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?