People should know that I can take just about anything in moderation — for instance, I can eat one doughnut without eating a dozen doughnuts. With most things I can stop. Control myself. Not go hog wild with the food-cramming.

Usually.

But one thing I really, really love? Pumpkin pie. And the fact that it’s only “in season” a few months out of the year triggers an urgent alarm in my brain. An alarm that says “Dude, if you can get your hands on some pie, you should stuff as much of it in your face as possible because it’s a long time until pumpkin season again”.  Because really, you only get, like, Halloween to Thanksgiving. And with this mental alarm, there are also beeps and flashing lights and images of delicious pie floating on clouds.

Oh yes… and? I’m pregnant. Which means that at least some part of me feels entitled to eat whatever and however much I dang well please.

So the other night around 10pm, I got a hankering for pumpkin pie. So I went down to the dungeon computer room to hopefully have Jon talk me out of it. Or at least have him offer to run out and get it for me.

“I want pie,” I said.

“Ok,” he said, while his Night Elf summoned his war horse and made for the hills.

And here I saw that he was way into World of Warcraft for the evening and there would be no way to get him to make a pie-run for me.

“Would it be weird if I went out and got it?”

“No.” Aspect of the Cheetah.

“Ok, well, I’ll be back soon.”

“Ok.” Healing spells cast.

(I’m pretty sure he has no recollection of the aforementioned conversation.)

So first I went to Albertson’s, where I scoured the bakery to find zero pumpkin pie. They did have chocolate silk… and I was briefly tempted to settle. But no, I came for pumpkin and resolved that I was not going home without pumpkin. So I went and picked up a frozen Marie Calendar’s pumpkin pie. It said it was supposed to bake for 75 minutes. Which would mean I would be putting pie in my mouth around 11:15pm… but I took it as my back-up pie.

Next I ran across the street to Target. They were closing, but the bakery is right inside the door. I ran wobbled briskly in and beheld one pumpkin pie left on the bakery shelf. I grabbed it, not even caring if it was 2 weeks past date and appeared to have a hair on it.

Then I came home and ate the pie.

Not some pie.

The pie.

After I covered it in Reddi Whip. What? Oh shut up, it was Reddi Whip Lite.

And I didn’t just grab a fork and go to town with the pie still in the tin. I carefully cut it into fourths and put one fourth on my plate. And then crammed my face.

And then repeated until the pie was gone.

But technically, if one of the kids were to have woken up and come out to the kitchen, or if Jon had found a safe place to dismount his war horse and sat to drink a healing potion while he came upstairs from the dungeon computer room… well, they could have had a piece of it. After I fought them for it.

But in my defense: it was a small-ish pie.  And the baby was doing cartwheels. Obviously he likes pie, too. (Or maybe he was kicking me saying: Jeez, woman, what is this 6 pounds of orange stuff down here? It’s smothering me out!)

But I don’t care. It was delicious and I don’t make any apologies. Plus, it’s too late to apologize. (It’s tooo laaaate!) Because my thighs have already expanded exponentially and I’m being treated for an overdose of beta carotene. And I think my skin is looking a little orangey.

But I’d do it again. In fact I might…

Hold on, I gotta run out for a sec. Target closes in ten.

Last Thursday, Jon left right after work for St. George. You local readers know where St. George is, but for those of you readers living in far away, exotic locations, don’t be fooled by St. George’s name. It isn’t one of the quaint islands in the Bahamas. It’s a town in southern Utah known mostly for golf and old people. And some polygamy.

So like I said, Thursday Jon took off with a couple of his friends for a “mancation” in St. George… and, incidentally, it was for the golf, not so much for the old people or the polygamy. They golfed 54 holes in 2 days. And — while I like golf and all — that just doesn’t sound super fun to me. Which is why it was a “mancation” and I wasn’t invited. Plus, to be invited to “mancation”, you sort of have to be a man. And I am a pregnant woman, which is the total opposite of what you are supposed to be. But aside from being the opposite of a man, I think the main reason I wasn’t invited was because of my golfing skills… or lack thereof. Because yeah, I like golf, but I suck at golf. It would take me 2 weeks, not 2 days, to properly play 54 holes. I regularly pick up the ball and throw it towards the hole, because yes, sometimes my “awesome” shots actually give me negetive yardage. And I average about 11 balls per every 18-hole round… lost to sand traps and tall grass and water hazzards and curious pelicans and hungry deer and holes in trees and anything else that could possibly ingest or mask the whereabouts of a small white ball. Which is why I have yet to play with my really cute Disneyland balls. Because I would lose them all ($20 worth) on just an executive 9-hole course. Oh, and did I mention the time Jon actually threw me from the golf cart? That was awesome. I did a ninja-like combat roll across the fairway. Actually, I did several rolls before rolling to a complete stop with a pulled groin area and leaves in my hair. See, I am actually even horrible at riding in the cart during golf. (And if you think I am lying about that story, our friends Cory and Heidi were actually with us, and Heidi half-peed herself laughing at me. I can give you her email if you want confirmation… confirmation about the falling and rolling, not the peeing.)

