Dog, Unexpected.

We now have a dog.

Which I nearly just forgot.

But then I got a tiny little whiff of puppy smell and remembered the black and white ball of fluff lying on the carpet just below my feet. As I write this, our new family member has been with us just over 24 hours and I’m EXHAUSTED.

Poppy surprised us with the tiny 12-week-old bundle of fur when we stopped by after work Thursday. A Shih-Tzu. Precisely the kind of dog I would NEVER choose. I don’t even know if that’s how you spell it.

She’s a Foo-Foo Grandma Lap Dog. Walking cotton candy. But she’s “hypoallergenic,” doesn’t shed, and MP’s in love with the wet-nosed new addition. And she IS incredibly sweet …

I’ll post some pics this weekend and let you know how it’s going. I’m barely functioning as I type this, and SO need to go to bed, but I feel like a new mother all over again — unsure when she needs to pee; stressin’ about the co-sleeping question, yadda yadda yadda. MP DID name her today, though. Rose. Rosie.

A dog. Wow.

Playing ketchup. With mustard and onions.

I have so much to catch up on blogwise, workwise, lifewise. And trying to squeeze actual SLEEP in somewhere … CHAH. I apologize to all my blog buddies for being MIA lately — I’ll be back making the rounds soon. I’m just a bit sleep-deprived and crazy at the moment. Outstanding items include:

1. Auds’ Dinner Party Post. I swear, Auds, it’s coming. I may even do TWO to make up for my tardiness. Narrowing down the guest list is hard but I’m ALMOST there. Swear on MP’s Scooby Snacks. Which is what I’m bringing, btw.

2. Sharing the love. Lately I’ve been bestowed some pretty great awards by some pretty great bloggers. I need to tell you all about it and pass ‘em on. Not to mention update my pathetic sidebar. Oh, and MEMES. Still have a few hangin’ out there.

3. Chronicle. Things like last week’s swim lessons. And last weekend’s boating excursion. And Bobo flagging down ANYONE to come get us out of the middle of the LAKE as we took on water. And the start of MP’s gymnastics in a few days. And my Olympic aspirations. And MP’s outta control eczema explosion.

4. MORE Hawaii. Speaking of explosions, I STILL have to tell you about the volcano. Because, seriously, how often am I going to walk on old lava flows and inhale VOG. (Volcano + Fog = VOG. Shockingly, this is a word I did NOT make up.) In the dark with flashlights, no less.

5. Men coming out of the woodwork. Suddenly, all my friends have decided to have their single guy friends CALL me. And EMAIL me. Complete strangers. I have reacted as only I know how — sticking my fingers in my ears and singing “LA LA LA LA I CAN’T HEEEEAR YOU” at the top of my VOG tainted lungs.

6. Guest Posts. I’ll be over at McMommy‘s sometime this week. And at Co-Worker QB’s place. McMommy’s post is ready to go, but QB, gotta tell ya, I have NO idea what will fly out of my butt. Consider yourself forewarned.

6. Work. I scored a very cool freelance job! And all because of the blog! It’s only about eight hours of work, but totally up my alley. Oh yeah — it’s due in the morning.

Which is my cue to get back on it …

zzzzzzz

A diamond is forever. So’s that chocolate stuck to my butt.

Last night was my monthly networking cocktaily thing. Every four weeks it’s hosted by a different area business — this month it was hosted by a jeweler. Whoever thought this one up is nothing short of genius. Offer 20 different wines to 100 women, some with their spouses, get them loaded and provide the perfect setting for impulse shopping.

And, just to ensure your prey is feelin’ good and primed to buy, offer this.

I’ll have an extra shot of endorphins, please?

In addition to Co-worker, my good friend Megan and I spent a LOT of time admiring these beauties, made by a local chocolatier. Come to think of it, we paid more attention to the chocolate than the jewelry. Which is good for my overdrawn bank account. Not so good for my arse.

Someone plays dirty.

From the minute she woke up.

