Grammy says she likes Shabby Chic.
In this case, Redneck Decorating Tips may be more accurate.
Either way, I think she’s on to something.
Eat your heart out, Martha.
The filthy stinkin’ bastard mice in my car have smartened up. Usually I get one each night in a trap. Now, they bypass it completely and poo around the perimeter. Thankfully, I noticed their handiwork before hoisting MP into the car seat yesterday morning. Piles of stuffing and poo.
Totally at my wit’s end, I went to the ranch store for bait. However, I was advised against having it in the car, what with the heater and all. Not to mention a small child. This left just one alternative.
I’m trapping the muthas.
We’ll see what’s waiting in the morning. With any luck I’ll be able to relocate the whole family far, far away.
Cross your fingers.
Remember awhile back when I mentioned I got a super cool freelance copywriting gig? All because of the blog? Well, the project’s done and the web site’s gone live and I’m pimpin’ it, just because I think it’s so freakin’ cute. Go check it out and get YOUR fortune!
Never have I had the urge to hug a rotund Asian man like I do this guy.
Which brings me to a semi-awkward segue about library cards and tales of the Underworld.
A few weeks ago, MP and I went to the library together for the first time, and she received her very own library card. She even “signed” her name to the back.
After an hour of lingering, and steadfast attempts at diversion from the Scooby Doo paperbacks (“Yes, I KNOW you like Scooby, Honey, but let’s see what OTHER books they have …”) I struck gold. I found a book I LOVED as a child. A book I who’s title I could never remember. A book who’s story I could never forget.
The Funny Little Woman is the retelling of an Asian folk tale. At its center is a little woman who’s rice dumpling falls through a crack in the earth. She follows it down to the Underworld where she’s captured by wicked monsters called the Oni. The illustrations alone are nightmarish.
I always figured I must have been a weird kid for liking it so much. I always DID like the smooky stuff. I even wondered on a few occasions, if maybe I dreamed the whole thing. Yet, here it was, after all these years.
Totally creepy and inappropriate reading for a young child, right?
We checked it out.
And MP loved it.
I knew she would.
So what other gems are out there? Now that we have a spankin’ new card, and I’ve vowed to cut back on the book BUYING — which admittedly, was outta control — we’ll be spending a lot more time at the library.
Tell me YOUR favorites, Doogs.
I am from 70s Suburbia and swimming pools.
I am from tinkly drinks on the rocks and smoke-filled parental cocktail parties.
I am from a green station wagon named Lucy and the soothing sound of her wipers against torrential rains.
I am from all-day kickball with the boys and cardboard sliding in the hills.
I am from fake vomit and whoopie cushions and other covet-worthy items advertised in the back of comics.
I am from skateboards and scabs on the knees.
I am from thick morning fog and Santas in surf shorts.
I am from miles of walking. Years of searching.
I am from treeforts and buckeyes and drinking from the garden hose.
I am from gawkiness and glasses and adolescent angst.
I am from change and reinvention.
I am from bonfires and bears. From bartenders and beer.
I am from artists.
I am from haunted houses. From haunted lives.
I am from great love. And great loss.
I am from strength and resilience, and ultimately blind faith.
I am from never give up.
This is my very first contribution to San Diego Momma’s PROMPTuesday. She’s such an amazing writer, that, truthfully (and she knows this) I’ve been a bit intimidated to participate until now.
This week’s rules, in her words, are as follows: This week, tell us who you are, what makes you, where you’re from. Share your memory fragments, those visions in your head, those figments that make you, you. What bits and pieces formed your whole? Are you whole?
It was brought to my attention that one of my Tweets Thursday sounded a bit … odd.
You’re right, it does sound like code. (You and your dirty minds.) Unfortunately, my life is not NEARLY that racy.
Here’s the poop. The company I work for puts on an annual business conference, complete with workshops, exhibitors and a cocktail hour. One of the showcase vendors was a massage therapy center. I’ve had some serious back pain for a few years now (helluu Mommy Back), which has escalated over the last few months, so I asked the guy manning the booth for a massage.
I went to lie on the table face down when he told me to turn over, saying something about not being able to form a relationship with the back of a head. Mkay, different, but I get it.
Before the guy cracked everything from my toes to my fingertips to my neck, he told me my back pain stemmed from my feet. He pointed out that I put my weight on the outside of them, which throws everything off. Which I’d never noticed before, but is totally true.
He brought my knees up to my chest — up and out. He told me to relax. To which I replied in my head, “Dude, unless you wanted me to push some major wind, you do NOT want me to relax.” Seriously. I went into this thinking I was getting vanilla. Not spumoni. I was fully unprepared for Yogi-in-a-Box-Contortions.
And then, at one point he started pushing on my stomach with one hand while the other cradled the small of my back.
“Are you cycling?” he says.
“Yeah.” I answer.
I thought he was asking if I biked. I was just about to tell him all about MP’s bike trailer when he says, “I can tell. Your ovaries are swollen.”
“Are you cramping?”
“Uh, no …”
“Well, this should help …”
Despite this completely uncomfortable exchange, by the time he was done, I was ready to pledge allegiance to his Body Shop. I WAS in Heaven. I literally had NO pain. I told everyone I saw to “Go over to this guy’s booth and get a massage OMG it’s amazing and incredible and I’m totally making an appointment first thing Monday.”
Until Saturday morning when I’m feeling like I’ve been hit by a train. And I literally cannot get out of bed. So much for blind allegiance. The back is just as bad as before, if not worse.
Not so bad that I couldn’t make it to the theater. MP and I went to see a local production of Pippi Longstocking.
And back cracker be damned, all was right with the world.
If you’re still undecided about the election, go to YouTube and search for “Barack Dancing.” Then, ask yourself the very important question: Who would you rather see dancing at the Inaugural Ball?
Michelle and Barack? Or Cindy and John?
The answer seems clear until you remember Wildcard Couple Sarah and Todd. And SP’s “Roof is on Fire” moves and Dance Face showcased on SNL last week. If the Republicans lose Nov. 4, I SO want to see her on next season’s Dancing with the Stars.
Pulling THESE dance moves:
Or maybe THESE.
Yesterday, I spent all day working a conference my company sponsors. At one point, I was standing near this guy with the coolest baby carrier I’d seen.
ME: That is SO COOL! I LOVE it!
BACKPACK DUDE: Thanks. It’s totally organic. (That he says this with a Scandinavian accent makes it even more organic-y.)
ME: Where did you get it?
BD: My wife and I made it.
ME: What? You MADE it?!?
ME: Where can I get one?
BD: A baby??
UPDATE: Thanks to Commenter Heather, I now know that the backpack is made by Ergo. I totally didn’t realize how bad the angle of the photo was until you guys started commenting – ha! I promise, it really WAS pretty cool. And non-suffocating.