MP, Verminator.

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.

Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law.

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!

Incontinence is an inconvenience.

My old friend Cracker called from Boise tonight. She relayed the story of her recent dealings with the customer service department of a company that will remain unnamed. Clearly she was frustrated. What follows are the ACTUAL emails between Cracker and a department rep.

FROM: CS REP
This refund takes 30 days and I have process. I am sorry for any incontinence this may have cause you.

Thanks, G

FROM: CRACKER
G,

Thank you for your 30 day refund notice for my file. As a matter of fact, this whole situation HAS made me incontinent. I’ve noticed that over the course of this ordeal, I’ve lost bladder control and often found my office chair wet after dealing with you on the phone on a daily basis having to repeat myself time and time again despite your “phone conversation records.”

If our account is not refunded in 30 per your policy (even though YOU made an unauthorized withdrawal) I will more than likely have permanent bladder damage, thus you will also be paying for…. (more)

Cracker

P.S. If you didn’t catch my above drift, “incontinence” means you have bladder problems. You might want to strike that word from future e-mails to your customers.

FROM: CS REP
No problem.

Outsourcing. It’s good comedy.

My sordid past as a p*rn peddler.

So, a few months ago, the fantastic Deb at San Diego Momma got me (and a few other bloggas – Deb of course, Brian at PapaTV, Melissa at Green Girl in Wisconsin, and Jennifer at Thursday Drive — all really, really good) a freelance writing gig at T. Rowe Price.

Because I’m feeling L-A-Z-Y tonight, I thought I’d share it with you. Should you choose to click on this link, I promise shoe licking. I promise sweaty people in bathing suits. And P*RN, people. (Yes, P*RN, just for your benefit, Dirty Google Search Pervs.)

Oh yeah. And a HEINOUS school photo of Mommy Pie at age 8. Personal idol? Jan Brady. The picture speaks for itself.

Things I’ve learned about entrepreneurship.

I used to think there wasn’t enough time in the day BEFORE the launch of Swap Mamas.

Seriously. Smack me now.

In addition to the reality of no sleep (Which really isn’t THAT big of a deal. I haven’t slept in years. I’m a mom. And kind of a vampire.), there are a few things about being an entrepreneur I’ve learned these past few months. (And I say “entrepreneur” lightly, considering I have yet to turn a profit. Anyone wanna to buy an ad?)

• The roots will get thicker. And darker. I’m pretty sure my hair stylist thinks I’ve died. If you’re reading this Tawny, I’m still kickin’. Apparently something DID expire on top of my HEAD though. Yeesh.

• As much as it sucks, you still have to set the alarm. The consolation? Going to “the office” is SO MUCH NICER. Helluu jeans and t-shirt. Helluu baseball cap. (See above.) Helluu coffee shop and nice, friendly, buzzed people.

• I’m okay with generic cheese. And cheap toilet paper. And cutting back on the drive-thru tacos. Which … all kind of go together … Coincidence? I think not.

• Not having health insurance is a scary, scary thing. Period.

• The blog. She suffers. Which bites, because lately I have so much to write about — lesbian ponies, obscene celebrity mug shots … the melon, she’s seriously going to explode with randomness if I don’t start getting back to regular posting.

More than anything — and not to be cliche — I’ve learned life is a risk.

And that’s delicious.

(As much as it can be without drive-thru tacos.)

Even better than wax lips. Better tasting too.

This is Dental Hygiene Week at the Pie Town Preschool.

MP’s learning the importance of regular brushing and flossing. And what happens when you DON’T take care of your teeth, and eat too much sugar.

They turn into marshmallows.

Your gums into cream cheese.

And your lips into rosy red apples.

(It’s all very Mr. Potato Head-y.)

Then your teeth fall out and the Tooth Fairy leaves candy under your pillow while you sleep.

Scenes from A Coffee Shop Musical.

There’s this hip little coffee shop downtown. The music’s a little louder. The crowd’s a little more animated. The joint pulses with energy. Because I’m a people watcher, it’s quickly become one of my favorite afternoon haunts these past few months. When I’m there, somehow, I’m more productive. More creative. More optimistic. I’m lighter.

So, it comes as no surprise that when “Walking in Memphis” comes on, I effortlessly slip into a “Mommypie, The Musical” dream sequence.

I’m dancing on the bar. Of significance — I also have really good, long hair. (Did I mention this coffee shop also serves beer and wine? Cool, huh?) Patrons leap and pirouette below me. And in my head I am the STAR.

And then I realize I am, in fact, singing. Aloud. A little too far above the acceptable non-lunatic singing to yourself level.

I nonchalantly glance around, clear my throat and settle into Act 2. Sussudio is playing. And I’m being eagerly pursued by The Boy. Who’s also the singing male lead. We strut around the shop, me feigning disinterest. Smiling over my shoulder. Typical. Musical Tease.

Act 3. Footloose. A cue for the tech geek hiding behind his laptop to throw off those glasses and start poppin’ old school.

Act 4. The Boy and I shimmy back and forth, then back to back, then forehead to forehead, while I sing “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About” in Bonnie Raitt’s awesomely smoky voice.

