Category Archives: teh crazy

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.

Something for nothing

Well, almost nothing.

I’m offering free shipping worldwide, October 15th and 16th, on all listed items in my Etsy shop.

Sorry to be all viral spambot and add to the roaring din of self promotion on the internet. I noticed a few of you have marked items in my shop as a favorites, so wanted to give a heads up.

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…..

WTF is wrong with MSNBC

For running a travel article promoting the Best hotels for an affair ?

And more specifically, what the fuck is wrong with the author, Danielle Pergament, for making light of wandering husbands and wives plotting their spouses deaths?

Built in 1845, it’s the kind of house you duck into, wearing a hat and maybe those short little gloves, to rush into your lover’s arms and plot your spouse’s untimely death.

Extramarital fun, my ass.

Most disturbingly, she seems from her website to be a serious journalist, with enviable clips. Why on earth would she need to stoop so low to garner attention and hits? There is nothing remotely cute or funny about infidelity, Danielle. Nothing.

I’d write more, but I’m not sure WordPress or your readers can handle the combination of expletives racing through my mind at the moment.

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.

What Do You Mean?

Worn out from personal drama, the totaled Pilot and nearly four years of utter sleep deprivation,I needed to laugh-spit-dribble lukewarm coffee down the front of my six year-old Grand Circle Corporation Worldwide Business Works t-shirt this morning.

Political Picture - Dick Cheney
see more politics and fun!
Thanks toAlison for directing me to Pundit Kitchen.

Putting The Voyage Back in Mom Voyage

As some of you know, life has thrown us a few curves lately. I do not want to discuss the specific challenges here, but I need to clear my mind and hell, before prices at the pump soar past $10 a gallon, I need to hit the road again.

So, in mid-July, after my baby brother’s wedding, and Grunty willing, this not-so-young mom will once again go West. And North. And probably in circles, with shaken fist aimed at the GPS goddess in the sky.

Since we’re wandering with a bit tighter budget and aiming to camp this time, suggestions for campgrounds and slightly off the beaten path inexpensive things to see and do along a yet to be determined Northern route very much appreciated.

If Dali Were Three

In the past few days, Max has suddenly began to draw and paint images that are very clearly what he claims they are supposed to be. So far his surrealist art includes a wolf with four eyes, and four V*AGINAS–who is not feeling well tonight; a hedgehog monster that poops a lot, the big, blue sun shining on a jellyfish and a p*enis, and just a few moments ago, a purple walking toast machine with one leg that does not bend.

Barred

I just pulled up an article in the Sunday Times about bars banning strollers–and I guess by extension, very young children.

I’m not sure how I feel about this kind of ban. On one hand, I can think of a few local spots that have such a decidedly high-end and/or adult vibe that I would never consider stopping by with Max, regardless of the hour, but on the other hand, I am having trouble understanding why a business owner want to turn away parents who are dropping by for a couple of afternoon drinks? (Which is apparently when the parents were hanging out at this Brooklyn bar.) It seems rather hateful. I’m not familiar with the particular pub mentioned in the article, but it also serves brunch and looks a bit run down.

My rule of thumb has always been that bars that have a menu and additional seating should be fair game for lunch or an early dinner. Occasionally I have noticed a few dirty looks and snide remarks. Most notably at a going away dinner for a coworker of James, held at a local hipster hangout. We arrived very early–around 5pm–secured a booth far away from the bar, and ordered dinner. Max was busy eating and very well behaved, but every time I would lift my glass, a man at a table next to us would shoot dirty looks. When he escalated to rude comments, I asked for a to go container and we left. It was no longer fun for me to be there.

I completely understand wanting to go out with adults, far away from screaming kids, but are bars in Brooklyn really so hopping at 3pm on a Wednesday afternoon that the presence of parents would scare away other patrons? Or are parents of very small children really crowding bars at 9pm on a Friday night? Somehow I have a hard time believing either scenario.

Is anyone reading familiar with the Brooklyn bar that is banning strollers? How do you feel about kids in bars?

It seems like more of a common sense issue to me. Parents might want to leave a bulky stroller at home, or parked outside, and pub owners and patrons might try to be a little more accepting of a variety of ages before the sun goes down.

