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.

Mommypie risks death (and a fine) for a flower.

Last night, after work, I picked up MP and took her on a spur-of-the-moment two-hour mountain hike. The trail we chose cut through rocky and woody terrain alike. MP’s agility and endurance blew me away. Figuratively AND literally. Nothing will hammer home the stark reality of the sorry shape of your ass quicker than a four-year-old JOGGING ahead of you, up a MOUNTAIN.

After making it to the top (which, I’m tellin’ you, HAS to be some kind of record for her age), and relishing her accomplishment for a good amount of time, we began our decent. The path was framed by an almost unreal number of wildflowers. The surrounding terrain was a blanket of orange, pink, purple and blue. And I KNEW we weren’t supposed to pick. But temptation got the better of me, and by the time the two of us reached the trailhead we had amassed two spectacular and highly illegal bouquets punishable in these parts by a hefty fine.

Getting our booty off the mountain was no easy task. Guiltily, I TRIED to conceal our pickin’s from other trailblazers (or fellow “ROCK stars, heh heh,” according to MP). Not so easy with a preschooler wildly waving her bunch ‘o flowers like a deranged ringleader.

At any rate, we made it. Once home, Grammy quickly identified each species, save for a few. One in particular stood out. The centerpiece of my arrangement. She looked it up. She found it.

Mountain DEATH Camas
Death camases contain an alkaloid that is extremely toxic and has been responsible for the death of livestock, especially sheep, and humans. American Indians and early settlers were poisoned by mistaking the bulbs of these plants for the edible bulbs of camas.

Beautiful. The Flower of Death went immediately into the garbage. My hands went immediately into the sink to be repeatedly washed with antibacterial soap. If it’s been awhile, and you haven’t heard from me Doogs, the Death Camas did me in.

Which would suck. But if that turns out to be the case, have no doubt, I’ll be on the other side with one of those bad boys behind my ear, laughing in the face of … stupidity.

Psychic Morning at The Pie House

MP was standing by my bedside. She was up early making wallets.

Well, not REAL wallets. Little folded pieces of paper. There she was, going on and on, excitedly telling me all about them, how many she’d made, asking me to help her with the scotch tape, and telling me I could color them with her when I woke up.

And there I was, murmuring into my pillow, “yeah,” “uh-huh,” “great,” “okay,” while simultaneously fading in and out of a dream state. Purely random hazy thoughts about coloring, drawing people, and how to draw different shades of skin tone floated around my head.

I wasn’t speaking.

“You can draw skin if you want, Mommy.”

My eyes flew open. There, at eye level, stood MP, smiling sweetly.

And READING MY MIND.

Which I swear, she does all the time.

But I suppose there’s really nothing odd about it at all. I know couples who do it on a regular basis, literally taking the words right out of the other’s mouth. It happened between MP’s dad and me ALL the time. When you’re that close to another person, it makes sense that the lines can blur. You become me and I become you.

The phenomenon that really fascinates me is the way couples who’ve been together for ages begin to look alike. Personally, I wouldn’t be too keen on the whole masculine morphing thing, but I have to admit, it is sweet.

People even take on the characteristics of their PETS, for Pete’s sake.

Oh Lord, I just flashed on my future.

Now, dressing alike …

… yeah, that’s a different story.

Who’s The Boss?

9:15 a.m. Conversation in the Car

MP: My feet are tired.

Me: My eyes are tired. Hey, make sure you take a nap at school today, okay?

MP: Okay. You should take a nap at work.

Me: I wish I could. My boss doesn’t let me take naps at work.

MP: WHAT?!? Well, you have to tell him YOU’RE the boss!

Me: Well, I’m the boss at home, but he’s the boss at work.

MP: You’ll just have to take a nap when we get home.

Me: Sounds good to me.

MP: ‘Cause he doesn’t know where you live.

Me: Nope.

MP: Pretty sneaky Mom.

Me: I try.