Mama, when we go to Hawaii can we see the dolphins? Because I love dolphins. They’re my FAVORITE. And can I get a blue Hawaii skirt? And a pink one. Cause I only have GREEN. Mama? Did you see any coconuts when you were in Hawaii? Can we put a straw in them and drink the milk when we go there? And can we have one of these pinecones? [Now looking at Oriental Trading Company catalog] I mean pineAPPLES. Is there a wishing well around here? Cause, wishing wells make all your wishes come true. And Mama? Cameron and Kamber have monkey aminal hats, and I want one too. Can I have the horsey one pleeeeaaaaseee? The sun is really hot today. Is it almost winter? By August, the tomatoes will be covered with snow! And the tomatoes will eat it all up. ‘Cause ya know, tomatoes have to EAT? And can I have that bag? The one the lady in the picture has? So I can take it to Hawaii? And put Gingy [her stuffed dog] in it? Ya know, I wish for a lot lately. And can I have my own ki-tar? I would like a musical instrument. I see two different ones. One is pink and one is blue. They’re almost the same. See Mama? I would like the purple because purple is the beautifulist. Looks like it’s going to storm today. But the sun is still out.

Thanks for letting me have some of the stuff, Mama. It’s really nice to let people have the things they want. That means it’s sharing and helping out.

Right?

Saying NO to the Gimmes.

New Pie House Rule: All catalogs are strictly verboten.

Personally, I stopped looking at them all a year or two ago. It used to be fun to earmark pages and dream of all the things it would be nice to have. But eventually, it did nothing but stress me out. I got so TIRED of wanting. It wasn’t fun anymore.

So I quit. Cold turkey. It was easier than you’d think, considering the number of very talented people out there who make a living (and are very good at) pushing our “Buy Buttons.”

The feeling is so … liberating. To be free, truly free? To be satisfied with exactly what I have and to not want (much) more? Positively amazing.

I don’t claim to be perfect. Of course there are still small wants. But nothing big. Nothing I PINE for. Nothing that will put me in debt. Whereas before, I might have pined for new patio furniture or a leather couch, now, my wants have been downscaled to a magazine subscription, or a few books, or getting my hair colored. Because, seriously, if I don’t NEED it, I’m over it. I’m sick of it. For the most part, the last surviving wants are things I wish for MP.

The catalogs still arrive in impressive numbers. And, since I never crack ‘em open, God only knows why I don’t just throw them out immediately. Actually, I take that back. I DO know why. I put them in the catalog pile with the intention of taking them to recycling. Somehow, I never make it there. The size of the pile is staggering.

This is where we get to the really sad part. I’ve had to impose a ban not only on myself, but now, my four-year-old. Her catalog obsession has gotten outta control. She insists on having them when she’s on the potty. She takes them to bed to read at night. And she WANTS EVERYTHING. The love of things — SO not a value I want to instill.

I guess I remember looking through the toy sections of the JC Penny’s and the Sears catalogs. And WANTING. So, maybe it’s not all that unusual. But FOUR?!? And really, some of the toys…

Hey, MP! Forget that dollhouse. How’d you like a nice INSECT bracelet?

REAL bugs! As jewelry! Preeeety.

Seriously. What’s life without one of THESE?

A day at the fair with Bobo.

So, I’ve been sitting here going through 500+ photos of the Hawaii trip — trying to narrow them down is turning out to be kind of a mammoth task. I volunteered to organize photos from five cameras, and the blog possibilities are endless and overwhelming at this late hour. Plus, Paranormal State’s coming on at midnight, and Deb at San Diego Momma is telling me I HAVE to watch.

To backtrack a little, you need to know my camera is broken. My dad lent me HIS camera for the trip, and when I went to download pics tonight, I found a bunch he took a few weeks ago at the county fair.

So, I’m posting the Bobo Photos.

You’ll see that first we hit the petting zoo. Which convinced me more than ever I MUST get MP a rabbit.

Then MP got her pilot’s license. NO, I am not Twittering in the backseat (although I saw this and that was my first HORRIFIED thought) — I’m trying to take a photo. I promise.

To miss the carousel would have been a travesty. I was so excited, my inner ape couldn’t contain herself. Holy monkey face. I’m lucky they didn’t make me a sideshow act.

