Last week, I’m in the coffee shop, working away in my little corner, when Bobo stops by to hang out. He sits on the stool opposite me. A few minutes into our conversation, the gentleman at the table directly behind Bobo packs up his laptop, comes over, says, “I have to unplug,” and in reaching for the outlet, quickly disappears under our table.

At which point Bobo drops a huge fart.

Silent, but huge all the same.

The guy nearly cracks his skull on the table, beats a hasty exit, and Bobo begins laughing uncontrollably. I begin laughing uncontrollably. Soon we are coughing in unison, trying to catch our breath.

My family is SO not PC. Someone should have censored Bobo’s bunghole with a giant black bar YEARS AGO.

There are PLENTY of other un-PC things in Pie World. A few that come to mind …

1. The word UNITARD.

“MP, hurry up and get into your unitard — we’re late for gymnastics!”

Wrong on so many levels.

2. THIS kid’s name.

Technically, not REALLY un-PC, just a poor spelling choice I suppose. Bet he’s a hit at Hanukkah though.

3. This idea for a Swap Mamas t-shirt.

Bow chicka wow wow.

Can’t take us anywhere.

Right now The Boy and I are trying to figure things out. Who goes where. And when. Big changes. For all of you who want to know details! details! details! here’s the plan to date.

Uh … I dunno.

The good news is we’re both on the same page.

So, MP and I are heading to Connecticut next week to stay for a month. There, I’m confident we’ll magically find the answer to all our questions, and come July there WILL be a plan. Rosie will be staying behind with Grammy and Poppy, because a round-trip DOG ticket costs as much now as a round-trip HUMAN ticket.

As for the other “pets,” I don’t know …

When I came back from my April visit, I brought back Sea Monkeys. (As far as MP knows, they’re the state animal.) Now they sit on the kitchen window sill — unbelievably, still alive — totally grossing me out. Contrary to the illustration on the box, they do NOT drive convertibles. The Boy says they’re brine shrimp. What ees this “Brine Shrimp” you speak of, Boy? Those floaty insect-things in that container full of dirty water? THIS is why I don’t do seafood. Shellfish. Nothin’ but BUGS. That hide under rocks. Yech.

MP’s added them to her list of pets. There’s Rosie (the dog), the jar of earthworms (which sat in a closed coffee tin in a hot bathroom for a week. Unbeknown to me, MP was adding water each day “so they had something to drink.” Eventually, the stench was so unbearable, I was convinced there was a massive issue with the septic system. I was two steps from calling a plumber when I discovered the can. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat chicken noodle soup again.), the two ladybugs in her bug house that I’m pretty sure are dead, and now the creepy Sea Monkeys.

Plus, she scored a caterpillar at the zoo the other day. It’s keeping the ladybugs company in the bug house. She took it to school for Show and Tell today. And she insists on sleeping with it at night. I’m crossing my fingers it starts cocooning before it suffers the same fate as its roommates.

I do have to admit, we’re BOTH looking forward to seeing our first lightning bugs. I suspect that somehow, by the end of the trip, a few will be coming home with us.

Dead or alive.

A few nights ago, after excruciating efforts to find the absolute BEST deal out there, the Boy and I bought two plane tickets (Over $1,000 for two people?? Okay … what? Mmm hmm … bend over?). MP and I will be heading to Connecticut in a few weeks and staying for about a month. The goal, of course, being slow acclimation, and to see how MP reacts to it all.

I’m gonna be honest. I LOATHE humidity. And the ginormous bugs that go along with it. And helluuu Lyme Disease. But I do love the beach. So, I’m optimistic that between the three, it’ll be a wash.

I HAVE to see The Boy SOON though, because seriously? I’m counting every hour. Mama needs some lovin’. This weekend’s Facebook banter only made the wait all that more excruciating.

I give you Friday afternoon’s status update: Totally okay with the box of cookies I just ate. Because I bought an EXERCISE BALL today. (Four-square anyone?)

Innocent enough, until Beej got into the act and the ball talk started: I have two exercise balls, and I often eat cake while playing with my balls. I like the way my balls feel under me.

