What a girl wants. Or not.

So, Facebook ads. Tailored to my profile. A 40-year-old single woman.

Really?

No. Reeeaally?

Is THIS one of those great guys? Do you think his mom knows he’s in his room with the webcam right now? ‘Cause, OMG, he’d be, like, soooo busted.

Thank goodness he has enough sense to keep that v-neck on.

Thankfully, I’ll be the one with the camera.

In the morning, I’m hitting the road, heading to an annual overnight “retreat” at a mountain resort with our Board of Directors. Loosely translated, “work all day and watch grown men and women act like total idiots at the bar all night.” This is the one guaranteed night each year MP has a sleepover at Grammy and Poppy’s — they have fun, I have fun, it’s all good. The resort is about an hour away though, and thinking about it makes me miss her already. I know, I know …

So, I’m charging the camera as I type. If I’m lucky I’ll come home with some blog-worthy photos. I’d post some from last year to give you an idea of what’s in store but I swore to delete anything incriminating. Which means … I got nothin’. This year, who knows. Back in the 90s, I saw Glenn Close in the restaurant. She looked remarkably like a regular person. Which totally didn’t stop me from telling everyone I knew I rubbed elbows (literally) with the Fatal Attraction chick. What I wouldn’t give to have gotten a picture of her eating a rabbit dinner …

Oh, and did you notice how I’ve already blown the NaBloPoMo thing? That was quick. Now I just have to break the news to the Teletubbies. Po will be devastated. I however, will not.

Okay, I’m exhausted. I’m taking a chance and leaving the packing ’til morning. Which is probably a really bad idea, but the lids, they are heavy ma Doogs.

See you in a few days!

Bad manners and inappropriate behavior involving creepy PBS characters.

So, the other night I was CLEARLY way too high on Halloween candy. I signed up to participate in NaBloPoMo. Which, I’ve always thought sounded weirdly dirty. Like oral sex and Teletubbies.

Truthfully, I never DID know what it stood for until I came across it Friday night. For those of you equally confused, it stands for National Blog Posting Month, and it means I’ve made a commitment to posting EVERY DAY this month.

Told ya. Crack Smoker.

So I get this little badge, and a listing on the NaBloPoMo site, with like, 10,000 other bloggers. Which is good, because now that the Blogger’s Choice Award Winners have been named, and I was NOWHERE CLOSE to winning, I should probably take down those three sad little black buttons right up there. —–>

*sniff*

At least I’ll have my new badge to put up in their place.

And speaking of awards, I’m way overdue in thanking some of you for bestowing some awesome ones upon me. (Wow. Could that sentence be any more awkward?) So overdue, in fact, it’s downright embarrassing. All these bloggers are fantastic — if you’re not already reading them, you gotta check ’em out.

Most recently, Jen at Steenky Bee gave me this:

And Mommy the Robot gave me this:

Morningside Mom gave me this:

Right around the same time, Mamasphere and Ms. Tootsie Farklepants at Vintage Thirty gave me this:

Shit. This is getting embarrasing. Bad, bad, manners, Mommypie.

Then, there was this from Ilina at Dirt and Noise, Toots at Vintage Thirty, Flickrlovr at I’d Blog That, and Jen at Cheaper Than Therapy:

I’m an ass.

Okay, now we’re going back quite a few months. *she says, shrinking into the couch*

Auds at Barking Mad gave me this:

She also gave me this, along with the Monkey Toe Momma herself, Donna Reed in Blue Jeans around the same time:

I think that’s it. I know. I totally suck. I have a sick feeling I’ve forgotten someone — if I did, let me know. I’ll give you my address so you can come over and personally bitchslap me.

As part of the deal, I’m supposed to pass these babies on to some of my favorite bloggers. Tonight, however, because I can’t take the crushing guilt, I just wanted to make sure to acknowledge all the awesome bloggers who thought enough of me to give me some bling. I love you ALL! MWAH!

And at some point, I WILL get these up on my sidebar. Check back in six months. This month I’ll be tied up giving Teletubbies BJs.

Or something like that.

It ain’t no Pickle Car. Just an obscenely long post.

If I’d have been disciplined and posted during the Denver trip last week, I could of avoided this painfully looong recap. If I lose you halfway through, I completely understand. I feel the need to post details for posterity’s sake, however. It’s the little things I love remembering.

Saturday morning: News from my handyman.

Yes, I have a handyman. In Denver. Not the bow-chicka wow-wow “Oh my it IS hot please DO take your shirt off would you like some lemonade” kind of handyman. Not the 25-year-old porno pizza delivery guy variety. No, he’s a Vietnam Vet who’s logo is a giant red octopus. A giant red octopus with a tool in each tentacle and a face that looks eerily similar to his. A giant red octopus smokin’ a cigar, which is accurate. It’s actually pretty funny.

