I’d like to say I got one of the CHEAP seats, but …

Noon, California time and I’m sitting at LAX, recovering from two flights and gearing up for the biggie, over the ocean, in just about an hour. I stayed up ALL night with the hope that I’d pass out on the flights. No luck so far, but my fingers are crossed.

Actually, I haven’t been able to fall asleep for a reason.

Remember last weekend when I asked what YOUR pet peeves were? I now have a new one of my own.

People who go to the bathroom on planes. Are we FIVE, people? Can you not wait an hour and a half to pee?

I’ve been seated DIRECTLY ADJACENT to the john on BOTH FLIGHTS, squished into the very last seat in the rear. And puns aside, the stench has been UNREAL. I paid $1,300 to hang out in a Porta Potty? And all I get is a crappy bag of peanuts? (Again, excuse the pun.) I could have done that at the county fair. And what’s with the smell? Don’t they just open a chute in the bottom of the plane and let it fly? Or have I been worried about getting hit with flying poo my whole life for no reason?

The steady stream of pee-ers was killin’ me. (Again with the puns.)

Cross your fingers I’m in the FRONT of the plane on this last leg. And that I don’t have to use my flotation device. They’re calling my number …

P.S. Make sure to check back — some of my favorite bloggers will be guest posting while I’m gone!

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A gift from Zombietown

It’s now 1:26 a.m. Three and a half hours before I have to get up, get ready, and board a plane to Hawaii.

I haven’t started packing.

I’m hoping if I stay up and deprive myself of sleep, I’ll snooze away the day, stress free over the ocean.

But before I get going, I wanted to give you this. Spankin’ new badges for all you BlogHerNots. I’m a little late, and they’re totally cobbled together, but hopefully my fancy schmancy code WORKS. Let me know if it doesn’t …

If you were a BlogHerNot ’08 Instructor and want to display a badge, just copy and paste the code directly below into your site.

<a href=”https://mommypie.wordpress.com&#8221; target=”_blank”><img class=”alignnone size-medium wp-image-1137″ src=”https://mommypie.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/bhn08_instructorbadge.jpg?w=274&#8243; alt=”” width=”173″ height=”189″ /></a>

If you were a BlogHerNot ’08 Participant and want to display a badge, just copy and paste the code directly below into your site.

<a href=”https://mommypie.wordpress.com&#8221; target=”_blank”><img class=”alignnone size-medium wp-image-1141″ src=”https://mommypie.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/bhn08_participantbadge1.jpg?w=274&#8243; alt=”” width=”173″ height=”189″ /></a>

You should be able to size them down if needed.

Happy Thursday Doogs!

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.

Doogs Weekend is back!

Got a little off track last weekend with all the BlogHerNot revelry, but coming back to the Doogs Weekend idea, with another question for you.

If you’re new, the only explanation you need is that I’m dedicating the weekends to YOU. To learning more about who you are and what makes you tick. Because I already tell you all about me, me, me five days a week. And I’m nosy like that.

This may sound superficial, but I think it tells a lot about a person.

What, I won’t pretend to know …

Here it is:

What are your pet peeves?

What makes YOU want to scream?

Or at the very least, punch a Best Buy employee?

Okay, go.

Beer cans, biplanes and the intricacies of networking

Last night was my once a month, sometimes excruciatingly tiresome, obligatory networking cocktail-y work thing. This month’s outdoor event was okay — made fun primarily because my best guy friend in town (we’ll call him News Guy — I love him to bits) showed up. His timing couldn’t have been better. I needed someone to tell me if I had BBQ ribs stuck in my teeth. I did not.

So, I’m standing there, talking to News Guy and someone else we’ll call Manorexic, and this crazy woman comes up to me, addressing me by my first name, which she’s clearly just learned from my NAME TAG. She has her 14ish-year-old son in tow. They are obsessed with the Bud Light in my hand. That I’m so obviously DRINKING.

Turns out her elderly father makes model biplanes out of Bud Light cans. I learned it takes 18 cans to make one airplane. I also learned her father doesn’t drink, which poses a dilemma. Because the money he earns from the sale of these planes — apparently there’s a market for things of this nature — goes to his grandson’s music lessons. Which, I’m thinking to myself, ‘Oh, PLEASE let them be COUNTRY music lessons, or I’ll be crushed.’ The irony of the whole story is lost without the Country.

I told her when I was done, the can was hers. She thanked me, and she and her son — the music lesson grandson — backed away a good … three feet. Waiting. Watching. Chicken Hawks to my field mouse.

I tried to ignore my Beer Can Stalkers. It must have been around this time that conversation turned to seafood and my intense dislike of all things fishy. I distinctly remember saying I didn’t think I’d make a very good lesbian.

Note to self: In work-related social situations, best to remember the difference between INSIDE voice and OUTSIDE voice. Probably a good rule of thumb in any situation.

I almost forgot all about them.

Half an hour later, as the party was winding down, we moved to a completely different location. The Chicken Hawks chased me down, planted themselves in front of me and just stood there. Smiling. Holding a bag of cans. Not really a TRUE bag — more like a plastic toilet paper wrapper fashioned into a bag. Which only paints a better picture.

“Take your time. No rush!” Mama Stalker said, standing WAY too close, popping the Personal Space Bubble.

Rather than go off on the woman, News Guy took a step back and looked away. I stood there like an idiot, trying to chug the remainder of my Bud Light. I suggested she check out the trash for more cans.

She remained. Inside my Personal Space Bubble. Smiling.

I was so annoyed and freaked out I finally handed her my half full beer telling her I’d get another. “Are you sure?” she said, taking the can. Still smiling. Still completely socially inept.

The thing was, it wasn’t like she was some random person crashing the event. She had a name tag. She was invited. Apparently the nuances of “networking” had her confused.

Perhaps she’ll leave the beer can fetish at home next month. I shall be drinking wine.