Hittin’ the road with MP and Bobo

It’s early Friday morning, and MP, Bobo and I are hittin’ the road to Denver in eight hours, to meet the newest edition to the family — my brother’s second baby and second son, Greyson. MP INSISTS she’s a big SISTER, NOT a big COUSIN. Whatever works.

We’ll be away for a few days, which means I may or may not be taking a tiny break from Blogland — just depends. Lots of old friends to catch up with in D-Town in a short period of time.

Criminey, I haven’t even BEGUN to pack yet. I’m so tired right now I’m actually seriously contemplating just going to bed, getting up at 5 a.m. and packing then. A dangerous choice, given Bobo’s strict road trip rules: GET ON THE ROAD, STAY ON THE ROAD, AND DON’T BE LATE. It’ll be an interesting trip. Either we’ll arrive tomorrow night in Denver wanting to strangle each other or the long drive will prove a fantastic bonding experience.

I’ll be on Twitter all day, or as long as I have a signal. AND I’ll try and Tweet pics from the Crackberry, using TwitPic.

Mkay, gotta move mounds of wet clothes to the dryer and start another load before collapsing.

Watch for me on Twitter, Doogs!

We interrupt this blog to annoy you.

So, it’s lunchtime and I’m in the car, heading to Taco Time. (I knooow …) I’m hitting the SCAN button on the radio, channel surfing for anything other than country. It’s slim pickens.

“And now, Slim Pickens and his Booger Nine, playing to the tune, ‘I just caint seem to get the one I want …'”

~ Bobo-ism (from waaay back)

At one point my hand leaves the toggle to reclaim the steering wheel and make a turn. I’ve lost interest in my tune quest. After a few minutes, the sound of JACKHAMMERS captures my attention. And then sawing, nail pounding and drilling. INSIDE the car.

Holy disorientation, distraction and near rear-endage.

“We’re hard at work building a new radio station,” explains a quick voice-over. “and we’ll be up and running soon …”

Oooh, I get it. BUILDING a new radio station. Apparently, in the meantime, I’m to listen to the melodic stylings of Builder Bob. 24/7. I’m all for innovative marketing. It was clever for about 60 seconds.

Someone, somewhere in town, is actually LISTENING to this, I think. And not changing the station. Incredible. I wonder if there’s such thing as Sitemeter for radio stations. If, somehow they KNOW when people are listening. And for how long.

Radio Exec #1 Arm Pump: “YES! The Construction theme’s a HIT! Check out this guy on S. 19th Avenue — he’s been listening for 53 minutes!

Radio Exec #2: “What about this Mommypie chick? She’s been on for 23!”

Well, CHAH.

A few weeks in Bipolar Bloggywood

I’m still dumbfounded by THIS.

I came across the article, saw Mommy Pie on the list and my first thought was, “DAMMIT. I don’t believe it. Some other blogger has the SAME NAME as me.”

I’m honored and blown away to be included with this group of bloggers. (I’m still convinced someone was hittin’ the crack pipe …)

HEY YOU! IMPORTANT BLOG LIST MAKERS! Just so we’re clear, Mommypie has no problem being your crack ‘ho, mkay? Seriously. Nooo problem. Mommypie can do the Enabler thing.

To ensure my ego stayed in check, the Internet warned me not to get TOO full of myself.

My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?

Because apparently, I suck.

Then, miracle of miracles, I was invited to be a guest blogger on Sweetney. THE Sweetney. I was delirious with excitement. I worked on my post for DAYS. I was gonna knock it outta the park. And then, as is the nature of the Internet, things changed. Guest Post Week at Sweetney was overbooked. No room at the inn for Mommy Pie. I’m embarrassed to admit I actually cried a little.

Easy come, easy go. Bloggywood, she’s a fickle bitch.

And then, as fate would have it, McMommy came to my emotional rescue and awarded me THIS.

The highly coveted BE FRIE Award. And I was blown away. If you haven’t been to her place, you must stop in and say hi — she’s a funny, funny lady. And bonus — she has a McGoiter. Sweet.

I wish we were neighbors outside of Blogland so I could hang out in her inflatable pool with the flaccid tree.

And now, as is customary with these things, I’m passing this fabulous blog bling on to some equally fabulous bloggers.

San Diego Momma, Ms. Single Mama, Foolery (coiner of the term Bloggywood), Pajama Momma, MommyTime at Mommy’s Martini and Auds at Barking Mad I hereby name each of YOU a BFF, or Bloggy Friend Forever. I’ll keep the St Nds half … because according to McMommy, the Be Frie is the better half, and you’re definitely deserving.

And as for YOU dear Reader, you inspire me. You pick me up. Aside from hangin’ with the MP, reading your comments is the best part of my day.

You rock.

I love ma Doogs.

Mommypie risks death (and a fine) for a flower.

Last night, after work, I picked up MP and took her on a spur-of-the-moment two-hour mountain hike. The trail we chose cut through rocky and woody terrain alike. MP’s agility and endurance blew me away. Figuratively AND literally. Nothing will hammer home the stark reality of the sorry shape of your ass quicker than a four-year-old JOGGING ahead of you, up a MOUNTAIN.

