Carworthy Conversations?

For your reading pleasure, the following conversation.

Time: 6:15CST
Place: Car (where else would I be?)
Players: Some cute little four-year-old and his much more mature, post-birthday, eight-year-old brother:

Eight: Dude? How are your taste buds?
Four: MMMMOOOOMMMMM! He just asked how my taste BUTTS are.
Me: That's taste buds.
Four: Did you just say "BUTTS"?
Eight: NO! It's buDs. Not buTTs.
Four: Buds?
Me: Yes.
Four: Oh. What are taste butts?

Then the conversation took a turn down the high road:

Eight: Mom? How do women pee?

If someone had told me I'd need fifteen PhDs, ranging from anatomy to phonics to astro-physics, just to pseudo-qualify as a borderline-OK Mom, I would have cracked up laughing in my twenties.

Now? In my earlyish-forties?

It's not so funny.

License Plate Madness

I saw this license plate on the back of a Mercedes Benz today: 24-7 STR.

Upon reaching warp speed to get a good look at the driver*, I was able to take a quick glance at a twenty-something, long-haired brunette. She seemed to be an attractive woman.

Obviously, to drive this car, she is either broke at the end of the month, somebody is ponying up funds, or she actually IS some sort of star.

This got me wondering: if you ARE a star, do you really have to ADVERTISE that fact on the back of your car?

Which sent me down the path of: what kind of stars go no-stop, all the time? I mean, geez. Even George Clooney has time for a girlfriend.**

That's when I figured out the only logical profession she could be in: Internet Voyeurism. You know, she's one of those folks who has cameras in every room of her house and attached to her body when she leaves so people can see everything about her life.

Then I realized, my high-speed pursuit was probably caught on her web-cam, which was recording her every move, just like all the other cameras in her life.

Then I got to worrying: what if she thinks I'm a stalker? And turns me into the PD for my speedy pursuit? Would all the boys who pay to follow her 24/7 come after me for stalking their chick?

Then the light turned green and I woke back up to reality.

That's the last time I leave the house without first having a cup of coffee.


*Research for the blog, don't you know?

**I pinkie promise I will become a true stalker and risk life and limb to have a moment with George if Mike ever leaves me.

It's the Holiday Season

A good friend of mine sends me the following commentary: "I have come to the conclusion that I need to buy a new belt. A new belt that's a little bit longer. I am sort of OK with that."

I feel her pain. I've worked hard to gain the weight I've put on in the last three months. Cripe. I've EARNED it.

As soon as I finish reading my friend's message, I sprint out the door. Carpool time!

As I am backing out, I notice the gate opener is not in its usual place. I search the other visor, the console and the passenger seat. No controller.

I jam the car into "Park", run back into the house and shout "MIKE! Do you know where the gate opener is?"

His response: "In the seat?!" The answer is more than laced with sarcasm.

Not one to back down in the sarcasm-response department I yell back: "So you mean to tell me my butt* has gotten so big that I couldn't feel the remote when I sat on it?" My voice creates a nervous, pseudo-laugh as I yell this.

Response from somewhere in the bowels of the house: "YUP."

I don't have time to argue the point about him thinking my butt is big, given his response.

Now back in the car, remote returned to its upright and locked position, I listen to a news report. I hear that a man has been arrested for pinching the butt of a lady in line ahead of him. Problem is, the posterior he chose to squeeze is attached to a female cop. IN UNIFORM. Um, DUH?!?!

To this very odd little person who needs an education on uniforms I say: Mister? If you feel the need to pinch a little arse, you really should pick someone like me.

Someone whose bottom is so buried in fat that it has surpassed the ability to feel the remote I just sat on.

To my belt-challenged friend: I salute you, sister of the traveling Oreo ball! I feel your pain during this calorie-laden, fat-inducing season. And I'm 100% behind** any ideas we might come up with at lunch tomorrow*** to get control of our wayward bodies in 2010.

But we must be quick--BEFORE someone decides to get all fresh with me and my larger-than-life hiney.



*Not the word I used. I'm attempting to tame the cussing beast and am starting with the written word. Before it costs me quarters. Starting in a measly 15 days.

**Pun only partially intended.

***Dessert not optional. It's Christmastime, by golly!

Here Come the Holidays!

The Pre-Holiday Edition of "Really Stupid Things People Do Even Though They Fully Know 'This is the stupidest thing I'm going to do all year long'":

1. Parking your "new" car, which has obviously seen the interior of a chop shop for alteration, across two parking spots in the dead of winter, in sub-40 degree weather, at the height of shopping-season for Christmas.

The employees in the adjacent Dillard's should just pass out sharp objects with which to key these offending cars, because this is exactly what every body who passes by is going to be thinking: "If I only had a sharp object, I'd draw a little picture on the side of this piece o' work, shaped like a middle finger, to show the owner what I think of their parking job."

Dillard's would blow the competition out of the water, just in sharp-object-sales alone.

2. Getting out of a car in this same parking area to STAND in a freshly-vacated parking spot whilst your friend idles behind other cars waiting to park*.