I Caught Flu From Matt Damon

I caught flu from Matt Damon.
She caught flu from Matt Damon.
It’s not a cold, it is the flu.

I caught flu from Matt Damon.
And I’m passed out on the couch
Blacked out in the shower, and I crawled across the floor.
Wrapped up in a towel
That was hanging from my bathroom door.

I caught chills from Matt Damon.
She got phlegm from Matt Damon.
Never share your diet Snapple!

I said I caught flu from Matt Damon.
She said she got flu from Matt Damon.
Her nose is redder than an apple.

Knock knock!
Who’s that knocking at my door?
Influ.
Influ who?
Influenza from Matt Damon.
She caught influenza from Matt Damon.

Post-travel Depression

Hell, if I can suffer from post-partum depression, certainly post-travel depression is a valid diagnosis, right?

It probably does not help that my full-spectrum lightbox is nowhere to be found, or that Max kept me awake all weekend and I of course managed to come down with the bubonic plague or giardia or whatever other shit he brought home from pre-school bundled up with wet mittens, and elbow macaroni glued to construction paper.

I have sat here most of the morning, staring at a document I created with ideas for articles and appropriate places to pitch. Just staring. No writing. Unless you count sending my friend Jenni an e-mail response that consisted solely of JPEG attachments of a bong and several bottles of tequila as writing.

Really fucking useless, this depression thing. Especially when it starts to shape shift. Or when the cat throws up on the sofa next to me and grabbing a few sheets of Bounty seems a monumental task on par with securing a visa to Bhutan.

Send the sun, a goddamn dozen palm trees, a new passport and the wind at my heels.Or just come over and kick my coughing, sneezing, feverish ass. Because if you don’t, it is cat puke, laundry and utterly banal self-flagellation here in Somerville.

Paging Doctor Google

It is difficult to see the sting in this photo, but earlier this afternoon after building sand castle # 312, complete with bridge and access road, Max and I ran into the waves. Only one of us ran out;screaming and carrying the smaller one.

What the hell were hornets doing in the surf, tattooing a white, hot itchy band around my ankle?

Trying not panic, since I am allergic to bees, I showed Grunty and leapt into the hotel pool, assumed a discreet yoga pose and peed all over my leg, nodding as an elderly couple I chatted with last night slowly made their way to a pair of pool chairs to sit and admire my toilet.

According to Dr. Google,I will survive. There are several hospitals nearby, but unless I suddenly cannot breathe or my left leg develops pre-eclampsia, I am just going to suck it up. And drink gallons of unsweetened iced tea from Publix.

There is one other thing to be grateful for: At least I did not sit down in the surf and pull Max into my lap as I had considered moments before the nasty invertebrate reached out and swatted me.

ETA: Now Dr. Google has informed me that Portuguese Man o’ War jelly fish are common in the area of Florida in January. Fuck. Guess I may head to an ER after all, as my sting site most closely resembles those of Man O’ War, and apparently you can seem fine, only to wake up the ext day covered in some kind of mysterious stains.

Near Misses

We drove past this section of Interstate 4 yesterday afternoon, and passed by the brush fire in it’s infancy. At that time it was small, and we thought it was a controlled burn as a small plane circled overhead and numerous road crews were scattered along the highway. This morning it has become a 40 car pileup, with several tankers and trucks on fire.

Earlier in the trip, we avoided an 80 car pileup on I-40 in Amarillo Texas, by a couple of hours as well.

In New Mexico, we watched several cars try and force one another off the wide open highway, only to find them a few miles later scattered along the median, and watch in horror as the occupants of an SUV that had been spun around and dragged by a tractor trailer truck, miraculously climbed out unscathed.

On the drive from Las Vegas to San Diego on Boxing Day, we saw six separate crashes. ON ONE FUCKING STRETCH OF HIGHWAY!

Scary.

I’m not going to mention how many hundreds of crosses and round Drive Safely markers we have passed in Florida alone, or how many idiots I have seen weaving in and out of lanes without signaling, and then blowing past everyone else 100 mph in the slow/exit lane. Or how many kids we have watched test the upper speed limits of their crotch rockets,including one in Tennessee who traveled at high speeds in the wake of a tractor trailer truck,hanging inches from the truck’s back end for reasons completely unfathomable to me. Pair this with the drivers who are terrified to merge, older than dirt, stoned or just so plain unskilled that they drive 40 in the passing lane of a 70 mph zone, and it is little wonder that we have seen and narrowly avoided as many wrecks as we have.

