Grammy says she likes Shabby Chic.
In this case, Redneck Decorating Tips may be more accurate.
Either way, I think she’s on to something.
Eat your heart out, Martha.
The filthy stinkin’ bastard mice in my car have smartened up. Usually I get one each night in a trap. Now, they bypass it completely and poo around the perimeter. Thankfully, I noticed their handiwork before hoisting MP into the car seat yesterday morning. Piles of stuffing and poo.
Totally at my wit’s end, I went to the ranch store for bait. However, I was advised against having it in the car, what with the heater and all. Not to mention a small child. This left just one alternative.
I’m trapping the muthas.
We’ll see what’s waiting in the morning. With any luck I’ll be able to relocate the whole family far, far away.
Cross your fingers.
Remember awhile back when I mentioned I got a super cool freelance copywriting gig? All because of the blog? Well, the project’s done and the web site’s gone live and I’m pimpin’ it, just because I think it’s so freakin’ cute. Go check it out and get YOUR fortune!
Never have I had the urge to hug a rotund Asian man like I do this guy.
Which brings me to a semi-awkward segue about library cards and tales of the Underworld.
A few weeks ago, MP and I went to the library together for the first time, and she received her very own library card. She even “signed” her name to the back.
After an hour of lingering, and steadfast attempts at diversion from the Scooby Doo paperbacks (“Yes, I KNOW you like Scooby, Honey, but let’s see what OTHER books they have …”) I struck gold. I found a book I LOVED as a child. A book I who’s title I could never remember. A book who’s story I could never forget.
The Funny Little Woman is the retelling of an Asian folk tale. At its center is a little woman who’s rice dumpling falls through a crack in the earth. She follows it down to the Underworld where she’s captured by wicked monsters called the Oni. The illustrations alone are nightmarish.
I always figured I must have been a weird kid for liking it so much. I always DID like the smooky stuff. I even wondered on a few occasions, if maybe I dreamed the whole thing. Yet, here it was, after all these years.
Totally creepy and inappropriate reading for a young child, right?
We checked it out.
And MP loved it.
I knew she would.
So what other gems are out there? Now that we have a spankin’ new card, and I’ve vowed to cut back on the book BUYING — which admittedly, was outta control — we’ll be spending a lot more time at the library.
Tell me YOUR favorites, Doogs.
I am from 70s Suburbia and swimming pools.
I am from tinkly drinks on the rocks and smoke-filled parental cocktail parties.
I am from a green station wagon named Lucy and the soothing sound of her wipers against torrential rains.
I am from all-day kickball with the boys and cardboard sliding in the hills.
I am from fake vomit and whoopie cushions and other covet-worthy items advertised in the back of comics.
I am from skateboards and scabs on the knees.
I am from thick morning fog and Santas in surf shorts.
I am from miles of walking. Years of searching.
I am from treeforts and buckeyes and drinking from the garden hose.
I am from gawkiness and glasses and adolescent angst.
I am from change and reinvention.
I am from bonfires and bears. From bartenders and beer.
I am from artists.
I am from haunted houses. From haunted lives.
I am from great love. And great loss.
I am from strength and resilience, and ultimately blind faith.
I am from never give up.
This is my very first contribution to San Diego Momma’s PROMPTuesday. She’s such an amazing writer, that, truthfully (and she knows this) I’ve been a bit intimidated to participate until now.
This week’s rules, in her words, are as follows: This week, tell us who you are, what makes you, where you’re from. Share your memory fragments, those visions in your head, those figments that make you, you. What bits and pieces formed your whole? Are you whole?
It was brought to my attention that one of my Tweets Thursday sounded a bit … odd.
You’re right, it does sound like code. (You and your dirty minds.) Unfortunately, my life is not NEARLY that racy.
Here’s the poop. The company I work for puts on an annual business conference, complete with workshops, exhibitors and a cocktail hour. One of the showcase vendors was a massage therapy center. I’ve had some serious back pain for a few years now (helluu Mommy Back), which has escalated over the last few months, so I asked the guy manning the booth for a massage.