Now, mind you, there are thirty plus autos whose drivers rightfully SHOULD get this spot, as they've been driving in circles for twenty minutes trying, unsuccessfully and with utmost of manners, to garner a spot. But, apparently, this person's Momma told her "You are privileged. Others should allow you to do whatever you want 'cause your poop don't stink", which led you to believe, if you get out of the car and piss people off, anything in the parking garage is YOURS TO CLAIM.

Word to your Momma? WRONG.

3. Ordering a holiday ham from HAMCO.

This entitles you not only to a tasty piece of pig, but also a wait in line for upwards of fifty hours.

If you are lucky enough to time your queue-standing escapade to correspond to a date OTHER THAN when the fifteen thousand people in town also need to pick up their swine, you should play the lottery. Because you are the luckiest S.O.B. on the block.

Unlike you, every other schmoe in the city will be there on Wednesday afternoon, praying that the line progresses smoothly to allow everyone to drive 80mph and arrive, slightly-less-sane, at the Thanksgiving table just as the rest of the meal is served.

Good luck with that, buddy. You won't see me in line. I'm sending someone else.

So, go get 'em, Tiger. Attack those holidays with fervor by shopping at the worst times and ordering crazy-expensive meat. Just don't forget I warned you.

And don't EVER stand in the parking spot I'm attempting to occupy.




*Sad to admit, this happened to me. I scared the Bejeezus out of the 17-year-old chick because I started into the spot and honked at her. She was incredulous that I should think I deserved the spot. Even though I was sitting behind the car that just vacated the land, with my friggin' blinker on, waiting. Strangely, I gave up. In retrospect, and looking from a slightly older place than before, I should have backed her butt into the concrete wall and thrown it in "P".

Marriage breakers

So have you heard the Terminator did his best to terminate his sex life this week?

It seems that Maria was driving in California and broke state law by talking on her cell phone. Of course, had she been any other Mom in America, this wouldn't be a big deal because nobody would have taken her picture. But gross TV hags TMZ shot pictures of her and now she's in hot water with THE ARNOLD.

For his part, he tweeted, "Thanks for bringing her violations to my attention. There's going to be swift action."

Dude. Why not just take a pitchfork to your tenders? You'll take "swift action"? NO. I think your wife will.

Two issues with this:
1. Maria wasn't caught by the law, so there is no basis for legal action here. Yeah, she broke the law but she wasn't CAUGHT by them.

Is Maria in the "right" here? Absolutely not. But, it's like the times I fly through a 35-mile-an-hour zone going 45 without getting caught. Not right, but if I manage to avoid the law, my infraction goes unpunished. Even if TMZ used a radar gun to nail my butt, Mr. Police Officer is just going to laugh in their faces.

2. Doesn't Arnold realize wife-Mom types are the only one who CAN handle driving and a cell phone?

Come on, man. We are the ones who can simultaneously wear three-inch heels and a nice dress, breastfeed a baby, and stir the macaroni and cheese on the stove for the toddlers to enjoy, while waiting for the babysitter to show up so you can take us out on the town. And, when we arrive at the restaurant? No milk or cheese stains on our Sunday best.

It is on an every-other-day basis that I'm glad we have the good sense to live in Texas, where I can carry a gun AND talk on a cell phone at the same time.

I just won't try to use them simultaneously. THAT might cause my driving to go a bit on the erratic side.

Height and Weight, Please

At what point do you stop wanting to get TALLER and HEAVIER and get excited that you aren't getting SHORTER and THINNER?

I started thinking about that this morning when, for the fiftieth time in two months, I measured a son who is desperate to get out of his car seat.

Of course, he was almost tall enough to make the move BEFORE the law recently changed. But, we won't bother telling HIM that lest we have hari kari committed against Mom and some random politician from our district*.

While one son is bucking to sit on solid leather, the other end of the spectrum is dying to drive a seat without a back. He's 1.5 pounds shy of freedom. He's practically singing George Michaels**, he's so stoked. Of course, if he eats measly meals like he did this morning, he'll end up needing to gain 2 pounds instead. Eat, boy, eat!

As usual, the middle child is just along for the ride. He has said nary a word about butt-on-leather nor did he do the happy dance the day he moved to a booster. Some people are just satisfied with life, no matter the curveballs they are thrown.

Me? I'm pretty satisfied with my current height but my girth is expanding as the days pass. MUST.DO.SOMETHING.DIFFERENT. And a car seat incentive isn't going to do it for me. Unless it is a new CAR, a shiny convertible, that I would only fit in should I lose the requisite 15 pounds.....

"MIKE!!!!!!! I have an idea."***




*Son: "HMMMM...car seat or juvy at a tender young age?" Hard to determine the right answer when you are PISSED.

**The catchy chorus from the song "Freedom", in case you aren't up on your George.

***This always spells imminent danger. As in "Danger, Will Robinson."

Car Safety

Today I heard that a new state law is in effect: EVERYONE in the car, regardless of seat location, must wear a seat belt. My first reaction was to wonder how people in Texas are going to install seat belts in the beds of trucks. Then I wondered if the wonder twins, Doug and Tex, were going to need some sort of special doggy-belt and doggy-seat.*

This law also got me waxing nostalgic. It effectively puts the final coffin nails in the last chapter of "Unsafe Car Riding Practices"**, which was a freely distributed tome during my childhood. I remember being free to move about the cabin in the 70's, all whilst inhaling unfiltered cigarette smoke. Those were the days when the captain NEVER turned on the "Fasten Seat belt" or "No Smoking" signs.