Here we have a puzzling series of photos. Apparently Bobo forgot what I looked like?

It IS mother and child. I’ll give him that. Just not anyone he’s related to or remotely knows.

Wait. Is that kid flipping him off?

You’re getting warmer. See? I’m also wearing black. AND a hat.

Criminey.

I give up.

Did someone say Endowment for the Arts?

The Venus of Willendorf is a 4 3/8 inches high statuette of a female figure estimated to have been created between 24,000 BC and 22,000 BC. Discovered in 1908, very little is known about its origin, method of creation, or cultural significance.

The Venus is thought to be an idealization of the female figure and possibly a fertility idol, however, the purpose of the carving is subject to much speculation.

And here we have the lesser known PENIS of Willendorf, circa [August] 2008 AD.

See that thing between two giant man legs?

It’s a Dough Dick.

And I’m not quite sure WHAT it means.

When I asked MP what it was, she looked about as clueless as I was speechless.

“Uuhh, a rock?” she shrugged.

“Did you make this yourself?” I asked. “Or did someone help you?”

“Myself.”

Here’s where Mommypie breathes an audible sigh of relief.

“Wow. You did a really good job!” Er, yeah.

Perhaps some day, 26,000 years from now, some dude wearing breathable Space Khakis will unearth this Pre-Schoolian sculpture from a tar pit where The Pie House stood millennia before, and declare it a rare find — a tool presented to brides-to-be in an primitive ritual known as “the Bachelorette Party.” Back when procreation involved actual sex instead of the commonly practiced clone method, of course.

Truth is, I’m not even convinced MP remembers making it at all. Which isn’t unusual, considering the multitude of art projects she brings home every week. But … it DOES have her name on it. And … it IS displayed on the mantle.

Like a smuggled pre-Cambrian archaeological find.

Which, growing up we actually HAD on our mantle. One day I accidentally knocked it from its perch and broke off the figure’s nose. I cannot adequately express just how pissed my parents were. I was devastated. I carried the guilt for YEARS. Until we found out my uncle bought it at some roadside tourist stop in South America.

I digress.

Were this a NYC penthouse, and were I fabulously rich and famous, the Dough Dick would no doubt be assumed a bona fide, historically significant archaeological discovery. And I’d be so proud that not even Donald Trump had one on HIS mantle.

I am the proud owner of a Dough Dick. The only one of its kind.

Trump THAT.

There’s a special place in Hell reserved for swimsuit designers.

Tomorrow I’m on my way. Hawaii bound. You guys seriously made me feel much better yesterday — I’m TRYING to relax. Rest assured, I’m fully planning on taking some of your advice and having a few cocktails on the flights.

I have to say, the only thing I’m NOT looking forward to once I actually get to the island (besides missing MP) is putting on the swimsuit. It’s been an ordeal trying to find one the past few months.

I resorted to catalog shopping after spending an afternoon in Old Navy, trying on suits designed for 15 year-old freestanding boobs. Boobs that have never seen an underwire. Boobs that consider a small piece of triangular cloth and some string, support.

Not to mention suits designed for 15 year-old cellulite-free boy hips. Hips that have not yet earned growth-spurt stretch marks. Hips that have not spread and supported extra lbs and endured childbirth. Breeders.

Clearly, even CONSIDERING a suit of this nature was a mistake of epic proportions. Literally. And when MP patted my stomach in the dressing room and said when SHE grew up she was going to have a BIG belly like mine, any miniscule hope of pulling off a bikini disappeared quicker than a Twinkie at Grammy’s house.

So, the catalog shopping. I LOVED this. (Don’t have a pic of the top.)

The ad copy read: This Boy Bottom sits on the hip and is surprisingly flattering on both women with curvy hips and women with straight hips.

Ordered it.

I call BS. Show me one woman, with the exception of this catalog’s triathlete models, who can pull off the boy short. I’m a sucka.

Then I tried this.

Not bad, but back to the big belly thing. Goodbye bikini. *sniff

And finally, this modest little twosome. We have a winner. Kinda.