Here is me golfing one day… but not the day of the golf cart incident:

(Lifting the heel is very poor form for a drive. Yet I can’t not do it.)

And so I was left at home with the kiddies. Which really is okay with me. If Jon would have gone on mancation to a spa/bakery/ice cream shop, I would have made more of a case for myself to go. But as it was, I was here with the kids, doing the usual stuff. Swim team and soccer mostly. And I held down the fort and we were just fine without daddy for a few days. ..

…Except for at night. Because have I admitted to you yet that I am a 32 year old woman who is still afraid of the dark? Yes-huh. Seriously. I am weird about it even when my husband is here, but when he is out of town? I freak out. I can’t sleep. I think every bump in the house is an intruder waiting for me to fall asleep so he can — what? — I don’t know, steal all of our left shoes before tying us up and eating all of our yogurt? No, actually, I envision much worse things. Oh, like the night of the throwdown at the mall? Somewhere in my mind, I was totally convinced  that those punk kids waited for 4 hours in the parking lot before following me home and waiting for me to fall asleep so they could break in. I know, I am insane. And I was totally going to write this post earlier, about how I was fake-mad that I wasn’t invited to go on mancation, but then I thought, “holy crap, what are you thinking? You can’t tell everyone on the internet that your husband isn’t home! That you are alone and pregnant and defenseless! Don’t you realize that ax-murderers read your blog? Sure they do! Lots of them! And several of them are within driving distance!”And so I didn’t write all weekend. Even though I had nothing better to do, especially on Friday night at 3am when the refrigerator turned on and I was convinced that it was someone in the kitchen making a sandwich before coming back the hall to break my ankles and steal my new maternity jeans.

I know, I am insane. I already know it. I’ve said it. I admit it.

And to think my husband wanted a break from all of this — wait a second…

Hmmm, maybe that’s the real reason I wasn’t invited to mancation…

My bike has been parked, lonely and neglected, against the wall of the garage all winter. Today as I went out to get in the car, my bike confronted me. It was a sad and emotional confrontation for both of us. But some things had to be said.

Bike: Surprise, surprise, you’re getting in the car. Again. Ignoring me for another day. I get it. I understand…

Me: Hey, Trek, I’m sorry. The weather’s been so bad, you know that. The sidewalks haven’t been clear for weeks.

Bike: Yeah, whatever. I saw Zoe ride her bike yesterday.

Me: Well, she’s 6, and she doesn’t seem to mind riding her bike when it’s 26 degrees outside. It’s a little cold for me…

Bike: Dude, whatever! Just admit that you love your car more than me!

Me: Trek, it’s not even like that…

Bike: Shut up, man! Do you not remember saying that you love me? Do you not remember writing up a whole freakin post about how much you love me?

Me: Of course I remember. I still love you. And this spring, I’m going to buy you a nice, new basket and we’ll have great times again…

Bike: You think you can just buy me a new basket and everything will be okay?!? You can’t just buy my forgiveness! It doesn’t work like that!

Me: Trek, man, I’m sorry…

Bike: No, forget it… You’ve changed. And why don’t you just admit that your feelings have changed… you never even touch me anymore!

Me: That’s not true…

Bike: Oh! Well, moving my handlebars out of the way so you can back out of the garage in that STUPID CAR doesn’t count…

Me: Trek, don’t call the Pilot stupid…

Bike: It is stupid! And why are you taking up for the car?!?

Me: I love both of you, in different ways…

Bike: That hurts, man. That really hurts… *sob* I can tell you that the stupid car doesn’t love you like I do. Do you think I would have let you slide into the side of a truck?!? Huh? Do you? No, of course I wouldn’t have… because I love you more than the stupid car does.

Me: That was an accident. It wasn’t all Pilot’s fault.

Bike: So whose seat do you like more?

Me: Trek…

Bike: No! I want to know! And I’ll know if you’re lying to me… whose seat is better?

Me: Well, Pilot does have heated seats…

Bike: I knew it, you jerk!

Me: Trek, don’t you think you’re being a little bit dramatic?