After making it to the top (which, I’m tellin’ you, HAS to be some kind of record for her age), and relishing her accomplishment for a good amount of time, we began our decent. The path was framed by an almost unreal number of wildflowers. The surrounding terrain was a blanket of orange, pink, purple and blue. And I KNEW we weren’t supposed to pick. But temptation got the better of me, and by the time the two of us reached the trailhead we had amassed two spectacular and highly illegal bouquets punishable in these parts by a hefty fine.

Getting our booty off the mountain was no easy task. Guiltily, I TRIED to conceal our pickin’s from other trailblazers (or fellow “ROCK stars, heh heh,” according to MP). Not so easy with a preschooler wildly waving her bunch ‘o flowers like a deranged ringleader.

At any rate, we made it. Once home, Grammy quickly identified each species, save for a few. One in particular stood out. The centerpiece of my arrangement. She looked it up. She found it.

Mountain DEATH Camas
Death camases contain an alkaloid that is extremely toxic and has been responsible for the death of livestock, especially sheep, and humans. American Indians and early settlers were poisoned by mistaking the bulbs of these plants for the edible bulbs of camas.

Beautiful. The Flower of Death went immediately into the garbage. My hands went immediately into the sink to be repeatedly washed with antibacterial soap. If it’s been awhile, and you haven’t heard from me Doogs, the Death Camas did me in.

Which would suck. But if that turns out to be the case, have no doubt, I’ll be on the other side with one of those bad boys behind my ear, laughing in the face of … stupidity.

Ambushed by the Ingalls Family

Early one night last week, MP saw a man on a horse walking down the road. Grammy, MP and I went to say hello and after some conversation, learned he lived just a short distance away. Turns out he and his wife have two daughters — one four and one eight. They’re home-schooled and in his words, desperate for contact with other kids. We exchanged numbers and I extended an open invitation for them to come over any time.

I guess I thought they’d CALL first.

Friday afternoon I was totally ambushed. The house looked like a bomb went off — a mountain of clean laundry piled on the couch, spilling onto the floor, MP’s toys strewn EVERYWHERE and a pile of dishes in the sink. MP and I had just gotten back from a hot, sweaty bike ride and were home no more than 10 minutes before the Home-schoolers showed up at the door. I was HORRIFIED. From the looks on their faces, so were they.

The girls wore peasant skirts; Mom was fresh-faced with long brown hair pulled into a loose pony. A crunchy granola Ingalls family. Very nice, but … awkward. Like they didn’t have much contact with the outside world. I imagined them reading by gas lantern at night.

I invited them in. MP was ECSTATIC to have playmates over. She took them into her playroom. I asked Ma Ingalls if she’d like a seat, and she said she was fine sitting on the wooden bench by the door. Ho-kee. I checked on the girls. The older one, Ingrid — who MP kept calling “Penguin” — was busy cleaning the play kitchen, telling me (not without a slight note of disdain) she was “organizing it because it was SUCH a mess.” The glow of that gas lantern brightened just enough for me to now envision the impossibly tidy log cabin Ma Ingalls no doubt kept.

The younger girl ran out to her mother, one of MP’s baby dolls in her arms.

“Mother!” she said, “MP’s so KIND. She let me play with one of her babies!”

I was quickly falling under the impression these kids had NO playmates. Their speech was bookish and almost antiquated. It dredged up memories of third grade and Peter Costa, teasing dorky, bespectacled eight-year-old me in front of a group of classmates.

Not to worry. I had a comeback.

“Yeah? Well, it’s not like … I’m … FOND of you or anything.”

Good one. FOND. While I was reading Wuthering Heights and building my Victorian vocabulary, Peter Costa was busy being the Cute Boy. And while Peter and the group snickered at my prudish reply, I knew THAT choice comeback had effectively bumped me to the next level of nerd status.

So, I felt for the Ingalls girls.

After spending 45 minutes wrapped in small talk with Ma — all the while side-sweeping clutter into neat little piles — it was closing in on dinner time. Getting ready to leave, the little one said to MP, “You should give me some of your toys because you have SO many.” We all heard it. Ma just smiled. I let out an uncomfortable chuckle. MP stared. It was weird.

Eh, you can’t blame the kid for coveting Hungry Hungry Hippos, when all she has are wooden pull-toys. And sticks to whittle. In that cabin with the gas lantern.

As we walked them down the dirt driveway — MP clickity clacking in her pink plastic Cinderella heels; the Ingalls Family in their patchwork skirts atop their bikes — I told Ma we went to the public pool every Friday.

And she said they could rearrange their schedule so THEY could go to the pool every Friday too.

Apparently they’re FOND of us.

Colorful day at the Pie House

How I know it’s time to get my roots done.

Mommy, I know what color your hair is.

You do? What color?

Acorn.

Acorn?

Acorns are brown at the top.

………………………………………

The first time she’s noticed any difference.

(Watching the Bill Cosby cartoon featuring a black family)

Mommy, Little Bill and his mom forgot to put sunscreen on.

Wrong Cathouse, Hef

MOOOOMMM!!

Mr. Hefner’s back.