Anyhoo, the news. My house — the house I bought two months before MP was born; her first home; the tiny 1923 cottage I put so much work into; the place that’s now a rental — was left an absolute pigsty by the latest tenants. Two college guys. I am officially a WANKER for convincing myself they couldn’t do much damage in nine months. Which is comical, considering the gestational significance of the lease and their correlating level of maturity.

The mess wasn’t the worst part. Apparently, in the three weeks it had been sitting vacant, the washing machine was continuously filling and spilling … all over the mudroom floor and down into the basement. Not only did I need to have the washer repaired, the resulting moldy carpet needed to be ripped out; as did the warped wood floor beneath, and subsequently, MY HAIR.

Oh yeah, the boys broke the electric garage door, too. A nice little $750 parting gift.

I LOATHE being a landlord. (A long-distance landlord, no less.) Unfortunately, considering the current market’s sorry state, I can’t afford to sell. And truth be told, I have a strong emotional attachment to the place. When I finally DO sell it and say goodbye to all it’s ghosts, admitting that chapter is REALLY, TRULY closed is going to be more than impossibly tough.

Between dealing with carpet cleaners, numerous trips to Home Depot and lots and lots of sweaty yard work, I DID actually manage to do a few FUN things.

Saturday night: Sleepover and vodka lemonades at Tattoo Daddy and Corporate Mommy’s new house. When did my friends become the kind of people who live in 4,300 square foot homes? In the ‘burbs no less? It pains me somewhat to admit it was actually quite nice. So nice, in fact, I think it took them — consummate city dwellers — by surprise too.

As strangers living across the street from one another in one of Denver’s very urban neighborhoods, our infant children brought us together. Their son, FDR (logic behind this real life nickname is too politically incorrect to post, trust me), and MP are two months apart in age. Tattoo Daddy was MP’s first, if not unlikely, babysitter.

Together, they’re the coolest couple I know.

And just good people. Case in point: later that night, when MP’s eye swelled shut in violent protest to their cat’s dander, Tat Daddy happily ran to the store for Benadryl. Good peeps. I miss ’em.

Oh yeah, almost forgot about this.

For the first time, I have appliance envy. ‘Crushed ice machine’ has always been on my list of frivolous things I’d buy if I were fabulously wealthy.

Turns out, there are actually refrigerators on the market that DO THIS. What?!? Something on the Fabulously Wealthy List may actually be within my reach??

Ice is my vice. My dentist’s nightmare. I chew it ALL. DAY. LONG. Yes, I’m aware of the whole supposed sexual frustration connection, my fellow junior high friends, and trust me, that’s one explanation that wouldn’t be a stretch for this single mama. However, I don’t think that’s the case. It’s more of a full-blown addiction.

The monkey on my back.

Which brings me to …

Sunday morning: The Denver Zoo. Quote of the day: “Mommy, those monkey’s tushes are GROSS.”

Yeah, about that. Remember how you wanted a pet?

Have some cotton candy instead. A “food” first. Had it not been for Spongebob, this little undesirable would’ve gone virtually unnoticed.

As in, “Huh. That’s weird. A big ball of pink lint on a stick. Meh.”

Okay, it WAS mind-numbingly good.

The corndog was pretty tasty too. Another “food” first.

Sunday night: Grandpa Bobo wakes me up at 12:30 a.m. to tell me there’s an alarm going off. Clearly spooked, he makes me get up and investigate with him. Turns out to be my brother’s travel clock in the living room.

Bobo later admits he’s freaked out in my brother’s 100+ year-old house and confesses his temptation to tiptoe into the guest room while MP and I sleep, and camp out on the floor.

The next night my brother baits Bobo (who, as expected, buys every word) by telling him strange things have happened in the house — always at 1:20 a.m. — and then predictably sets the travel alarm to 1:20 a.m., leaving it by the couch as Bobo lay sleeping.

I had to intervene. I had to get some sleep.

Monday night: MP touches a light bulb. Says she wanted to see if it was hot. It was. Glad we cleared that up.

Tuesday night: Out to dinner with the fam. The drive downtown finds us stopped at a light behind some fancy-schmancy car. Bobo oogles and asks (like I’m an authority) what kind it is. I, of course, have no idea. I reply, “It ain’t no Pickle Car,” which he adopts as a catch-all phrase for the remainder of the trip.

For those unfamiliar with the genius of Richard Scarry, THIS is a Pickle Car.

Add it to the Fabulously Wealthy List. I’d SO enjoy driving to work each day in this.

Turns out the car was actually some kind of crazy Acura. That looked like a Kit Car. That looked like a hairy Italian.

Later, at the restaurant, all hell breaks loose. MP finally cracks under the continuous stream of excitement. Once home, I send her to bed with the iPod and her Princess tunes. Along with the cotton candy, the corndog, and the lightbulb-touching incident, the iPod is indeed another first.

Two important new discoveries: Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe. Deadliest Catch, also with Mike Rowe. Did I mention he’s my new secret boyfriend? More on that later …

After a busy five days, the best part of the trip, hands down, was watching MP interact with her younger cousins. I mentioned last week she insists on calling them her “brothers.” She wants siblings so badly. And I do wish I could give her a few. Maybe, with more visits, this will be a happy medium.

