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.


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.


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.

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.

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.

A Brief Overview: The Good, The Bad And The Downright Pathological

Approximate trip mileage: 10,100 Chance that this includes at least 1500 miles spent driving through small, strange towns searching for a playground: 4 in 5.

States visited: 25 Chance that one of those 25 was Idaho: 0 Probability that Max insisted were were in fact, in Idaho: 100% Sonic limeades purchased and consumed: Too high to count.

Amount by which estimated fuel consumption exceeded budget: $600 Areas with the most expensive gasoline: The horrible route between Las Vegas and San Diego, and the Overseas Highway to Key West, Florida. Areas with inexpensive fuel: 0.

Serious accidents barely avoided: 12 Odds that my Honda Pilot will need new brake pads when I bring it in for service tomorrow: High.
Average number of driving hours per day, not including overnight stays of more than one night: 5-6. Longest driving day: Galveston, Texas to Pensacola, Florida. Approximately 9 hours.

Prettiest state: New Mexico Best surprise: Little Rock, Arkansas Biggest Disappointment: The Strip Malls of Ye Olde Key West, Florida and Sedona Shopping Malls of Arizona. Unless you like your red rock photographs to include a larger than life Dress Barn sign, and want to buy key lime pie at a McDonald’s drive thru.

Percentage of spectators that will get wet in the splash zone at Sea World? 100% Shell out the $6 for the stupid plastic poncho.

Chance that someone is lying if they tell you that the beach-side vacation condo they have rented will charge a steep fine for noisy children: Total crap-shoot. Odds that you will learn that such a fine is a complete selfish lie: Very high, especially if said resort is overrun with screaming children, and you happen to take an elevator ride with a friendly couple who is traveling with seven boys under the age of 10. I’m just saying……

Hours it will take you to leave after finding out about said lie: 6, and only because you require a few hours of sleep before hitting the road.

Odds that you will spend at least one night in a chain hotel, in spite of promising to seek out inexpensive accommodations with character: 100%, if traveling with very small children. Mid-range chain hotel with the most consistent quality and service: Hampton Inn. Likelihood that I have racked up enough Hilton Honors points that Paris herself will bring that next bottle of water, USA Today and vendor-sized bag of Chex Mix to my room the next time I make a reservation: 77%

Chain hotel to avoid: The Best Western in Cottonwood, Arizona if a crusty old guy named Marc is working, because he will bust your ass and share horror stories of previous guests who destroyed the self serve waffle makers if you dare to grab a cup of juice for your child 3 minutes before the breakfast area Officially Opens. Even though he has most of the lights on, and the morning news is blaring from a giant screen television overhead. Odds that you will suggest he go fuck himself: Pretty damn high.

Odds that the employees of a Taco Bell will actually give you a bean burrito without cheese or meat: 50/50. Probability that they will insist all the burritos have meat and cheese if you politely explain that you do not eat meat or cheese: 100%, if you visit a certain Taco Bell in South Carolina.

Odds that D’Lish in Sedona, Arizona serves a juicy tempeh burger so good that one bite makes you cry and causes you to question whether god might really exist? 3 out of 3. At least for our party of 3.

Best vegan roadtrip snack: Primal Spirit mesquite-lime vegan jerky.

Best farmers market: Daytona Flea and Farmer’s Market.

Likelihood that you will want to stay and buy a cute little adobe with a kiva fireplace at the foot of the mountains if you visit Taos, New Mexico: Very high.

Chances that you will be stung by a jelly fish: Very low. Unless you are me.

Checked out of the Hotel California

Change of plans: we left California this morning, a week earlier than originally planned and have checked into at a kitschy hotel with a space age theme, overgrown palm trees and a lot of character. Remember: if an itinerary or other aspects of a trip are making you miserable, cut your losses. Vacations should not be stressful. Eat a dozen vegan donuts, poke sticks in rattlesnake holes, get dirt under your fingernails and jump on the bed if it makes you happy. You only live once.

On a totally unrelated note, my outgoing e-mail is completely fucked and I have been unable to reply to messages. Also, I have a sunburn. In late December.

Beam me up.Grunty and I are having far too much fun tonight teasing Max about aliens.

My purple slips were abducted by an alien life form earlier this evening.

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

More Norge, Less Content

For Alison, who commented below that she wants to go to Norway now. Go!

And in case Norge is not your urge, perhaps Turks and Caicos?

