Category Archives: silliness

Too Much Crazy

I’m so far behind the blogging curve, and cannot even begin to organize a proper update, so instead, Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate!

Three bizarre Max-isms from the morning:

(Overheard while in the shower)

MooOOOOoom! MOM! Do beatles have teeth? Do they have to floss? What if they eat poop?

(Seconds later)

Oh, MOooOOOm. Are you out of the shower yet? MOM!MOM!MOM!MOM!…Anyway, Mom. How do cars drive on the Silk Road?

He has been awake since 4:30, anticipating Thanksgiving. I’m glad he does not believe in Santa Claus, because I can only imagine the havoc waiting for the old fat guy would bring.

I’m safe though, Because Max apparently celebrates his own Judeo-Christian holiday.

Knishmas.

According to Max, Knishmas is celebrated this coming Tuesday. I think I can manage.

For now? We’re off for a walk around Somerville to find the Great Wild Turkey.* Hopefully the kind in a glass bottle.

*You know. Like looking for leprechauns or the gold at the end of the rainbow or any other holiday tradition devised by desperate mothers.

This is Fucking Hilarious

No matter how annoying your virtual husband’s quirks are–say he leaves his socks scattered around cyberspace or stays up late fondling his mouse and ignores you– do not murder him in Second Life, or like this woman in Japan, you could find yourself jailed for killing his avatar.

Make sense? Didn’t to me either.

ROFLickerExplored

Two nice surprises were waiting for me this morning when I powered up my MacBook after putting the coffee filter in assbackwards and spilling grounds into the brew.

Jessica of Oh, The Joys passed along a September ROFL Award in honor of Max rocking the cat’s balls.

Thank you, Jessica! As soon as I hit publish, I’m going to stop listening to Diamonds and Rust and visit some of the other awardees.

In other happy news, the image below cracked the daily 500 of Flickr’s Explore at #247.

Favorite things

I hope you’re all well. I’m sorry again for being such an absent blogger and reader these past few months. My groove is just gone, and Facebook and Flickr are so much easier and less given to self-indulgent introspection and vulnerability.

See? Something about this text box makes me all maudlin and heavy. Go read something FUNNY!

Sharif Don’t Like It?

This morning, while driving to school in the rain, enjoying a hit of classic Clash, Max’s Ernie-esque giggle rose above the music as he chimed in with

……Rock the CAT’S BALLS….Rock the Cat’s balls!

When I pointed out the correct lyrics, and pleaded with him not to sing about feline testes in school, he began to wail…..

Sharif don’t like it…..Rock the cat’s paw! Rock the cat’s paw.

I warned his teacher that he was full of it this morning.

The Cat’s In The Bookshelf

In my son’s playroom…..

Make Way For Fucklings

Yesterday I was thumbing through a Suze Orman book, and came to the inevitable passage about how you need your environment to be clean in order to make way for positive energy, wealth, fame and everything else. So, I cleaned out the fridge, started several other cleaning projects, took the trash outside and promptly locked myself out of the house.

Of course I had on ratty old shorts, a tank top with no bra and was dripping sweat. Of course one of the neighbors was outside staring in disgust at this:

I have not seen a unit like this since childhood and have no idea how it ended up in front of my house.

Max would not answer the phone or respond to my messages asking to be let in, so I had no choice but to break a window. And pour myself a large glass of wine after I was safely inside again.

Then a few hours later, one of the comic store employees stopped by with an adolescent cat who followed another employee into the shop. The kitty is very cute, but I have enough things that poop and demand my attention. Since I have two other cats, one of which has a heart condition, and since the poor little stray has a cut and possible bite on her neck, she is quarantined in a large pet tent in the bathroom. I’m going out to double check the missing cat signs scattered around the neighborhood, and if none match her description, I’m taking her to the vet this afternoon for an exam and shots. Hopefully she’ll find a nice home, but I’m doubtful as her stomach seems a bit swollen, and I fear she may be with kittehs herself.

Suze Orman, fear my wrath. I’m never cleaning to make way for new things again. Antique washing machines and a third cat were not what I was hoping to receive.

Auto Erratic

It has now been almost a month since a young guy plowed through a stop sign and almost totaled the Honda Pirate. A mostly auto abstinent month. Our neighborhood does not have a subway stop. We’re suburban enough to be dependent on buses or a 30 minute walk to Lechmere or Davis. Thankfully it is possible to walk to several playgrounds, the library, a few small shops and Bloc 11.

I am so fucking bored by these same urban strolls setting the tone and structure for our days. While you certainly can lead an enjoyable car free existence in Boston—I did for several years—doing so with a small child, especially a small child who is accustomed to long road trips and last minute dashes across town to a favorite swimming pool, wears thin.

Toss in the exhausting marital drama that I am unable to write more about, an exploding water heater, a laptop missing it’s “T”, a dog that shits in the dining room when I leave for 10 minutes to walk to the library, my tendency to want to be on the move, and you have one cranky, stir-crazy mother.

A weekly date with fleet of handsomeZipcars has eased the pain and boredom a little. So far I have driven a Toyota Matrix named MacDonald, had a one night stand with a Honda CRV whose name I never got, fika’d a Volvo S 40 named Schmidt, and have holed up for the weekend with Victor, a neon blue Nissan Versa.

The Matrix was spare but serviceable, with surprising pick up for such a small car. The CRV provided a bit more room, and a familiar Honda sensibility, but I felt as if I was cheating on my Pilot with a lower rent substitute. One that pulled to the left and threatened to tip over while making left turns or encountering a mild breeze.

The low-slung Swede has been my favorite so far, which should not surprise since most of my miles have come from that part of the world. While Schmidt was obviously not a full-blooded Swede, showing signs of being a true Taurus in the design details and body mass, he was stiff and powerful like most of the other Swedish tanks I have powered down the road. Schmidt also came equipped with a fancy radio system that provided song and artist info, as I impatiently spun the knobs.

Victor the Versa is fast, cheap and fun, and waiting for me to finish this entry, place my hand on his gearshift and crank his engine.

The Honda Pirate better come home soon. I’m feeling lonely and neglected and vulnerable to trading in for a new model.