What does he want now?

He’s looking for Paris.

He’s got the wrong cathouse. Tell him she left awhile ago.

Okay, but he doesn’t look so good. He’s kinda OLD.

I know, Honey. Just send him on his way. The cathouse he’s looking for is much bigger.

What about the three ladies holding him up?

Them too.

Love, death and reincarnation in five minutes or less.

MP had quite a bit to say on the ride home last night. Within a span of five minutes she shocked me once, she shocked me twice, and neatly wrapped things up by confirming the propensity for dumb humor may actually be an inherited trait.

I’m in love with Ronan and Hunter.

Wha?!? Eee ooo, eee ooo. (That’s me cleaning out my ears.)

When did THIS happen? MP’s all of FOUR. I’m hoping she just means this little threesome is sharin’ the Barney Buddy Love. (“I love you, you love me, we’re a great big fam-il-y.” ) I’m so not prepared for the first crush. So not.

Everyone in this town is going to die.

Umm … After making it past the initial shock of this heady proclamation, I was relieved to find out it was NOT in fact, some catastrophic premonition. Instead, she told me her theory on death, explaining matter-of-factly that everyone dies. And when a person dies, someone new is born. More importantly, when a person dies, they COME BACK. So says the Dalai MP.

And, lastly, a joke.

Why did Shaggy cross the road?

(Tired) I don’t know. Why?

Try, Mommy.

(More tired) I don’t know. Why.

Try.

To get to the other side?

YEAH! BAHAHAHAHA!!

Hello, Daughter. I love you.

How a stupid waste of time reinforces my faith in humanity.

I’ve become a little addicted to Twitter. A month ago, I thought it sounded like the stupidest waste of time. Honestly, on paper, it STILL sounds like a stupid waste of time. But there’s something about it …

It’s habit-forming.

If I had to describe it, I’d say it’s a Richard Scarry book, without Lowly Worm.

Like the classic, What Do People Do All Day? (Or something like that …)

For whatever reason, it’s comforting to know what others are doing. Maybe it’s the bare, basic, real-time humanity. Follow enough people and you’ll very likely see every emotion imaginable expressed over the course of 24 hours.

Tonight for example, I suffered a huge disappointment. I was depressed. I wanted to cry. And I Twittered so. Within five minutes, a fellow Twit, Jessica from Moms Group Manual, reached out across Bloggywood with an unexpected show of concern. And then San Diego Momma did the same. And it actually made me feel better.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

New. Media. Douchebag.

I now appeal to all you skeptics out there — you have nothing to lose, so give it a shot! You don’t have to have a blog — anyone can do it. Just click on the Twitter link in the upper right corner of this page and sign up.

I’ll be your Twitterho … will you be mine?

Not burning the mattress … yet.

The past week, I’ve been convinced I had bugs. An unbearably itchy rash had broken out on my arms, and the first few days, I thought nothing of it. Then I consulted Boyfriend Web MD.

And I FREAKED OUT. The parasitic possibilities were endless. And considering MP spends all day with booger-eaters and then sleeps with me in my bed, the very plausible idea she could’ve given me bugs has literally kept me up at night.

I washed the sheets. I checked the mattress seams. I Febreezed.

Finally, yesterday, on the verge of a full-body Clorox Dip, I made an appointment with the doctor. He turned out to be new on staff. He was kinda hot. And wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Which really made no difference, because if my suspicions were correct, I would be effectively humiliated and unable to set foot in his office ever again.

Dr. Man: So tell me why you’re here.

Me: I have this ITCHING … on my arms. Normally I wouldn’t be here for a rash, but I looked it up on Web MD and kinda freaked myself out.

Dr. Man: Mmm hmm. Good. And what do YOU think it is?

Me: Uh … I don’t know … I was afraid … (oh, the hahra) … scabies?

(Dr. Man emits nearly imperceptible sucking sound and subtly backs up.)

Dr. Man: Well, it could be. Let’s see.

(I roll up my sleeves)

Me: Do you see those bumps?

Dr. Man: Mmm hmm.

Me: They’re just getting worse.

Dr. Man: I don’t think it’s scabies.

Me: Don’t you have to do a scraping and look at it under the microscope?

Dr. Man: If I thought it was scabies, but I don’t.

Me: Body lice?

Dr. Man: No. You don’t have body lice.

(Gets up, walks across hall to his office and returns with medical encyclopedia — not unlike the kind kids everywhere secretly spend hours looking though. Remember the ‘staple in eyeball’ photo? Or the ‘foot caught in lawnmower’ pic? No? Oh, I do. Ew.)

Dr. Man: See, this is scabies (pointing to photographs under the SCABIES header). That’s not what you have.

He turns the page, holding the book so I can see what he’s reading. I now see the scabies info is located adjacent to a page dedicated to some kind of funky scrotal skin condition. BIG full color photos of hairy buggy ballsacks. Beautiful.

After more reassurance from Dr. Man there was nothing actively burrowing under my skin, I was armed with a scrip for anti-itch lotion and sent on my way.

Breathing a sigh of relief.

THANK YOU JESUS — in this case, a rash really IS just a rash.