I went to lie on the table face down when he told me to turn over, saying something about not being able to form a relationship with the back of a head. Mkay, different, but I get it.
Before the guy cracked everything from my toes to my fingertips to my neck, he told me my back pain stemmed from my feet. He pointed out that I put my weight on the outside of them, which throws everything off. Which I’d never noticed before, but is totally true.
He brought my knees up to my chest — up and out. He told me to relax. To which I replied in my head, “Dude, unless you wanted me to push some major wind, you do NOT want me to relax.” Seriously. I went into this thinking I was getting vanilla. Not spumoni. I was fully unprepared for Yogi-in-a-Box-Contortions.
And then, at one point he started pushing on my stomach with one hand while the other cradled the small of my back.
“Are you cycling?” he says.
“Yeah.” I answer.
I thought he was asking if I biked. I was just about to tell him all about MP’s bike trailer when he says, “I can tell. Your ovaries are swollen.”
“Are you cramping?”
“Uh, no …”
“Well, this should help …”
Despite this completely uncomfortable exchange, by the time he was done, I was ready to pledge allegiance to his Body Shop. I WAS in Heaven. I literally had NO pain. I told everyone I saw to “Go over to this guy’s booth and get a massage OMG it’s amazing and incredible and I’m totally making an appointment first thing Monday.”
Until Saturday morning when I’m feeling like I’ve been hit by a train. And I literally cannot get out of bed. So much for blind allegiance. The back is just as bad as before, if not worse.
Not so bad that I couldn’t make it to the theater. MP and I went to see a local production of Pippi Longstocking.
And back cracker be damned, all was right with the world.
If you’re still undecided about the election, go to YouTube and search for “Barack Dancing.” Then, ask yourself the very important question: Who would you rather see dancing at the Inaugural Ball?
Michelle and Barack? Or Cindy and John?
The answer seems clear until you remember Wildcard Couple Sarah and Todd. And SP’s “Roof is on Fire” moves and Dance Face showcased on SNL last week. If the Republicans lose Nov. 4, I SO want to see her on next season’s Dancing with the Stars.
Pulling THESE dance moves:
Or maybe THESE.
Yesterday, I spent all day working a conference my company sponsors. At one point, I was standing near this guy with the coolest baby carrier I’d seen.
ME: That is SO COOL! I LOVE it!
BACKPACK DUDE: Thanks. It’s totally organic. (That he says this with a Scandinavian accent makes it even more organic-y.)
ME: Where did you get it?
BD: My wife and I made it.
ME: What? You MADE it?!?
ME: Where can I get one?
BD: A baby??
UPDATE: Thanks to Commenter Heather, I now know that the backpack is made by Ergo. I totally didn’t realize how bad the angle of the photo was until you guys started commenting – ha! I promise, it really WAS pretty cool. And non-suffocating.
It happened last year and it’s happening again. A week before Halloween and MP’s waffling. Just a few weeks ago she was PSYCHED to be Bat Girl. Her costume is seriously kick ass.
And suddenly, now she wants to be a werewolf.
I have no idea who or what is responsible for planting this thought. Who knows what crazy randomness lurks in the mind of a 4 1/2 year old? I suspect MP’s brain looks something like a Froot Loop strewn McDonald’s PlayLand. With toy catalogs and lots of Chapstick and Spongebob serving ice cream. Surprisingly, it appears to be a place where mythical hairy monsters aren’t so scary afterall. Mean foxes and dinosaurs on the other hand … THOSE are the things nightmares are made of.
(At least lately.)
So, the whole werewolf thing has spurred kind of a crazy routine.
(At least lately.)
We howl at the moon.
We don’t just stick our heads out the door and give a couple ‘owwws.’ We go out on the lawn, get down on all fours, throw our heads back and HOWL Baby.
I can’t take credit for THIS particular crazy idea. This one’s all MP’s. A few nights this week, I’ve put her to bed without howling, only to have her tiptoe out to the livingroom in her footie PJs.
“Mommy, we forgot to howl at the moon.”
