THIS is why I carry a spare set of surgical gloves.

So here’s me, totally content, driving through the grocery store parking lot singing “In the Jungle.” As I’ve been known to do. In the company of friends and family on a semi-regular basis.

And here’s Napoleon Dynamite wearing a neon green reflective vest, hunched over a row of shopping carts, laboring just a bit to get them across the lot.

Have I mentioned my tendency to see things in pictures? Or as movies? This right here — this juxtaposition of awesome lyrics, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight” and the dynamite scene playing out right before my very eyes? Bottled sunshine.

And here I am, cracking myself up and I do whatever the opposite of snort is, which results in me unexpectedly blowing my nose. I open the glovebox looking for some Kleenex or a Wendy’s napkin or gas receipt or SOMETHING and instead find THIS.

BASTARDS. The mice, they’re nesting in my nooks and crannies. They mock me.

And I know it’s probably total karma for laughing at Napoleon, even though it wasn’t technically directed AT him, but more so the scene as a whole. If I didn’t carry a spare pair of surgical gloves for just such an occasion, I REALLY would’ve been upset.

Clearly, these mice have superpowers. Clearly, I’m going to have to consider less conventional kill methods. I’m thinking I should ask The Bloggess to mail me one of those car snakes they got down in Texas. I could stick it in the glovebox, feed it Thanksgiving dinner and borrow Grammy’s car for a week while it digests. Hell, I’d WALK to work if it meant getting rid of the vermin. In the snow. Barefoot.

Okay, so maybe not, but I’m really, really, really desperate. Really.

More on the pest (outta) control front.

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.

Gettin’ Pippi widit.

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.”

Umm …

“Are you cramping?”

“Uh, no …”

“Well, this should help …”

AWWWWKWARD.

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.

So blank I can’t even come up with a title for this post.

So, I’m at a blog impasse. I got nothin’. My blog brain is 100% blank.

Except for this.

MP and I spent an inordinate amount of time watching these guys a few months ago. I would’ve packed a lunch and brought a blanket had I known we’d hit the free entertainment mother lode. Seriously. These two gave the Costco Free Library a run for its money.

Okay, so maybe 98% blank.

More than likely, this week will be light on the posts — I have my big Social Media presentation Friday morning and seeing how I HATE public speaking, I’m finding it hard to focus on anything else. Because I have to speak for an HOUR. To people who are coming from all over the state.

Maybe I should show them the New Media Douchebag video. You know … to break the ice.

I’m so screwed.

It’s raining men. And I want to crawl under my desk.

I don’t know WHAT the hell’s goin’ on but the past few weeks there’s been a run on fix-ups in Pie Town. Apparently, someone designated it Mommypie Needs A Date month.

Which has led me to declare it Mommypie Is A Stress Case month.

Because Mommypie doesn’t really WANT a date. At least not at this juncture. And you better believe that KILLS my mother.

The first guy is a local attorney, 10 years my senior. I’ve met him a few times before at work functions. Nice enough. He ran for a judge seat last year, and lost. His chosen political party is … not mine. And being older and pickier (meaning that “they like me” is no longer a good enough reason to date someone), all the above could easily be enough to rule him out.

But ACW (Another Co-Worker) mentioned she saw a large tattoo on his lower leg at our recent golf tourney, so, I agreed to meet him for lunch Tuesday. Or Wednesday. I can’t remember, but I wrote it down. And I’m DREADING it. Because, while I don’t want to rule anything out, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time either. I’m going to try to go into it with an open mind. It’s just lunch right? RIGHT??

The other guy is a baseball scout, also about 10 years older than me. Definitely scoring higher on the cool job scale, if that counts for anything. He doesn’t live in this state, but travels here frequently. I have NO idea what he looks like. He’s sent two emails. I sent one, somewhat terse, “nice to meet you” email. He wants to get together later this month when he’s in town. I haven’t answered.

Argh. I AM totally grateful for such wonderful friends who care so much about my happiness. I find it funny that in this case, the two doing the setting up were two GUYS. And I know I’m a little unconventional. But I love the life MP and I have. Just the two of us.

And now, I want to hide. I want to crawl under my desk and hide. Which I’ve actually done on more than one occasion. Just out of college, I was working two jobs to make ends meet — a 9 to 5 job all day while waiting tables all night. I was exhausted. For awhile there, I’d actually crawl under my desk, lie down and sleep when my bosses were at lunch. I kept a pillow in my office and everything. Okay, a seat cushion, but still. Remember the Seinfeld episode where George slept under his desk at work? That was totally me.

Which sounds so much better than a lunch date small talk torture session. Hep me Rhonda.

The Worst Mom in the World

I am the worst mom ever.

EHVA.

We’ve gotten into a little weekend routine here at the Pie House that lately, I have to admit, has left me feeling a bit ashamed. MP wakes up around 8 a.m., at which time I get up, hose her off in the tub (not quite gettin’ the whole ‘making it through the night’ potty training thing juuust yet), get her dressed, brush her teeth, set her up with some juice, toast, granola bar, etc., turn on Noggin … and go back to bed.

Horrible. I know. I know!

Now here’s me, [pathetically] trying to justify my actions …

– The tv/family room is literally RIGHT outside my door, which remains open
– It’s healthy for her to learn the fine art of entertaining oneself
– I’m a better mom when I can get a little extra sleep
– I never FULLY fall back asleep, and can usually hear everything

Okay, I take that last one back. Here’s what I woke to a few months ago … an activity I did NOT hear:

Thank you, Jesus, for washable markers.

So this morning, I sleep a bit later than usual, re-awake just before 10, and realize it’s a little too quiet. I figure she’s probably working on another self-adornment project. It’ll wash off. I fade in and out of sleep for a few minutes, trying to drag my butt out of bed. The phone vibrates on my nightstand. Peering over with one eye half-open, I see my mother’s photo on the cell face. I put it down, and wait for the message. Thirty seconds elapses before it arrives. I dial my code, and hear MP’s tiny voice leaving an unintelligible message on my voice mail.

WHA??!?

I bolt out of bed, my brain lagging behind my body, trying to catch up and connect the dots. I speed dial Grammy, and MP answers.

“Hi Mommy! I’m sorry.”

I need to clarify that my mom in fact, lives just a few hundred feet away. We live down a long dirt drive, on a small bit of acreage, with virtually no neighbors. Think Everybody Loves Raymond. With a rural flair.

Which may sound better, but knowing that MP put on coat and boots, unlocked and opened the front door, and trekked across the snow to Grammy’s house without me hearing a thing confirms it …

I AM the worst mom in the world.

Apparently, she had written a letter while I was sleeping, and just wanted to give it to Grammy. I wasn’t mad at her – I was furious at myself. Add embarrassed, ashamed, horrified … Grammy got on the phone and told me they were on their way back.

After a serious five-minute discussion about leaving the house without telling Mommy, she asked if she could go back to play at Grammy’s. Which left me alone to think about MY actions.

Definitely NOT one of my shining motherhood moments.

A little extra sleep on the weekends will just have to wait a few more years. Period.