Through picture windows that look out on Main Street, it begins to rain. And the musical comes to a dramatic close.

Act 5. Babe I’m leavin’ I must be on my way … please believe me, my heart is in your hand … I’ll be missing youuuu. You know it’s you Babe, whenever I get weary and I’ve had enough, feel like giving up, you know it’s you Babe, giving me the courage and the strength I need, please believe, that it’s youuuu … Babe I love you …

Aaand SCENE.

Shout out to all the muthas this weekend.

♫ M is for the moan and the miserable groan from the pain that she she felt when I was boan. ♫

Happy “Thank-God-I-Didn’t-Squeeze-Mr. T-Through-MY-Vagina” Day.

Love ya Mamas!

Shave and a haircut, two bits.

Nothing beats being your own boss. The first month since stepping off that cliff has been phenomenal.

Liberating.

Empowering.

Economically … er … challenging.

Okay, I’m broke.

Which is fine. I may be your textbook eternal optimist, but I’m also a realist. I know it’ll take time before I turn a profit. (Hey you! Yes YOU, you attractive, smartly dressed and highly intelligent person, YOU! I gotta great new site! It’s called Swap Mamas! Wanna buy an ad?!?) Until then, a few things have been cut out of the budget.

Like dog grooming. Admittedly, I have a hard time justifying this expenditure ANYWAY. Seriously. How hard could it be? It’s a DOG. The only reason I give a flying fart about the length of her fur is because she’s so low to the ground, and I’m sick to death of washing her muddy arse every freakin’ day. (Love ya Rosie.)

Which leaves one option. Mommypie. Fur Artiste.

Rosie is a Shih Tzu. (Which, someone once told me is Japanese for “Eats Own Shit.” That … would be accurate.) Shih Tzus, as a breed, traditionally have fairly long holymattedmess coats. Yeah, we’ll have none of that.

Rosie before.

  

Rosie during.

Rosie after.

Huh. Turns out she has a tiiiny leetle head. And a long skinny body. And kind of a big bootie. And EYES. Wow.

Aside from a few painful-looking pink spots where I cut it too close (yikes) she doesn’t look so bad …

Okay, this is actually a really good photo. In real life, she looks ridiculous. Which totally works for me because every time I look at those buggy eyes I crack up. That mug makes my day.

Not to be outdone, MP — for the SECOND time in a year — decided she also needed a haircut. Yeah. Remember THIS beauty shop moment? Thankfully, this time around it wasn’t as bad, just incredibly frustrating. We’re scheduled for a professional session with a local kick-ass photographer in two weeks, and as much as I loathe having my photo taken, I’ve really been looking forward to this.

I lost my temper. There were tears. She was sorry.

And 20 minutes later, there was this.

*sigh*

Okay, my scissor-drunk child. You’re forgiven.

Adding to my colorful history with delivery men …

I’m completely MORTIFIED.

MORtified.

So, I’ve been sick going on three weeks now, right? After going back and forth between head cold/stomach flu/head cold/stomach flu, the bug has settled into a melon-splitting sinus infection which absolutely REFUSES to go away. Read, no health insurance at the moment. The constant pain between my eyes is excruciating. And now, MP has it — Booger Light with a side of cough and smoker’s voice.

So you get it. I’m exhausted. I haven’t showered in two days. I haven’t brushed my teeth all day. I’m a mess. Today, MP and I holed up and played hooky.

The Boy calls and I mention how good a Domino’s pizza sounds, but they don’t deliver to my house and sadly, there’s no way I’m going ANYWHERE looking like Danny Partridge. Keep in mind, The Boy’s 2,300 miles away, all the way across the country.

A few minutes later, I get a text. “Pizza’s on it’s way. Put on a hat!” I think, “Awww, how sweet! How romantic!” assuming he must have called a pizza place that DOES deliver. And now I don’t have to worry about making dinner! I’m in Heaven. I have the BEST fiance EVAH.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. I throw on a hat, grab a few bucks for tip, open the door, and standing there IS THE BOY’S FATHER. Holding a Domino’s pizza box.

And I want to DIE.

Remember, this IS The Boy’s hometown, so his family is still here. And now his dad, who I’ve spent limited time with, is on my doorstep, looking at me. And I’m looking at him.

I’m braless, I’m makeup-less. The house is a wreck, there are laundry piles everywhere, it’s 5 p.m. and I’m still in my PJs. I cover my mouth and hide my face, sure my breath will knock the poor man clear off the porch. MP comes to my side, also in her PJs. Which are stained with food from lunch. Did I mention she’s wearing plastic purple dress-up heels? And her hair hasn’t been combed all day?

We chat for a few minutes — I have no idea what I’m saying. I’m too busy trying to simultaneously obscure my face AND the view into the living room. I know I should invite him in, but can’t bear the thought. Better to appear rude than let him get TOO close a look at the state of my housekeeping skills. Or my face for that matter.

I know The Boy was being crazy thoughtful. But DUDE. I haven’t been THAT embarrassed since I greeted the UPS man at the door with my bare boob hanging out. Ah, the Newborn Breastfeeding Days …

The Boy’s goin’ DOWN.