Bike: You know what… whatever. I don’t care. You’ve changed, Suz. And I’m going to be honest, your butt has gotten A LOT bigger since you started ignoring me and hanging out with the stupid car.

Me: Okay, you know what, Trek, you’re just being mean now…

Bike: The truth hurts, doesn’t it?

Me: Whatever. We’ll finish this later when you can be more mature about things. Have a good day…

I heard him screaming something to me as I pulled out of the garage in the car. As the garage door went down, he cried. I felt bad about the whole stinkin’ situation.

I can’t wait for spring, when Trek and I can be good again.

Special Note: This post has now been entered into Scribbit’s Write-Away Contest!

My mother moved yesterday. She and her husband, Jeff, and my 8 year old sister, Paige, and my Grandma, and my 20 year old brother, Paul, all moved out of their condo and into a massive and beautiful house. My brother will finally have his own bathroom, my Grandma will finally have her own mini apartment complete with her own kitchen space, and Paige will have more room for her extensive Barbie collection. I think she actually has a “Barbie Room” now. The move is a good thing for everyone living in that household.

So at 9 am yesterday morning, I reported—like the good, dutiful, eldest child should—to my mom’s condo to help pack and make 80 trips back and forth between the condo and the new house. Now, this story needs some set-up. Some MAJOR set-up: My mother has issues with separation anxiety with every piece of crap she has ever come in contact with. And I am only being mildly exaggeratory. My mother is one of the biggest packrats ever. Ever. We’re talking, like, could-be-on-Oprah-and-millions-would-gasp-and-laugh levels of packrat-ed-ness. She will not throw anything away because at some point, in the next century, she or someone she knows could possibly need it. We are talking everything from extra roofing shingles to broken, rusty bicycles, to plastic baked potato containers from Wendy’s. Her double car garage? Filled to the ceiling with stuff. Her basement storage room? Filled. Her pull-behind trailer? Filled. Every corner and space of her condo was filled with stuff.

–In my mother’s defense, I believe that it is hereditary. I have a packrat gene that, if not kept in tight check, threatens to overwhelm me. I have the urge to keep every issue of Reader’s Digest because what if 8 months from now I want to refer back to that one article about how Angelina Jolie is saving the world one child at a time? And for the longest time I had some shirts from junior high school that followed me from one move to another, eventually coming to Utah all the way from Maryland… so how could I part with those? But eventually I get to a point where I feel overwhelmed by the stuff and I must purge. I get a freakin trash bag and I throw out everything, including stuff that maybe I really shouldn’t throw out, like the current power bill. But after I get rid of all of the stuff that I thought there was no way I could live without, guess what… I’m still living. And I’m feeling pretty good. I can breathe. My mom has never actually gotten to the purge part… ever.—

To make the move even more challenging, my mom had Lasik eye surgery the day before. So she was walking around with an eye patch and those goofy roll-up sunglasses they give you when your eyes are dilated, plus another pair of regular sun glasses. Because she was actually supposed to keep her eyes dilated for the next several days. Since her eyes were dilated, she couldn’t have any lights on. So there we were, sitting in the condo, trying to pack with the lights turned out and the curtains drawn. It was dark, people. I’m pretty sure I packed some crystal stemware with some shoes. But whatever.

Being that my mom couldn’t see anything, and I could barely see anything, I decided it would be a great time to casually toss some stuff. And don’t you know it, when I threw out a cabinet full of Wendy’s and Fazoli’s take out boxes, suddenly her eyes went 20/20. That isn’t trash! I claimed I couldn’t see anything in the dark…

At one point during the day, my mom’s husband, Jeff, and Jeff’s dad were sitting in the kitchen with me. I was packing the junk drawer (which, actually, was a “trash drawer”) and they were taking a break from the heat outside. I said to Jeff, “You know, it occurred to me—and I hope this isn’t a morbid thought—but when you and mom die, I get to go through all of this crap since I’m the oldest.” Jeff chuckled, because he knows he is married to a packrat, and it irritates him but he just kind of lets mom be mom. And Jeff said, “Yeah, you are actually the executor of our estate.” And I looked at the broken nightlight and the Better Crocker points from 1955 that I was holding and I laughed out loud at the word “estate”. And then Jeff’s dad piped in and said gruffly, “Yeah, and you have to act grateful about it.”

But I’m thinking that unless my mom actually ever goes through a “purge” period, or else sorts through her tons of treasures and tells me which lucky kid she wants her drawer of plastic McDonald’s bibs bequeathed to… I’m taking a backhoe through her house and dragging it all to the dump. Because that’s one “Estate Sale” that I’d end up taking a loss on.