If these are your driving habits, know that your time will come, and sadly you’ll probably take several innocent, responsible drivers and passengers along with you. Assholes.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

After almost a month,8,000 miles on the road,more than a dozen serious car crashes passed by and barely avoided, the California leg of our trip cut short–long story– and countless hotel check-ins met with disappointment because outdoor pools were closed for the season,my old traveling sense has finally kicked in. For $80 a night, Grunty not included.

The pool is heated, the kitchen in working order, our balcony clean and safe,stars are visible in the night sky and someone left a couple of plastic dump trucks and a play ball poolside. Bliss.

How Do You Like My Swamp Now

Cori?

We drove the Overseas Highway to Key West this morning, and indulged in some decidedly non-vegan key lime pie–tried but could not find any, and personal ethics be damned, I was too curious not to nibble– from the Blond Giraffe.Someone please make and sell vegan key lime pie so I can indulge without feeling like a guilty hypocrite.

Afterwards, we drove past the Hemingway cat museum and decided to keep on driving as there were several tour groups of very elderly folks crowding the sidewalks and snapping shots of the maniacal roosters and chickens that rule the streets of Key West. Key West is not without charm, but it is largely manufactured and ye olde strip malle-ish.

Forgetting completely to take our picture next to the marker which denotes the southernmost part of the continental United States, we drove back up the Keys towards Bahia Honda State Park, and whiled away the afternoon swimming in the clear turquoise water, chasing more butterflies and sipping pink lemonade.

Bahia Honda was very reasonably priced, and also hosts an RV park. If I have one regret about this trip so far it is that we did not bring our tent to use in Florida and the Southwest. In addition to spending more money on decent, yet bland,accommodations, we have missed out on the opportunity to be closer to nature, and spend more time outdoors.


The Overseas Highway in the background.

Grunty–my mom– and Max.

The old Overseas Railroad bridgeat Bahia Honda.

Houston, We Have A Problem

Your downtown area is charming. Your Whole Foods fully stocked with dairy alternatives and rows of beautiful produce. However your drivers are the spawn of Boston and Greater Los Angeles, combining hair-raising lane changes and lack of signals with high speeds. Not what I wanted to navigate at the end of a seven hour drive, dying from terminal menstruation while my three year-old screamed for his musical Thomas toothbrush.

Thankfully Galveston is much lower key. Here’s to a couple of days of rest, relaxation and walking everywhere we need to go.

The Gulf of Mexico framed by roof construction next to our hotel. Not the most scenic of shots, but it sure beats Jersey barriers and squealing brakes.

Queen of the Wild Frontier

Greetings from a small town in the middle of Texas, where the locals are friendly, yet slightly obsessed with Davy Crockett. The Lone Star State redeemed itself a bit on the drive from New Mexico with continued desert, mountains and the all important semi-clean rest areas, complete with large, blinking signs warning patrons to watch for snakes. Also, the speed limit in these parts is 80 mph. Fun!

We pulled off the highway and found a playground for Max. Unfortunately there were no kids for him to play with, but there was a purple dinosaur and lots of aging metal structures to climb and get tetanus on.

Speaking of tetanus, next to our hotel is a colony of feral kitties. Poor things. I walked over to have a look,crumbled up a few dog biscuits I had in the back of the car, and noticed half-a-dozen cats perched on rocks and garbage.

So we drove down the street and bought some water and a bag of cat food. As I walked towards the brush, I noticed the colony was probably closer to a dozen cats, most of them still kittens, wild-eyed gaunt and scared. This little grey tiger is a total sweetheart. His friend the black long-haired was also friendly, so I can only assume between their demeanor and the empty, open pizza boxes laying about that other people have left food for the cats as well. The other kittens hid in the brush behind the fence, and only came out to eat and drink when I backed away.

Park It

Lest the post below sound as if we’re spending all of our down time having playdates at Donald’s house,here is a picture of Max enjoying the facilities earlier in the trip at Panther Creek State Park in Tennessee on an unseasonably warm day. In addition to immaculate, heated restrooms Panther Creek even had a merry-go-round.

