The spy who loved me.

MP’s love of dress-up is well documented. Sometime in the final week of school, she decided she MUST dress as a spy.

She made a checklist and before bounding into bed, instructed me to find specific Spy Items for the outfit she had planned for the morning — emphasizing their utmost importance if she was to be believed as a true Secret Agent.

√ 1. A spy wears Dark Glasses.

√ 2. A spy carries an Umbrella.

√ 3. A spy only Wears Black.

√ 4. A spy wears a Floppy Hat.

The Secret Agent was a hit. Seems everyone wanted to play “Spies” at recess for days.

Later that week, Miss MP graduated from kindergarten. After assembling with her class at the front of the school gym, the group began singing the special song they had practiced diligently day and night.

Sung to the tune I’m a Little Teapot:

“I’m a little graduate

Aren’t you proud of me

I learned my numbers and my ABCs …“

MP, however, covered her face and all that practicing hightailed it to the nearest exit.

The child. She is an enigma.

The cheese stands alone.

Dress-up has always been one of MP’s “things.” Super Heroes have been popular at the Pie House too.

Just yesterday, she insisted as going to school as a ninja.

That net on her head? Yeah, that would be from the Easter ham.

I suggested her superhero name be Ham Head. Her sidekick could be Super Cheese. I’m told the yellow bolts emerging from Super Cheese’s head represent his super power, Stink. It makes the bad guys run away.

Super Cow would, of course, be a logical member of the posse, rounding out the Dairy Squad nicely.

Ham Head, Super Cheese and Super Cow should have no problem kicking these guys’ butts.

MP’s asleep, or I’d ask just WHAT/WHO these guys are. I have it narrowed down to either the Three [Badass] Blind Mice, which would go nicely with the cheese theme — or my unemployed friends down at The Cannery Bar.

Stay tuned.

Grab yer raingear. Mommypie’s purging.

I feel like I need to purge. Just a little.

If you’ve read Mommy Pie for awhile, you noticed the dwindling posts over the past year. SERIOUSLY dwindling. There were many reasons behind my absence — so many, in fact, that when they came together, they created a Perfect Storm of sorts. Not really a hurricane. And nothing as energizing as lightning. More like months of BLUH. With occasional pea-sized hail shots to the head.

I can attribute it to a few key things.

I started a relationship. Which, for Mommypie’s creative outlets ALWAYS spells disaster. My Creativity? A jealous mistress. She wants all my time. And when I don’t give it to her — when I become focused on anything OTHER than her — I get the silent treatment. She never calls. She never writes. And I sure as hell never get laid.

The relationship got complicated. After a VERY public proposal, things were fantastic. Then, they were difficult. Then weird. And now, unsettled and unsure. So … I don’t really feel like I can write about it just yet. Which is hard, because I WANT to. Kind of.

I started a business. Swap Mamas has become my all-consuming passion. After a year, we’re closing in on 6,600 members and over 1 million page views a month. But more importantly, we’re helping a ton of mamas. Which is highly addicting to someone like me who secretly loves the warm squishy pink fuzzies. (Side note: Just bought a book about Google, who’s mission statement is “Don’t be evil.” I’m stealing it.)

I became incredibly disillusioned with the state of blogging. As Mommy Pie got more popular, companies started approaching me. Wanting me to pimp their products. (Do a giveaway? What, you’ll give me something FREE?) Honestly I felt a bit gross about it from the start, but my famously convenient, “What the hell? Why not?” Mechanism kicked in. Ugh. I should KNOW better by now.

There are TONS of mommy bloggers out there doing reviews in exchange for product. I absolutely mean no disrespect. As much as I’m a sucker for free stuff, Mommy Pie just isn’t the right place. This blog is for ME. This blog is for my DAUGHTER. No one else. And I won’t be doing the review/giveaway thing in this space (I WILL continue to do giveaways on Swap Mamas. ‘Cause that’s different.) ever again. It dilutes the joy blogging brings me, and generally makes me sad to think about how, in such a short period of time, our culture of consumerism has penetrated a space I so love.

{Penetrated a space. Heh heh.}

Oooooh look out Doogs. The 11-year-old boy is BACK.

There you have it. I think my absence has successfully reduced my readership enough to make the pimpage offers dwindle as well. As for Swap Mamas? I’m slowly realizing the importance of balance. All work and no play does, indeed, make Mommypie a very dull girl.

So yesh … I think I’m back.

Little Miss Manners

So I’m in Connecticut with The Boy. No time to talk (ahem) … let’s just say it’s AH.MAY.ZING. With emphasis on the ZING. Badabump.

In place of a juicy post, I leave you with this little scene from the car earlier last week, as MP and I drove to town. Because it so perfectly illustrates one of the BAZILLION reasons I love the kid so much.

ME: (Drive, drive, drive. Look into rear view mirror. Exaggerated hand waving.) PHEW! MP, was that you??

MP: Heh.

ME: PEEE UUU! What do you say?

MP: You’re welcome.

Oh yeah. LOVE. HER.

Gangsters, lumberjacks and yellow snow.

This …

is part of MP’s baby doll crib. Part of the mobile that connects to MP’s baby doll crib, to be exact. A girly thing.