(I love that crazy beyotch.)

I, of course, had to push the envelope. I give you the NEXT status update:  Telling you the dog’s licking the carpet, and opening it up for comments. I’m HANDING this one to you people. After the LAST status update’s comments, I know you have it in you.*

*That’s what she said.

Sadly, the participation in this one wasn’t as strong. Like, lead balloon. Cowards. The lot a ya.

The seed was planted though (ahem), and the rest of the weekend, any comment I thought to post had innuendo aaallll over it.

Rain is pouring through the cracks in the door and now the carpet is drenched. (Really happened.)

The back door, she’s gonna blow. (This? A little gross. I’m happy to report it didn’t happen.)

Playing tiddlywinks. (Really, truly. And I don’t know WHY this sounds dirty, it just does. Like code.)

Surfing the web wasn’t safe either.

Nice mugshot. You think she knows she has a vagina on her face?

See?!? The s*x. It’s EVERYWHERE.

Today, standing in the kitchen, I hear coming from the front porch, “Hey you DIRTY DOG, get outta here! Get outta here or I’ll SHOOT you!”

“HEY!” I call in my best, gruff WTF Voice — a bit shocked (Dude, that’s no way to talk to your grandparents.) and unable to see who her threats are directed toward.

She pokes her head in the door. “I’m just talking to the gophers.”

“Oh. Okay.” Relieved, I turn back to the dishes. Yeah, and picture this — MP not only screaming death threats from the front porch, MP screaming death threats in her UNDERWEAR.

Giddy up. Gopher Huntin’ Season has officially arrived.

But lest ye think we’re a pair of uncultured rednecks, I HAVE show you a tiny glimpse into our very first Mother/Daughter Photo Shoot last night. (Which sounds very shee-shee poo-poo, yes?) The photographer, Alicia Caine, is simply amazing — if there ever were a Child Whisperer, she’s it. Plus she’s way cool AND she actually made me look somewhat photogenic, which I definitely am NOT.

See? Simple country folk and family photos. Just like The Pioneer Woman.

Without all that … money and stuff.

Heh.

Last week, after four months and close to 1,000 members, I figured the time had come to get serious about Swap Mamas and open a bank account. Because I’m a crazy optimist, and I’m positive one of these days I WILL earn a buck or two.

Only, turns out I have to do a little more work setting up an actual business before I open an account. Am I a sole proprietership? Am I an LLC? Dude, don’t look at me.

So I e-mail my friend Queen Bee. Her father’s a lawyer. He knows about this stuff. I ask what his official title is, meaning, what area of law does he specialize in?

How much do I love that THIS is what she sends back?

My lawyer is a supah-hero.

That’s right. My. Lawyer.

Move over 12-year-old boy, I’m a big girl now.

KA-CHOW!

My old friend Cracker called from Boise tonight. She relayed the story of her recent dealings with the customer service department of a company that will remain unnamed. Clearly she was frustrated. What follows are the ACTUAL emails between Cracker and a department rep.

FROM: CS REP
This refund takes 30 days and I have process. I am sorry for any incontinence this may have cause you.

Thanks, G

FROM: CRACKER
G,

Thank you for your 30 day refund notice for my file. As a matter of fact, this whole situation HAS made me incontinent. I’ve noticed that over the course of this ordeal, I’ve lost bladder control and often found my office chair wet after dealing with you on the phone on a daily basis having to repeat myself time and time again despite your “phone conversation records.”

If our account is not refunded in 30 per your policy (even though YOU made an unauthorized withdrawal) I will more than likely have permanent bladder damage, thus you will also be paying for…. (more)

Cracker

P.S. If you didn’t catch my above drift, “incontinence” means you have bladder problems. You might want to strike that word from future e-mails to your customers.

FROM: CS REP
No problem.

Outsourcing. It’s good comedy.

So, a few months ago, the fantastic Deb at San Diego Momma got me (and a few other bloggas – Deb of course, Brian at PapaTV, Melissa at Green Girl in Wisconsin, and Jennifer at Thursday Drive — all really, really good) a freelance writing gig at T. Rowe Price.