One caveat about visiting parks with playgrounds: do not announce that you are going to be at a playground in a few minutes after passing an exit with a teeter-totter symbol tattooed on the state park sign. Why? Because the next park we tried to visit after Panther Creek was 213 miles off the highway. We only found out after driving a few miles and finding a more detailed sign.

Grunty and I decided that major highway rest stops should all have a simple play area. Most of them have an area to walk dogs, so doesn’t a swing set or slide sound like a welcome addition? Alternatively, an enterprising person could launch a franchise of indoor-outdoor playspaces near those odd pseudo highway exit villages that exist solely to hawk fudge, genuine souvenirs and t-shirts 3 for $12.99.

Here’s hoping for nice weather in Arizona and lots of well-maintained parks and playgrounds.

She Who Stops at McPlaylands

Before we left Somerville, I was certain of two things: one, we would not darken the doorstep of McDonalds or Walmart on this trip, and two, Max would be just fine without a DVD player.

We stopped at our first McIndoor Death Trap Playland on a rainy afternoon in Western New York on the first day of the trip. We have stopped at half a dozen others since, including this evening. I nursed a flat diet Coke and Max made friends with several adorable local kids who were dressed up in starched white clothes for a school Christmas program. Somehow, none of them left splattered in ketchup.

We made it to Tennessee before I caved and bought an inexpensive portable DVD player and a few movies. At Walmart.

Extended travel with very small children is challenging. There will be many times when you have to find a suitable place to stop and let them burn off energy, and many more times when you will find yourself paying $25 planning to spend several hours exploring a pueblo, only to leave 45 minutes later because your small child is covered in mud and begging to go play at Donalds.(OK, I will admit that while I am having a blast, it is fucking insane to take your three year-old on a cross country trip.)Max has held up surprisingly well, save two minor irritants: he is a bossy backseat driver who occasionally demands that we“go home now, just for a little while”or insists that I need to “turn left, goddamnit!”, and he handles crossing timezones by waking up ravenous at midnight and again for the day at 3 am.

Always call ahead to confirm that the gorgeous indoor pool featured on the hotel’s website is in fact open. Otherwise you may find yourself trying to console a wailing child who wants to swim, and prostrates himself on the floor in front of the reception desk and screams “What is wrong with the pool? Did the water go down the wrong pipe? Did someone poop in the pool? Will it open later?” as a crowd of amused post-menopausal onlookers laugh in your face.

Without a pool, you will find yourself anxiously scouring local websites searching for children’s museums, and wondering if an out of order pool is an emergency worthy of busting out the bribe of last resort: a pink plastic tube of mini M&Ms.

This afternoon we visited Taos Pueblo. The Pueblo is gorgeous, peaceful and muddy. I felt very large and blonde and conspicuous, with my Rebel and photography permit slung around my neck,clutching Max as he begged to run free with the throngs of wandering dogs.

The Pueblo is home to approximately 150 people, a few of whom were outside working on various projects. I’m certain they think visitors are both annoying and slightly insane for paying the entrance fees, but little did these Taos Indians know that they were in the presence of Grunty Who Flees Bad Man, one quarter Sokoki (St. Francis Abenaki), Crazy Bitch, one eighth of same, and Son of Crazy Bitch, Who Sleeps Little And Argues Often. Unfortunately, we lack papers as my great grandfather was a mean Irish bastard who was embarrassed by his wife’s heritage. Fucker.

After leaving the Pueblo, we decided to drive out past the Taos Ski area just to see what was there. In addition to pines weighed down by gobs of marshmallow snow, we passed a young guy and his dog, obviously homeless and hitchhiking. Grunty noticed that the man had taken off his coat and placed it under the shivering pup. We decided to stop and grab some groceries and dog biscuits if we passed a store on the drive back from the ski resort. We did not find a store, and when we neared the intersection, the young man and his dog had moved on. Or so we thought. As we neared the outskirts of Taos proper, we saw the man again, leading his dog on a leash as the sky began to darken and the temperature noticeably dropped. I stopped at Cids, a local market and bought a jar of peanut butter, some bananas, cheese, milk, english muffins and dog treats and we turned around hoping the man and his dog were on the same stretch of highway. We were unable to find them, and can only hope some kindhearted person gave them a ride or helped in some way. It is very cold here in Taos tonight, and this man and his dog were only one of several down-on-their luck wanderers we have spotted since arriving.