Last night, MP emerged from her room, walked to the bathroom, and brandishing the pink plastic mobile part with both hands, looked at herself in the mirror.

“All right, let’s see what this baby can do.” Snarly face. Machine gun sound.

Um, WHAT? (Trust me, it wasn’t easy to keep a straight face.)

“We don’t play guns, MP.”

“I’m not,” she says, still pointing her Tommy Gun at her reflection.

“Yes you are.”

And then, like the Master of Misdirection she is, MP began sawing the countertop.

“I was playing SAWS. This is a SAW. See?”

Okay, I know it’s more of a boy thing, and might sound a bit out of character for a four-year-old girl, but I gotta admit … I’m not really all that surprised.

This is the child who, earlier this week, as we were rushing into preschool purposefully spilled her lemonade from its sippy cup, leaving a yellow trail in the snow. Laughing to herself, and clearly VERY pleased with her effort, she noted that people were going to think it was pee.

“Heh heh.”

*sigh*

My daughter is Beavis.

Blame it on Sweetney.

She wanted to know what I was doing right now. Right this very minute. She wanted a candid photo. No touch-ups allowed.

Which means NO PHOTOSHOPPING.

You all know that’s a TALL order for me.

But here goes. I didn’t even move my urban sprawl from the chair to check the eye baggage.

It’s late. It’s been a long day. And I apologize in advance. Apparently, I don’t give a flying fart anymore.

Feel like playing? Once the spots fade from your eyeballs, head over to her place and post a link to YOUR realness. And don’t forget to let me know too!

Me In Six Or Less

The awesome Pajama Momma tagged me with a memoir meme — which makes me happy, because tonight … I got nothin’. (Seriously. WHAT does meme MEAN??)

Anyhoo, these are the rules:
1. Write your own six word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you want.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play…

I’m actually having a hard time narrowing it down to one sentence. I did, however narrow it down to three. Not exactly following the rules, but … it’s my blog. And perhaps my choices aren’t so much in the memoir category as they are basic tenants I try to live by.

Life’s too short to be angry. (or Stop complaining and do something.) I am, by nature, an optimist. I have a hard time being around negative energy. I don’t get it. There’s a quote by Ernest Hemingway I’ve always loved that sums it up.

The world breaks everyone, and afterward some are strong at the broken places.

Everyone has issues. Everyone has their tragedies. Everyone has bills, and relationship issues, and medical problems, and debt and heartbreak and tough decisions. I know what it’s like to feel you’re at the end of your rope. It’s whether you step up to the plate and deal that makes all the difference.

Which brings me to #2.

You get what you give. Negative begets negative. I’m just sayin’.

And then #3.

Change is always an option. Even if it’s just your attitude. If you don’t like your situation, do something about it. I guarantee someone somewhere has it worse and would gladly trade their problems for yours.

I was eight months pregnant in this photo. (Not the most flattering pic, I realize.) For me, this image signifies change more than any other in my albums. Single and expecting a baby, I was scared out of my gourd, but in this proud moment after sealing the deal on our first little house, I knew everything was going to be okay.

I’m running out of people to personally tag, so if you’re reading this, consider yourself it! I can’t wait to read your memoirs.

Happy Sunday …

‘Til Death Do I Part

I own three bridesmaid dresses. I’ve been to countless wedding ceremonies. I’ve happily purchased hundreds of dollars worth of gifts for my friends’ celebratory passages into traditional family life.

Most of those unions have lasted. Some have not.

With my 40th coming up in just a few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about about time, and fate, and the very different, and sometimes unexpected, paths our lives all take.

However I got here, this is my life. I embrace it wholeheartedly. And I wonder, where’s the ceremony for singles who have found in themselves the one they’ve been looking for all along? What about the ones who, for better or worse, never do marry another?

I’d like to think that someday I will find someone to have and to hold. I do hope so. (Especially after getting to know so many of you married mamas through your blogs.) But, what if I don’t? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

Because I’m happy. I actually want what I have. And although occasionally, I do pine for little things here and there, in reality, I know all I need is family. No matter what shape it takes.

Hell, I may just wind up marrying myself.

I’d certainly never be accused of marrying for money. And there’s no one who’d love MP more. I’d never cheat on myself, and I’d never have to worry about divorce. I wouldn’t have a choice but to work through the hard times.

Not only would it symbolically celebrate my love affair with my daughter, it would serve as a reminder of my commitment to giving myself what I would give to a spouse. Love, time and respect.

I’ve got it all worked out.

1. THE PROPOSAL
Executed flawlessly. Because I’m a mind reader, I’d know exactly how I’d always imagined it. Definitely a story worth telling over and over.

And over.

And over.

It was so incredibly romantic … I was at dinner, and during dessert, I got down on one knee, and in front of a roomful of people, declared my love for myself, and asked me to marry me. Total shock. I had NO idea it was coming!

2. THE ENGAGEMENT
Then, the announcement in the local paper. (Is it just me or is this oddly disturbing? Not to break the mojo I got goin’, but it’s kinda givin’ me the heebs. I’d delete it altogether, but don’t have the heart, considering the countless minutes that went into it … I digress.)