So we bundle up in our coats and winter hats (yes, we have SNOW) and run out to the yard. And as off-the-wall as it sounds, I think it’s actually empowered her a bit, and made her a little less fearful of the night.
Living in the country has its advantages.
We just don’t do it on Fridays. That’s when the ‘neighbors’ get naked and climb into their teepee sweatlodge. This is also a new development. I’m SO not kidding.
At any rate, I’m still pushin’ Bat Girl. As much as I love the whole wolf vibe, I have NO idea how to make a werewolf costume.
My car is infested with field mice. Stinking, filthy, disease-riddled rodents.
How do I know?
BECAUSE THERE ARE FREAKIN’ MOUSE TURDS ALL OVER THE FREAKIN’ CAR.
On the floormats. On the driver’s seat. On the passenger’s seat. In MP’s CAR SEAT. In the freakin’ cup holders for freak’s sake.
The same thing happened two years ago. As soon as the temperature began to head south, the mice began taking up residence in the car. Building condos behind the glovebox. I spent 100 bucks having it detailed after someone mentioned that, sure, I could easily vacuum the turds, but what I WASN’T seeing was all the URINE.
Nevermind that that person was a detailer. Yes, the very one I paid 100 bucks. Whatever. The point is … I’m sure it was true.
It was around that time, in a stunning demonstration of perfect timing, a stray cat arrived on my doorstep. I fed her each day and she stuck around, finding a hole in the foundation’s skirting and making herself at home under the house. The car mice ceased to be a problem.
Until Grammy captured her a few months ago and took her to the No-Kill Shelter. That’s a story for another post. Which leaves me without my convenient four-legged critter killer policing the grounds.
It also leaves me with a problem bigger than just the urine-soaked car. Now the dirty bastards are in the HOUSE.
When I opened the top drawer in the bathroom this past weekend, it took me a minute to process what I was seeing, but the four or five tampons that had spontaneously exploded into a cloud of white cotton overnight were peppered with a familiar calling card. Opening the drawer below, I found a full box of Q-Tips that had been ransacked and defiled. Little Q-Tip Baton Wielding Bastards.
They even ate the damn Neosporin tube. NEOSPORIN. Which I dug out of the trash just for you, dear Doogs.
**On a related note, what brainiac decided to change the Tampax wrappers from a nice discreet white — which blends seamlessly with tissue and toilet paper — to NEON GREEN, which screams from the trash can, “Pick me up! I’m a fun toy!” to toddlers and preschoolers? I digress.**
Upon further inspection, I began seeing the signs everywhere. And by signs I mean TURDS. In the closet. On the floor by my bed. In a pile of towels sitting in a basket on the kitchen COUNTER. So, my mice can scale walls. Jealous much?
I’ve been leaving traps in the car every night for a week or two, with a fair amount of success, but the troops keep marching in. Last night I left a trap in the Q-Tip drawer and had an unfortunate mess to clean up before work. All this pee and poo and bloody gore has me totally freaked about Hanta Virus.
And now MP’s told her class she has rats in her car. And her house. I’ve tried to explain the difference between a RAT and a MOUSE, with little success. Like when I tell Bobo (my dad, for the newcomers) there’s actually a difference between saying he lives in a trailer, and saying he lives in an RV. He insists on “trailer.” (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I rent a double-wide, myself. Which I like to call a “Manufactured Home.” Marketing, Baby.)
Which means if you’re listening to MP, we live in our car. Or at the Dump, depending on the outcome of the Telephone Game. And if you’re a woman in a bar, the grocery store, the gas station, listening to Bobo try and pick you up …
Yeah, clearly, Bobo’s never getting laid again.
Yesterday, as is customary this time of year, MP and I made our way to the Pumpkin Patch with Grammy and Poppy.
Shortly after arriving, we ran into one of MP’s friends from school. Together, along with his 2-year-old brother, they were inseparable.
Just like MP’s hand and butt.
It’s the latest phase. The Hand-Down-The-Pants one. It’s constant.
When I asked her to please take her hand out of the back of her pants, she replied with an amiable “okay,” and moved it to the front.
Al Bundy’s got nothin’ on this kid.