Tucumkarrie tonight!

Get your kicks.

Largest Cross in the world, Groom, Texas.

We made it to Tucumcari, New Mexico today. Tucumcari is the gateway to New Mexico, about an hour’s drive from the border with Texas, and billboards announcing Tucumcari tonight! begin to appear on the side of the road just outside of Oklahoma City. Tucumcari is a sleepy town, at least this time of the year. Lines of people streaming out of the local Post Office were complaining about the cold. There were small patches of melting snow here and there, but wiith temperatures in the 50s, we promptly stripped to our undies and cruised around town with the windows open and mariachi music blaring.

Actually, we tried to go to the Mesalands Dinosaur Museumbut since it is closed on Mondays, we drove around trying to find a playground, and found the Tucumcari Historical Museum instead. With several outbuildings, a chuck wagon, a caboose visitors can walk through, and an ancient airplane the museum was a fascinating place to spend an hour poking around.

Finally, this sign made me laugh. If you look closely, the name of the pharmacy is a variation of our name.

See Aloha!

First, where would you apply this product?
While I was doing a quick load of laundry at our hotel this morning, Grunty turned around to find Max with it smeared all over his lips, vehemently insisting that it was a BIG lipbalm.

Later today we visited a tropical forest

Located in a beer can

Little Rock On

I decided to take it easy today and so it was just a hop, skip and a bumpy jump down Route 40 from Memphis to Little Rock. Tennessee roads are well maintained and easy to drive, so the pothole puckered stretch of highway connecting these two southern cities caught me off guard. Heavy downpours and fog cemented the decision for a short day on the road.

Our first stop was the Rivermarket area of Little Rock. While waiting for the Arkansas Museum of Discovery to open, Max, Grunty and I strolled around the surrounding area, stopping for an excellent cup of coffee at The Boulevard Bread Company. After reading several disheartening tales of very limited healthy dining options in Arkansas, the Boulevard was a welcome find. Noticing that my coffee cup was green and designed to decompose, I decided the tattooed and pierced guy making lattes would not laugh at me if I asked for soymilk. Not only do they have soymilk for coffee–you need to ask–but they also have a clearly labeled vegan sandwich option. In addition, a local free magazine gives The Farmer’s Daughter Cafe a rousing write up. While the menu does not have specifically vegan options, several items look vegan friendly, and with a focus on locally grown, organic produce, I’m sure anyone who appreciates good food would be able to eat well there. Since we needed to stock up on a few road trip supplies, I programmed our GPS to find the local Wild Oats, which is quite small compared to what I’m used to, but has a nice salad bar, and plenty of vegan groceries. Prices are also noticeably lower here in Arkansas compared to other states we have passed through so far on the trip.

The Rivermarket.

Grunty enjoying the Museum of Discovery.

Max. He has these gears at home and was thrilled to see a section of the museum devoted to gears and magnet letters.

The Rivermarket Trolley.

Interesting restaurant sign. Note the outboard motors recycled as lights on the right side of the building.

After the Museum and lunch, Grunty and I braved the wilds of a Little Rock Chuck E Cheese, to let Max burn off some more rainy day energy. This may be additional proof that all the long days of driving powered by Sonic limeades are draining my mental abilities, but I actually enjoyed myself shooting hoops and helping Max scoop up plastic bumblebees at the CEC. Scary!

Now I need to make a decision of whether to risk driving through Oklahoma tomorrow, or detouring further south on our way west. Any advice?

If Your Motel Door

Looks like this, leave, no matter how tired you are, and no matter how loudly your child is screaming that he has to poop.

This is the view as we fled just before 4 am this morning. It seemed ok yesterday afternoon, when we pulled in, exhausted, but as darkness fell, Grunty found pubes on her pillow, blood on a blanket, and a splotch of snot a previous occupant had hocked against the wall. We took turns dozing as the ladies of the evening left their truckers, and sirens cried out in the night. All of those sleepless nights with Max over the past three years have been excellent training in the fine art of functioning with very little sleep. A couple of hours after fleeing the hovel, we watched the sun rise near Abington,Virginia.