3. THE SHOWER
Bring on the swag! I could use some nice Cephalon.

4. THE PARTY
After a short plane trip, I’d meet up with my best girls in Vegas for the bachelorette party. We’d party ’til dawn and I’d flirt with sailor boys on my last night of freedom. More than likely, I’d wind up dirty dancing with someone named Raoul. Which is unfortunate.

How do you like my multi-colored hair extensions? They only lasted a few hours.

Somewhere between the pic above and me waking up with an ‘Official Tattoo Inspector’ t-shirt, this happened.

Original photo borrowed from these guys.

I’m guessing the storm troopers flanking me are aforementioned sailor boys? It’s all a bit hazy. My friends are no help.

Not only did I lose a few pounds, apparently I picked up a shiny new belly tat to go with the shirt.

5. THE WEDDING
And after all that, of course, the big day.

Original photo borrowed from these guys.

There would be my beautiful MP in pale pink taffeta, standing by my side. Next to her, three bridesmaids — one for each lovely dress in my closet. (‘Memba those dresses waaaaay back at the beginning?) Lovely dresses which will now [gleefully] be returned their lovely rightful owners. One Wild West prostitute decked out in hot pink satin and black lace; one long drab olive remnant of the Pearl Jam years; and a little slinky black velvet number no one (including myself) will be able to fit into.

And following the vows …

I take me, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward, ’til death do I part.

… an amazing reception complete with dinner, drinks and a Dollar Dance. Bobo would spend the night shamelessly hitting on my friends. Uncle Pauly would play bartender and general all-around bad influence. (He’s a new dad with another on the way. He doesn’t get out much. You know how it goes.) Grammy and Poppy would call it an early night and be home in bed by 10.

And me? After tossing the bouquet, I’d hop in the Jeep and ride off into the sunset with MP cheering from her carseat.

And we’d live happily ever after.

I Swear I’m Gonna Start A Movement

I’m outing myself … and simultaneously adding another reason I love being a single mom to the list.

Granny Panties.

HYUGE Bridget Jones “Hello Mummy” Undies.

Yeah Baby.

Big. Plain. White. Cotton. Underwear. Unapologetically unsexy. Something I wouldn’t have been caught DEAD in when there was a man in the picture. Actually, something I wouldn’t have been caught dead in, period … up until last month, when, purely by accident, I was introduced to the big girl panties goodness that is Hanes.

What I purchased was marketed as ‘boy shorts.’ After getting them home, washed and out of the dryer, it was obvious ‘Granny Panties’ was probably more accurate. I was bummed. I tried them on. I was addicted.

Now, I am dangerous in my ginormous Granny Pants.

In my GPs, I am a rebel. This new rejection of the beautiful and lacy but itchy and maddeningly uncomfortable g-strings of my past – and declaration of love for the plain and simple brings sweet satisfaction. The only one I have to please … is me.

Oh, how I love you, my Granny Pants.

Assimilating easily into my nighttime routine, the GPs are icing on the cake. I can have my hot shower, my wet hair, my face mask. (As in moisturizing. Not hockey. ‘Cause that would be weird. And creepy.) I can have my cold clean sheets and I can pull on my big ’0l Granny Panties and savor an entire bed to myself.

I submit that Granny Panties are the new sexy. (Okay, it was worth a shot.)

I dare you to try ‘em.

Viva La Granny Panties!

The Dragon and the Track Mommies

Once again, Friday morning found us screaming to gymnastics, racing against the clock. Why I can never seem to get it together is a mystery.

I watched in the rearview mirror as MP, sitting in her carseat, waived to a homeless man holding a ‘God Bless’ sign (“Mommy! We forgot to give him money!”), blissfully unaware that we were, yes, late again.

Seven minutes later, and we’re running through the gym’s double doors, bursting into a class already in progress.

The Track Mommies turn to look, in unison.

The Track Mommies are everything I am not. The Track Mommies have it together. The Track Mommies are on time. She of the salon tan and designer track suit. Of the mani and the pedi and the blinding diamond ring signifying the perfect marriage to a successful provider. She of the perfectly coiffed hair – pulled tightly into a low pony to give the illusion of ‘sporty’ low maintenance.

The Track Mommies quiet as we quickly shuffle to MP’s cubby. I feel their eyes on our backs – me, freshly showered with wet hair peeking from beneath a ball cap, and MP … oh yes … in a dragon costume. Did I forget to mention this?

After peeling the endless layers atop her unitard, MP gleefully ran to join her group. I walked back to the parents area, and settled into a good vantage point. (Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I actually ENJOY watching my child crabwalk and sommersault …) The Track Mommies, meanwhile, have turned back to their conversations, their cell phones and their lattes.

I can only wonder what truly goes on in the lives of the Track Mommies. I know all too well, looks can be (and in my experience, usually are) deceiving. As I watch MP from my perch – dancing around and looking like she’ll pee her pants any second – I can’t help but be proud of our little party of two. And I silently pledge to let her wear that goofy dragon suit whenever and wherever she wants.

And to never, ever buy her a track suit.