Because I’m feeling L-A-Z-Y tonight, I thought I’d share it with you. Should you choose to click on this link, I promise shoe licking. I promise sweaty people in bathing suits. And P*RN, people. (Yes, P*RN, just for your benefit, Dirty Google Search Pervs.)

Oh yeah. And a HEINOUS school photo of Mommy Pie at age 8. Personal idol? Jan Brady. The picture speaks for itself.

I used to think there wasn’t enough time in the day BEFORE the launch of Swap Mamas.

Seriously. Smack me now.

In addition to the reality of no sleep (Which really isn’t THAT big of a deal. I haven’t slept in years. I’m a mom. And kind of a vampire.), there are a few things about being an entrepreneur I’ve learned these past few months. (And I say “entrepreneur” lightly, considering I have yet to turn a profit. Anyone wanna to buy an ad?)

• The roots will get thicker. And darker. I’m pretty sure my hair stylist thinks I’ve died. If you’re reading this Tawny, I’m still kickin’. Apparently something DID expire on top of my HEAD though. Yeesh.

• As much as it sucks, you still have to set the alarm. The consolation? Going to “the office” is SO MUCH NICER. Helluu jeans and t-shirt. Helluu baseball cap. (See above.) Helluu coffee shop and nice, friendly, buzzed people.

• I’m okay with generic cheese. And cheap toilet paper. And cutting back on the drive-thru tacos. Which … all kind of go together … Coincidence? I think not.

• Not having health insurance is a scary, scary thing. Period.

• The blog. She suffers. Which bites, because lately I have so much to write about — lesbian ponies, obscene celebrity mug shots … the melon, she’s seriously going to explode with randomness if I don’t start getting back to regular posting.

More than anything — and not to be cliche — I’ve learned life is a risk.

And that’s delicious.

(As much as it can be without drive-thru tacos.)

This is Dental Hygiene Week at the Pie Town Preschool.

MP’s learning the importance of regular brushing and flossing. And what happens when you DON’T take care of your teeth, and eat too much sugar.

They turn into marshmallows.

Your gums into cream cheese.

And your lips into rosy red apples.

(It’s all very Mr. Potato Head-y.)

Then your teeth fall out and the Tooth Fairy leaves candy under your pillow while you sleep.

There’s this hip little coffee shop downtown. The music’s a little louder. The crowd’s a little more animated. The joint pulses with energy. Because I’m a people watcher, it’s quickly become one of my favorite afternoon haunts these past few months. When I’m there, somehow, I’m more productive. More creative. More optimistic. I’m lighter.

So, it comes as no surprise that when “Walking in Memphis” comes on, I effortlessly slip into a “Mommypie, The Musical” dream sequence.

I’m dancing on the bar. Of significance — I also have really good, long hair. (Did I mention this coffee shop also serves beer and wine? Cool, huh?) Patrons leap and pirouette below me. And in my head I am the STAR.

And then I realize I am, in fact, singing. Aloud. A little too far above the acceptable non-lunatic singing to yourself level.

I nonchalantly glance around, clear my throat and settle into Act 2. Sussudio is playing. And I’m being eagerly pursued by The Boy. Who’s also the singing male lead. We strut around the shop, me feigning disinterest. Smiling over my shoulder. Typical. Musical Tease.

Act 3. Footloose. A cue for the tech geek hiding behind his laptop to throw off those glasses and start poppin’ old school.

Act 4. The Boy and I shimmy back and forth, then back to back, then forehead to forehead, while I sing “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About” in Bonnie Raitt’s awesomely smoky voice.

Through picture windows that look out on Main Street, it begins to rain. And the musical comes to a dramatic close.

Act 5. Babe I’m leavin’ I must be on my way … please believe me, my heart is in your hand … I’ll be missing youuuu. You know it’s you Babe, whenever I get weary and I’ve had enough, feel like giving up, you know it’s you Babe, giving me the courage and the strength I need, please believe, that it’s youuuu … Babe I love you …

Aaand SCENE.