I’m currently ensconced in a rather non-descript, semi-cushy chain hotel with free wireless, clean beds and hot showers, after enjoying a fabulous lunch at The Tomato Head, thanks to a tip from Adrienne. Knoxville has a good vibe. We walked around in the rain for a little while in the area near the restaurant, admiring Christmas decorations and the general prettiness of the neighborhood.

Speaking of pretty, yesterday we drove part of the Blue Ridge Parkway. Stunning does not do this drive justice, nor do the pictures below. One caveat: the drop offs are so sudden and vertical that most parts of the Parkway do not bother with guardrails. Instant death.

The views are worth the risk.

Dazed and Confused

An epic tantrum just wound down. When I picked Max up at school this afternoon, he collapsed into a heap in the hallway, blocking a bunch of Bugaboos and of course, earning me the Stare of Death. He was still tantrumming ten minutes later when I peeled him off the floor and somehow managed to get him strapped into his car seat. Still wailing as I pulled out into traffic. (Still screeching nearly 45 minutes later after arriving at our house.)

After throwing a shoe at my head and barking, he started to demand

I…wu…wuu…waaa…want to heaaaahhh…..Coming ‘Round the Mount…the mount…THE MOUNT!…aiiiiin…annnnnnnnnnn

Eyes on the road, I turned the classical music station, breathed deeply and tried to locate my Inner Goddess of Mothering. When the bitch failed to appear, I scanned over to the classic rock station, and the Pilot began to dance to dueling divas.

Max: Puuu…puuu…puhlease! IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU! I want a treat! I waa…waaaaannnnnt a TREAT! My kneee hurts! Muh kneee hurts!

Mom Voyage and Robert Plant: I’ve tried to do all those thiiiiings the best I caaaaan

Max: I want a letter cookie! I want, I want, *hiccup* I hate you, I want…..

Mom Voyage and Robert Plant: GOOOOOD TIMES…..BAAAD TIMES….YOU KNOW I’VE HAD MY SHARE!

Max: I want, I want, I WANT, I WAAAAAAAAANT MY GOD DAMN MUSIC NOW. YOU ARE NOT LISTENING TO ME, MOMMY. MOMMY! Moooooommy! MOMMY! I HAte you, Mommy!

Robert Plant & Mom Voyage, pulling in front of the house, perfect timing I don’t care what the neighbors saaaaaaayyyyyyy

Max: Is daddy home? Is he is he is he is HE??? Daaaaadddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Mom Voyage: Ah, sweet! Back-to-back Zeppelin Baby, baby, baby, I’m gonna leave you……

Am I the only one parenting through a communication breakdown?

I’m Going to Kick You

…in the SUPER BALLS!

Max to James, 5 minutes ago

Partly Purple, With A Chance of Migraines

This post has absolutely nothing to do with traveling with a small child, unless you consider the beat-the-bad weather excursion known as walking through Target and Costco until your small child is suitably exhausted, and guaranteed to fall asleep the instant you buckle him into his car seat, a journey. And some days? I think it should count.

If you suffer from The Crazy, have you ever wished there was a way to know you were in for a particularly difficult day before you stumbled out of bed? You know what kind of day I’m talking about. The kind of day where you snap “Asshole!”at your small child,the waffles burst into flame even on the lowest toaster setting, and your coffee pot malfunctions leaving a path of sticky, black goo covering it’s heating element, and grinds in your cup.

The kind of day where you’re about to become stuck in heavy traffic next to a brand-spanking new truck full of bio-diesel, and you have to talk The Inner Crazy down from an irrational fear that said truck might explode the instant you pull up beside it? When your right hand loosens its grip on the steering wheel to turn up You Belong To Me to calm the fuck down? Or as a friend of mine said recently “when you break down and sob in the shower, and you’re not really sure why.

I mentioned my desire for some kind of Mental Health Thermometer to James as he was leaving for work, and he answered

“You mean, like if when you woke up your arm turned bright purple, so you would know to take a higher dose of Wellbutrin?”

Yes. Exactly.

Today I’m goddamn Grimace.