turn, Jeffrey."


Can’t you just picture this couple in bed?

Wife: “Richard, it’s my turn. You owe me for last night’s pathetic lay.”

Husband: “Don’t rush me, Francine. You know I need to cuddle first.”

Wife: “Stop pussy footing around, Richard.”

Husband: “I’ll get on top when I’m ready, Francine.”

Wife: “I’m waiting, Richard.”

Husband: “Dammit, Francine, don’t rush me.”

Wife: “Richard, if you don’t get your lame ass in gear I’m going to—”

Husband: “—I said I need some space! You’re ruining it. Now I’m going to need the Viagra again. Are you happy?”

Wife [gets vibrator from night stand]: "Well. He's up to it, Richard."

Love and marriage…love and marriage…falalalalala.

P.S. Don't forget to leave a comment on the post below if you want a chance to win a Diamond Edition Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Blu-ray Combo Pack DVD. You only have until Wednesday night so yes, I'm rushing you!

$50 says my boobs are going to hang the lowest, plus, a giveaway

I want to thank everyone who left me a comment on my flea post. I seriously expected comments like “You’re disgusting!” or “I’m never coming back to this blog, Cootie Girl!” but instead you shared your own horror stories. I don’t know why the Today show hasn’t picked up on the real household scourges. According to you guys, cricket, tick, flea, silver fish and earwig infestations are, like, rampant.

Shudder.

I still haven’t seen any fleas, so I’m hoping we caught it early enough to avoid a full-blown catastrophe. I also hope that it wasn’t stupid to have company over yesterday. I’d disclosed the situation to everyone, but still, I’m trying really hard not to make follow up calls today along the lines of “Hey, great to see you yesterday. Itchy anywhere?”

Two of the guests were my brother Ted, and his fiancée, Holly. If you’re new here, Holly’s the former nanny who set my oven on fire and whose parents invited us to a foodgasm.

I like Holly, I really do.

…

…

But. She and Ted are planning their wedding. Yesterday while we were talking, I asked her if she'd picked her bridesmaids and she said, "Yep—you're one of them. And Junior is a ring bearer."

Come again? Is it just me or does it take serious nut for a 21-year-old to tell a 35-year-old woman that she’s in her wedding? How about, "Hey, would you and your child like to be in my wedding?" Am I overreacting?

Chuck says yes. He keeps telling me to relax. Oh, I hate that. I think that every time a man tells a woman to relax, his testicles should be zapped with a taser. How can I relax when every black speck in my house makes me think we are seconds away from flea armageddon? Or when all I envision at my brother's wedding is me and a bridal party of 21-year-olds decked out in hot pink bikini dresses and sparkles? I’ll show you relax, you %^&#^#^&ing %#%#^&%#^&er.

Oh, dang. I’d hate to see this post end on a sour note. I started off all warm and smoochy with gratitude and look, I’m back to being crotchety. Would it make it all better if I said I had a Diamond Edition Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Blu-ray Combo Pack DVD* to give away?



This movie is always a thrill to watch. The story-line contains twists and turns and keeps you on the edge of your seat. The movie is humorous, dramatic and engaging.

It’s completely remastered and digitally restored, plus lots of extras. All you have to do is leave me a comment and a way to contact you if you win. If you're not into chicks who cater to the needs of dwarfs, feel free to leave me a comment telling me I'm not overreacting.

Mwahahahha.

This is open to U.S. residents only, since I have to pay postage. Leave your comment by Wednesday, October 21, 9 p.m., EST.

*Holy mouthful! This giveaway was made possible by the One2One Network.