The Perfects and Poop Meatballs

Hey bitches,

Long time, no post.

So Hooligan #1 has developed a crush on one of the Perfects who live next-door. Her name is Littlest Perfect and she has her mother's last name. (I've discovered that all of the Perfect children have Mrs. Perfect's last name. No hyphen. No divorce. Mrs. Perfect simply wanted the kids to have her last name. I say whatevs. But my hubs is bothered and bewildered by this and dying to shake Mrs. P.'s emasculated mate and yell, "WHAT's the deal, man? Grow a pair.")

I like the Perfects. At least, I think I do. But we haven't hit it off famously and I can't put my finger on why. Maybe it's because Mrs. Perfect is currently in New Mexico at a leadership retreat so she can come back and impart her wisdom to the Girl Scout troop she leads, PTO she chairs, and small country she rules.

Back to Hooligan #1's crush. It was a rare morning. My house was clean. Mrs. P. was away. So I told Hooligan #1 he can ask Little P. over to play. This is their First Indoor Playdate. It begins swimmingly. Until Little asks for Play-Doh.

Fuuuuck.

But she's a guest. She wins. They make Play-Doh Spaghetti with Meatballs. I play some classical music. Mr. Emasculation comes over to check on his offspring. We're a vision of domestic bliss, a Martha Stewart wet dream.

"Eveything's A-OK!" I chirp. I even offer to watch Little while he shops or gets manscaped or whatever the fuck.

And then Hooligan #1's teacher calls. "Your son is doing terrific, but . . ."

But?

"But I'm sorry to report that your son has a weak hand," she tells me. "He writes his letters from bottom to top, not top to bottom. I'd like him to see an occupational therapist."

He's FIVE, I want to say. But instead I say, "Do what ya gotta do."

Then she says, "He also has a short attention span" and I drift off. . . .

I'm on the phone with her in the next room for all of TWO MINUTES when Little's Dad reappears. He is standing outside the sliding glass doors of my kitchen looking in on the once-serene kids who, in my absence, have gone apeshit. They are standing on chairs. They have changed the soft classical music to blaring Korn. They are throwing around the brown Play-Doh "meatballs" and yelling:

"POOP!" "POOOOOOOOP!" "POOP FIGHT!"

Hooligan #2 flings a handful of something at the sliding glass doors and there it sticks, a Play-Doh poop, right in front of Mr. E's horrified face.

Meanwhile, Hooligan #1's teacher won't let me off the phone. When I finally hang up and let Mr. E. in, I say, "I promise everything was under control. I just left for a minute . . ."

"The trick is not to leave," he says.

Then he grabs his kid and sprints out the door. And I feel shamed . . . until I remember that his wife has Bobbited his manhood . . . and I have a lot of cleaning to do. Play-Doh is a bitch. Whoever invented it did not have children. Ditto to the bottom freezer drawer.

So, what's new with you?

RENT-A-NANA

I have a plan that will make us MILLIONS. Millions, by golly!

*Sniffle*

I also have a cold. A hacky, sneezy, chappy, two-tissue box-a-day, nasty whore of a cold. (And riddle me this. Why do colds always give me a Super-Sized Afro? Does this happen to anyone else or am I the only one jamming snowball-sized snotrags, as well as a hair pick into my purse . . . or back pocket, if I'm feeling extra groovy.)


Runny nose + high temperature = Disco Fever

Although I do love me the Sudafed, Non-Drowsy and Drowsy, upping and downing more than fat Elvis in the bedazzled jumpsuit, I need something else. Or someone, really.

I need my mom.

Mom. I really need my mommy. To give me hot tea and buttered toast. To tuck me in snug. To turn off the lights and shut my bedroom door and gently tell my family, "You're mother's sleeping, sweeties, so please . . . STAY THE FUCK OUT!"

Instead I'm the mom, so there is no rest. My kids care about three things--eating cereal, saying the word "poop," and breaking shit. Not being Apple Jacks, excrement, or glass lamps, my cold is irrelevant.

Here is where my plan comes in. I'm starting a business. A service, if you will. People hire nannies, don't they? Well, let's push the envelope. Let 'em hire nanas. You know, sweet old ladies who come in and care for moms who are sick? These grandmas-for-hire will watch the kids, serve tea, and toast bread all at once! RENT-A-NANA is a granny goldmine, a white-haired windfall, a geriatric jackpot!

In fact, I've already begun the application process. As a test run, I'm choosing one of these lovely ladies to care for me. Who shall I choose? Let's take a peek.


She looks like a pistol, sure, but a bit chatty. I'm looking for silence, carbs, and an indecent amount of butter--not Crockpot recipes and "Judge Judy" play-by-plays. Pass.


Now this is better. An eager beaver, this one. She's already working on my cuppa.


Aw man, now this gal's gone and poisoned it. Yeah, I'm not falling for your tampered Tetley, lady. No thanks to the Earl Gray with two lumps of arsenic. After you, sweetcheeks.


Ah, this fine grandmama's a speaking my language: "Tea, dearie? Fuck tea. Nana's making you a hot toddy. Oh, and your toast needs waaay more butter. What are you, on a diet? Silly young girl. You can bounce a quarter off your tush." DING, DING, DING! We have a winner.

Yeah, RENT-A-NANA is going to make me millions. Just you wait. It will be huge. HUGE, I tell you. Ill moms everywhere will be thanking me for the clutch elderly hook-up.

Of course, lest we go the way of Annie Wilkes, there will always be a screening process. . . .