I came out of the deal with a tankini top that works. I’ll be mixing and matching with some black bottoms from my ugly old Speedo two-piece. They must be 10 years old, but they’re black, and they’ll match.

I have A LOT of returns to make.

It boils down to this.

Tits and Ass. Remember A Chorus Line?

Why do I even care? I’ll be with five of my oldest friends. We’re all the same age. I’m sure we’ll ALL have the suit issue. Maybe. The answer lies somewhere between vanity and modesty.

And really, it’s a moot point. Because the glare from my mayo white legs will surely blind every poor schmo on the beach unlucky enough to cross my path.

Quick, someone make me a drink.

Pass the tranquilizer gun. Mama’s getting on a plane.

Just a few more days and I’ll be soaking up the rays in Hawaii with my five oldest BFFs. The MILFs Gone Wild ’08 Tour.

Whatever. Humor me.

No husbands, no significant others, no children. I should be psyched. I should be dreaming of surf and sand and drinks adorned with pink umbrellas I’ll collect to bring home to MP. I should be counting the minutes because I can’t wait.

Not because I’m FREAKING OUT.

I am, by nature, a worrier. I’ve purposefully pushed the trip from my mind because I knew as my departure drew near, I would start the nauseating downward spiral toward mild panic. The longest I’ve been apart from MP is three nights and that was hard enough. This is a little longer.

I know by the time I finally GET to the island I’ll be okay. And the first few days will be full. But I also know by the third day I’m going to be missing four-year-old declarations of “heavy poops that stretch out the poop hole.” And subsequent four-year-old concerns that if she takes a drink of water it will go right through.

That I’m not a good flyer only makes it worse. Metal detectors are not my friend. When I travel, I wear a hefty silver cross around my neck. And a smaller cross choker. And cross earrings. Back when my job required a fair amount of travel and time spent at airports, co-workers would be all, “Hey, wait for Mommypie. She’s the one carrying the enormous wooden CRUCIFIX on her back. That thing gonna fit on the plane?”

I worry more than anything something will happen to me and I’ll leave MP an orphan. I worry that maybe I’m being selfish and needlessly putting myself at risk by flying over the ocean. I worry something will happen to MP and I’ll be thousands of miles away.

Exhale. Aaannnd breathe.

MP worries that pirates will get me.

Argh. At least we got THAT straightened out.

Stupid choices and dumb luck.

Look at this little douche.

He’s SMILING. It’s after 3 a.m. Saturday morning. He’s just been in a major collision. He’s flipped his truck after allegedly making a left turn in front of an oncoming car. According to sources, he’s being charged with misdemeanor DUI. Misdemeanor, because his female passenger and the driver of the other car miraculously suffered only minor bumps and bruises. Because it wasn’t THAT bad.

And he’s SMILING.

Shia LaBeouf, I like you. But I swear to God, given the opportunity right now, I’d smack that grin right off your stupid ass face. Because you’re an idiot.

I know of what I speak. My father’s had two DUIs. One when I was a kid; the other when I was in high school. My brother’s had one. I was LIVID with each of them. SO incredibly pissed off.

I was hit by a drunk driver in college, as a friend and I drove to the movies. One minute things were fine, the next, the back seat of my ’76 Honda Civic no longer existed. Had the collision taken place a split second earlier, the outcome would have, most likely, been very different.

And yet, with all that history, I’m ashamed to admit, back in the day, I myself got behind the wheel WAY too many times when I absolutely shouldn’t have. I have a hard time thinking about what could have happened.

But now, as a mother, I imagine my MP riding shotgun beside a boy like Shia some day. Or worse, doing exactly as I did, driving a little loaded and not giving it a second thought. And I’m livid once more.

The outrage I feel when I look at that stupid smirking mug shot is multiplied by the recognition of my own youthful stupidity. Because if I’m being judgmental — and I am — understand that first and foremost, I’m judging my past self. I’m owning the idiocy. I’m admitting a complete and utter disregard for the safety of myself, or more importantly others, that could have so easily turned tragic.

I think of all the others that will make equally stupid choices and am compelled to pray for the safety of my child.

And I’m pissed.

Image borrowed from these guys.