I remember, vividly, the game between my father, brother and me that would occur on car trips. Of course, it was FUN for me and my brother. My Father, however, should have had fourteen coronaries for every road adventure, because, for him, this would have been an appropriate response to being slowly tortured to death on the way to our family vacations in our 1970's-era, solid heavy metal, death trap of a car. It went like this:

Dad: "Quiet down back there."
Mom: "I don't see where we are on the map." (We were perpetually lost in my childhood.)
Dad (pointing to somewhere in Illinois though we were currently in Michigan): "We're there."
Mom: "But that's Illinois."

This little banter would go on for awhile before Dad pulled over to the side of the road, took the map from Mom, figured out where we were and where we were going, then gave the map BACK to Mom.

Poor Mom. She was hopelessly map-illiterate for all of my childhood. And Dad was a "half-full" kind of map relinquisher, who figured "THIS trip she'll get the hang of it."***

Now, in the back seat, we still hadn't quieted down. And we were like monkeys in an invisible cage, bounded by the front seat, back doors, and the rear windshield. We'd bounce around, scream, throw things, and paint an invisible line on the back seat whenever we got tired of each other. Then we'd announce "Don't go over that line." Of course, the other did, and that brought screams of "MAAAAHHHHHMMMMOOOOMMMM. She crossed the line."****

Dad (irritated voice): "I thought I told you to quiet down?!"
Kids, bouncing: "OK"*****.
Dad: "I'm serious."
Kids: no response. Still bouncing. Now hitting.
Dad: "DON'T MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER."
Kids: still no response. Bouncing, hitting, and screaming now.
Dad: "I'VE HAD IT!"

Upon hearing that phrase, kids would scatter, because we knew what was next. An arm, much like the tentacle of the giant squid in "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea", was about to makes its way over the front seat, searching for whatever prey it could get its suckers on. It's entire purpose: to get us to SHUT THE HECK UP.

To paint the picture a little more vividly, Dad is six foot four. He wears a size 15 shoe. His arms are LONG. So you knew certain death was about to visit you if you didn't move QUICKLY.

Whoever was lucky enough to get the back windshield ledge and play dead was out of reach. But the poor sucker who hit the floor or backed into the seat was just completely at the mercy of the Gods. You could flatten like a pancake and that hand might still hit you smack dab in the face. Sometimes, if you didn't breathe, that helped, because you weren't giving any indication of location to the tentacled-one.

Usually the car would quiet down after this little game. Then, undoubtedly, one of us would ask "Where are we?" Mom, map in hand, had not a clue but, I imagine, a raging headache. Dad, still winded from the giant squid imitation, was too irritated to respond.

So then the questioning would hit nails-on-a-chalkboard level, with the inevitable "Are we there yet?"

Now, in all my years as a parent, in retort to this annoying question, I have wanted to say, in an oh-so-patient voice, with the look of an angel on my face, "Children, if we were THERE, we wouldn't be HERE. Since we are HERE, we can't possibly be THERE. Once we get THERE, we won't be HERE anymore. So, in the HERE and NOW, please shut your mouth until we get THERE."

Back to the 70's: there were always the complaints of I'm hungry, thirsty, bored, tired, and the happiest one, "I'm going to throw-up." That would be my younger brother, who had the unfortunate habit of getting car sick. Back in the day, since I had yet to experience my own kids with very sensitive gag reflexes, the thought of being a possible vomit victim was horrendous, unfathomable, and downright proposterous. This greatly increased the chances of my parents hearing the "Are we there yet?" line of questioning, as I wanted to get away from barf boy as quickly as humanly possible.

Through all the road trips we took as a family, none of us ever said anything that sent anybody else to a psychiatrist. I'd like to think we had fun while getting on each other's nerves, the way most Americans who vacationed via car did in the 70's and 80's.

Today I thank goodness for airplanes. They make getting THERE pretty quick. Nobody has to rely on map-reading skills, wrong turns are almost non-existent, and, goshdarnit, it's just fun to look out the window at our beautiful country.

Best of all, an airplane is a smoke-free environment, where I can simply sit back, seat belt firmly fastened, have a drink and relax.

Because I KNOW giant squids don't exist at 30,000 feet.


*If PETA has anything to do with it, this will be law next month.

**Not a real book, just a title that encompasses the attitude of the 70's: "I wonder what these things are doing in here?" (sound of seatbelt hitting floor of car.)

***Fast forward 35 years and they are now in possession of a GPS. I'd like to thank the inventor for saving my parents from killing each other during some random road trip. I'm executor of the will and I don't have time to deal with all the paperwork a double-homicide would induce.

****Notice I used a feminine pronoun here. This could have easily been "he". My brother was just as much at fault as I was.

*****This response was a blantant lie. We filtered out anything from the front seat of the car, besides the music coming from the "state-of-the-art" AM/FM, 8-track player.