Or Nevada?

Love Stinks

This morning Max asked me

Mom, can we go to Starbucks? And just sit together?

So I took him to Starbucks.

Once inside, he sat down across from me, sucked down his chocolate milk and said

Mom, why do you love me?

I explained why, and he seemed to accept my answer. Curious, I then asked

Max, why do you love me?

Immediately a huge grin spread across his face and he replied

Because you FART!

The Leg Bone’s Connected to the ???

Max continues to be fascinated by my collection of menstrual products. Thanks to a picture on the side of the box of pantiliners which shows other Kotex products, Max insists that panty liners are available in a range of flavors: blueberry, chocolate and strawberry.

A few minutes ago, he came into the bathroom and told me he needed a Kotex because his p****s hurts. When I asked why it hurt he started to sing

Well, you see… pen*s is connected to my ankle…and my pen*s is connected to my bel-ly, my pen*s is connected to my haort (heart) and my hoart is connected to my ch—in.

Yeah, that has to hurt.

As I type this post he attached the adhesive side of liner to himself, and he is now trying to bandage my hand with a panty liner because my hand has it’s blueberry period.

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…..



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?

You Can Check Out Any Time You Like, But You Can Never Leave

Two more silly guess-what-shocking-and-hilarious-thing-my-child-said stories.

Last week while shopping at Whole Foods, Max spotted a towering display created of cases of individual serving packs of Horizon chocolate milk. Now, I don’t care of he has one on occasion, although I would rather he did not, but know from previous experience that a case of these sugary dairy drinks results in at least 24 requests for a hit each day. Uh, no.

Mooooom! I want to buy these choklad mucks!

No, we’re not buying those. Come back over here and help me push the cart.

NO!…(foot stomping)…. I am buying them.It is MY GODDAMN BUSINESS!

Of course I had an audience, so I plastered on a smile and in my best faux positive parenting voice replied

Max, when you’re 18 and have a job, then you can buy all the chocolate milk you want. But not today. Let’s go.

But, I AM 18. stomp…stomp…and I HAVE A JOB!


A few minutes ago, Max barged into the bathroom in time to see me unwrap a panty liner and stick it to my underwear.

What happened?

Mommy has her period. This catches the blood. Like a Band-Aid. Women sometimes bleed from their vag*nas. It doesn’t hurt, and it’s not something you have to worry about.

Maybe when I’m older?

No, boys and men do not get their period. You do not have to worry about bleeding when you’re older.

Oh….Mommy……did your penith fall off?

Sigh. No, I do not have a pen*s. Only men have pen*ses. Like you and Daddy.

Daddy TOOK your penith? (look of horror)

No. Only men and boys have pen*ses. Mommy never had a pen*s. Girls do not have pen*ses.

Well.. that’s not true……the girls in the hotel do!


A few minutes ago, Max and I were curled up on the couch reading a book about ducklings. This particular book shows pictures of real ducklings in various stages of hatching from eggs, a process that Max witnessed when we stumbled upon an exhibit at the Museum of Science a few weeks ago of baby chicks, some newly hatched, others worn out, and peeking a beak through a tiny crack in their shells, failing to progress.

Max looked at his picture book and asked me if there were ducks in the egg salad he had for lunch. I said no, and he insisted there was a beak. (Even before I stopped eating eggs, I was a bit lazy in my prep methods, figuring a bit of shell just adds extra calcium.) I explained to Max that eggs in the fridge are not usually fertilized, and while a potential baby duck or chicken once existed, in order to grow into an actual chick, they need to stay outside in a nest. Quiet for a minute, Max then got up and walked into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he reached for an egg and told me he wanted to plant it outside in the bucket garden and grow a duck.

Yesterday Max and I planted several different bulbs–tulips, wildflowers, hyacinths—and I had explained how they would not grow into flowers until Spring.

Looks like we may have a duck amidst the daffodils, if he continues to insist.

When our duck grows up, and we pick it, I want it to live in a cage in the kitchen.

Max, ducks make a lot of poop, and their poop is really stinky. I don’t want a duck in the kitchen.

Well, MY duck will not poop.

Max, everything that eats poops.All animals poop.

Ok, Mom. But some animals eat poop……like the sharks in the toilet ocean that eat my poop when I flush.

No, I did not drink, smoke or take drugs while I was pregnant. It only appears that way at times.