Morning Mojo

I told a friend yesterday I thought I had lost my mojo. He said he wasn't sure where I could find it, but he did know a place where we could get a good mojito, which seemed close enough. Even better, I decided, so we agreed to go get a couple this afternoon. I may not find my mojo, but I will no doubt forget about it, at least for a while.

When I got out of bed (I'd say woke, but that presumes there was some actual sleep) this morning, thoughts of prolonging summer with a few minty, sugary cocktails on an outdoor patio danced in my head. If my mojo is to be measured by confidence, self-esteem, and a smug feeling of sex appeal, it has most assuredly not yet been located. But if I take a broader view, see my mojo as a tiny hint of optimism and contentedness (in spite of the fat dog farting in my face all night and the fright I got when I looked in the mirror and saw my hair), I think maybe it will soon be back within my grasp. As I've said before, aim low.

And so it was, with this slightly renewed feeling that things aren't totally hopeless, I got dressed and limped downstairs (oy, my aching hip), explaining to Manny as he waddled next to me that he would just have to pee in the yard this morning. He ignored me, and headed directly for the door to the garage, planting his ample butt and blocking my way.

He stared at me with his unseeing eyes, defying me to step over him. "I cannot take you with me in the car because I am going to actually stay at Starbucks and try to think of something to write about." Not so much as a blink. Don't ever try to out-stare a blind dog. You will lose.

I am not above bribery. "How about a cookie?" As much as Manny loves a good car ride (it's his idea of exercise), nothing beats a cookie. Out in the yard he went, munching away, and I began to gather my laptop and reading glasses and scrounge up enough change for my coffee. My mojo seemed tantalizingly close.

As I went to let Manny in, he was frantically batting away at something, licking some perceived wound. Once a mom, always a mom, and nothing gets my mojo running in overdrive like the thought that my child (or dog) is in distress. So I let Manny in and went out myself to deal with the attacker, only to realize a wasp's nest seemed to have exploded onto my deck. I wonder if Manny noticed the irony in all of this. There he was, in the kitchen by the glass door, while I stood on the deck wanting to go in, but thinking it might be a bad idea to open the door since there were wasps swarming all over the place.

Thank goodness my mojo was back, and I was at least feeling resourceful, so I trudged through the minefield of poop that is my backyard so I could get in the house through the garage, hoping I had been negligent enough the night before to leave the inside door unlocked. Not surprisingly, I was. Phew, safe in my kitchen. Just me and Manny. Shit. Me, Manny, and at least four or five wasps that had snuck in when I had first opened the back door.

Now I have always thought the Swiffer to be an amazing invention, the way those clingy little pads suck up dust bunnies like nobody's business. I don't use mine that often, but thank goodness I remembered where it was, and let me tell you the Swiffer is just as amazing by itself, even without the clingy little pads. Poor Manny listened in horror as I swung that thing madly around the kitchen, beating down the wasps. They didn't even have a chance. Okay, I cheated with one pesky little guy, and gave him a Raid shower, but in the end, it was mom, five, wasps, zero. Hello mojo.

And later, with a little luck and a few mojitos, and frightening images of me swinging a swiffer around the kitchen while shouting out obscenities at bugs kept tucked away in my own private photo gallery, hello smug feeling of sex appeal.