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.

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.

Jumping on the bandwagon. A TRUE New Media Douchebag move.

Foolery confessed to being one and posted this awesome clip. (One of these days I WILL come up with a different adjective. Just not tonight. I had two Bud Lights at dinner and five hours later, am hung over. I am officially … 40.)

Even though a good number of you may have already seen it, I’m jumping on the bandwagon and reposting it. Because, albeit, I have no idea HOW it happened, I too am a New Media Douchebag.

Plus, it’s early Sunday morning, and Pie House Rules clearly state phoning it in is allowed.

My rich fantasy life. It’s all about the cheese.

Dammit Janet. After the writer’s strike, I was totally primed to boycott Grey’s Anatomy, and they go and play the cancer couple in love card. Bastards. SO not fair.

<insert awkward segue>

And speaking of all things medical, between you Doogs, my boyfriend Web M.D., and my city friend Harris — who called me after reading the heart attack post, with a “Dude. You totally have gallstones.” — you got my attention. And when Harris mentioned that nuts and olives can be a trigger for gallstone attacks … well …

… considering I bought a jumbo jug of nuts at Costco last week, and ate half the container in the days before the ER incident, not to mention a fair amount of olives … let’s say I’ve been sufficiently persuaded to consult a doctor. I’ll give it a week or so.

Had I known this Wednesday, when I was working the Women’s Conference, I might have altered my eating habits.

Starting with eliminating the consumption of 10 pounds of olives. (That’s part of the actual conference grazing ground above.)

I still would’ve participated in the cheese fountain feed, which in theory, grosses me out, but in reality is DREAMY.

By the time the event was over, you better believe I was having fantasies of utilizing that fountain for a hot and cheesy foot bath. And after two glasses of red, the fantasy expanded to a full-blown, full-body queso dip bath. With a side of tortilla chips. And maybe some salsa. Nom nom nom.

And speaking of dreamy …

Double dammit. Now Grey’s ends the episode with Meredith and McDreamy in an impossibly romantic candlelit floor plan of their future house on a hilltop?!? I don’t want to love it, but I do.

They just keep SUCKIN’ me back in. My food fantasies and I are goin’ to bed.

Coveting

I know it was just Easter, and I should try to lay off the coveting, but I can’t.

Covet, covet, covet.

This.

Because it’s the camera Moosh in Indy uses, and her photos are beautiful. San Diego Momma takes some gorgeous photos of her kids though too. I should probably comparison shop.

Not Yet Revealed Mommypie Fact: I have a degree in film, believe it or not (the moving kind). And I used to be so into the whole hands-on darkroom experience. It’s just been … awhile. Chika-chika old skool.

MP’s been coveting too.

For the past six months, every time we’ve gone through the checkout at WalMart, without fail, she picks up the little $2.99 camera and my future thespian — master of the doggie-in-the-window-I’m-so-cute-you-want-to-take-me-home- don’t-you expression — sweetly peers up at me and asks if she can have it. Every time I say no. It’s really sad. Because, in all honesty, I’m usually exhausted, chances are she has some other treat in the cart, and she doesn’t need it. Big Giant Buzzkill Mommy. So she was surprised and elated to find it in her basket Easter morning. I’m not all THAT bad.

As for my little treat, unfortunately, it’s gonna take more than a pitiful look to earn. I suppose I’ll wait for that economic stimulus check to arrive. And as much as it pains me to admit, I suppose I’ll do just what the government is telling me to do — spend it.

I know, the responsible thing would be to pay down some debt. And Lord knows I’m responsible.

I’m always responsible.

Eecchh.

So, this time, I think I’m maybe entitled to take a pass on responsible, yes? This once?

A New Level of Sophistication

Tonight, MP’s sense of humor reached a new level of sophistication, which in all honesty, blows me away. This is totally going to sound like I made it up, but I swear it’s ALL true.

About an hour ago, I left her in the tub for a few minutes to quickly wash my face in the second bathroom. I had just dried off with the towel when I heard Naked Girl padding down the hall. (Nothing new – this happens about three times a week – she thinks it’s a RIOT …) She appeared, dripping wet and shivering.

“Mommy, I’m scaaared.”

“Why are you scared?”

“Because I heard a noiiise …”

“What did it sound like?”

“Uh, it sounded … like …”

She bent over.

Stuck her tush out.

And with a gleam in her eye …

LET IT RIP.

A high-pitched, squeaky (or should I say cheeky) little number.

Indeed.

The thing is, it sounded like a spooky, creaky door, which made it THAT much more hi-larious. I suppose the timing could have been purely coincidental, but of course, I prefer to believe I birthed a comedic prodigy. (Who wouldn’t?!?) Either way, the two of us howled with laughter.

That kid cracks me up.

I suppose I should have more clearly explained my definition of “sophisticated humor.”