So I’m searching the web for a photo to put up in Swap Mama’s new Antiques & Collectibles group. (Did I mention we’re on track to hit 3,000 members in a few days?!? WAAA HOOO!) I search for “antique dolls.”
I get THIS.
Um …
Hold me.
Which, I’m thinking is going to be the same reaction Yo Gabba Gabba reruns on DVD will get 200 years from now.
But seriously. This? I’m troubled.
I was such a dude in a past life.
Given a choice, I’d rather drink beer.
I truly believe there may be nothing funnier on earth than a fart.
And war movies and sports movies are always guaranteed to make me cry.
Seriously. It’s quarter to one in the morning, I’m sitting here in The Big Chair (correctly referred to as a “chair and a half” which is accurate, but just not a cozy enough description for my beloved and well-loved Big Chair) watching some football flick with Dennis Quaid – which totally narrows it down, right? – and bawling my face off because not only is it a sports movie, but the protagonist dies of leukemia. Which, hello? SO not right.
It’s not over yet – maybe they can throw in a war scene – lots of guys dying in battle. And some tragic music. And the final scene from The Notebook for good measure. Because, you know, in THIS life I’m a chick.
Oh, here’s more proof of my past life — my newest obsession. After the internet, the BEST INVENTION EVAH.
THE Cadillac of fly swatters. (Have I mentioned my intense hatred of flies and their poop-covered, hairy little legs? And the vomit spots they leave on my blinds?) The Boy and I happened upon this electric gem at a discount store in Connecticut. I loved it so much I went back the next week and bought six more – one for each member of the family … and a few extras for Christmas presents.
These guys SO need to market this on wedding registries — what other product on the market simultaneously keeps a home pest free AND promotes spousal bonding through cold-hearted, murderous good, wholesome entertainment?
Huh? *Elbow nudge* Am I right?
Electrocution. It’s never been so fun! (I ain’t in marketing for nuthin’.)
So Friday? Obama came to town.
Oh yeah … and hung out at the house NEXT DOOR for the afternoon.
Which totally sounds like I must live in some hoity-toity neighborhood, but Doogs … I live in a doublewide. Albeit, a nice one, but still … it’s a DOUBLEWIDE. There just happens to be a McMansion a few acres over with a river running through it.
Okay, that’s not true.
It’s really running through the backyard, but that doesn’t sound as poetic or … movie-worthy … I digress.
Turns out the O-Man was learning to flyfish. Which is actually pretty funny. To any seasoned Montana flyfisherman, that particular stretch of river? Might as well fish in a ditch. (And that comes from Poppy.)
Anyhoo, earlier in the day, Obama landed at the airport — which we live all of three minutes from — and we watched Air Force One land from the road just outside the runway. That, in and of itself, was pretty cool.
Once home, we noticed a military helicopter circling the immediate area around our house, over and over. Low. Grammy and I commented on it, but dismissed it as regular security since we were so close to the airport.
A few hours later, Poppy noticed the Secret Service. And Highway Patrol. And Sherrif. And an Ambulance. And 30+ SUVs and cars. All parked at the house next door. He suggested we start shooting gophers from the deck. Which … would’ve been funny until we were all shot by snipers.
I, Gladys Kravitz, had to get a closer look, and recruited MP to walk down our driveway, in the rain, to *check* the mail. Which didn’t look suspicious in the least. Especially when MP balked and stopped halfway there. Too late to turn back, I continued alone, and as I neared the gravel road, a black SUV, previously in park, slammed it into gear, sped toward me, nearly hit me, sped past me … and splattered mud all over me.
I flipped off a G-Man. Crossin’ it off the Bucket List.
A few minutes later, safely back in Grammy’s house (for those who don’t know, our houses are next to one another), we watched the motorcade depart for the mountains.
Grammy stood on the front porch, jumping up and down in the rain, waving like a lunatic. And SHE’s a Republican.
She DID get a photo:
Focus much? I’ll cut her some slack. She had the fevah.
Okay, so here’s the deal. The trip to Connecticut to see The Boy didn’t go all that well.
What we THOUGHT would be our first taste of “real life,” turned out to be anything but, I’m afraid. With MP not in her summer preschool program, that meant she was with me 24/7.
NOT real life.
We spent our days in one of three places: the house, the beach, or the store. The three places I could actually FIND.
NOT real life.
And THAT meant I didn’t have much time to work.
NOT real life.
And THAT meant I was stressed and feeling like I had a ton to do each night … just about the time The Boy was ready to quit HIS day and relax. Which left him feeling ignored.
Throw a set of seven-year-old twins into the mix, neither of whom take their muddy shoes off in the house, eat junk food, and don’t brush their teeth at night, and my OCD-riddled brain came close to spontaneously combusting.
Breaking point was about the tenth night MP woke up scared and I brought her to bed. Yeah, didn’t go over all that well. The Boy is NOT a happy sleeper.
Oh, and did I mention the scorching case of poison ivy I’m STILL toting around? And the bug bites? And that it RAINED nearly the entire time? Overcast, gloomy, dark, wet and humid. Not my idea of paradise.
This would be an appropriate moment to use one of my most-hated words. Moist. Connecticut is moist.
*sigh*
So, we’re chillaxin’. We both agree last month kinda sucked. Since then, we’ve each used the phrase “it’s going to take some adjustment,” more times than not. He needs to remember what it’s like to have a five-year-old, and I need to deal with a little dirt and a whole new set of parenting rules. (The not brushing at night though, that’s gonna be tough.)
I guess this is what happens when you change your entire life at age 41.
“Adjustment.”
Hip, hip, boo.
Yes, I am alive.
I must admit, though, I almost don’t want to post, for fear of breaking up the ragin’ party Depot Dad’s currently throwing in the comments section of my last post. As for that riding crop and saddle, we’ll talk later, DD.
So here’s the skinny.
I’ve been devoting all my time to my newest baby.
It’s guaranteed to change the dating scene as we single folk know it.
I’m super excited.
I’m wearing it right now.
I’m so proud I could burst.
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!
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