Nearly Wordless Wednesday

Nearly wordless because, frankly, I have no words. It all has to do with the “proper” way of producing one of these:

So precious! How did it get here? There's only one right way, you know. If that's not how this one got here I suggest you send it back. Because you are a failure. Go sell some Pampered Chef instead.

There’s a link on Youtube. Look it up if you have to. It’s kind of boring, more than a little stupid. Mostly an old guy talking about why this should be the norm. Today we’re talking (or rather, not talking) about the latest celebrity trend in childbirth: orgasmic birth.

I suppose it’s possible. Like becoming a millionaire working only 5 hours a week selling Pampered Chef. A few try it.  Most end up disillusioned and bitter, with a drawer full of spatulas.

              ***Spoiler Alert***

 If no one else will say it, I will.  While giving birth, you are more likely to achieve a big brown than a big O. Set your sights on a more realistic goal. Like paying off the National Debt with Green Stamps.

And that’s all I have to say on the subject.

 

Pin Me!

Maybe I’m trying to keep up with the Jones’. Maybe I’m tired of being left in the dark ages. Perhaps I’m looking for new vehicles to share my work. Or possibly a combination of the three. Either way, a site has recently appeared on my radar. I am naturally curious, but also a bit hesitant.But then a friend mentioned that the site is addictive. New internet addiction? That sounds like it’s exactly what I need in my life! Sign me up for Pinterest!

But it’s not that easy. You don’t just sign up. You have to request an invite. I requested one, sure that it was a formality. I entirely expected my invitation to appear in my inbox instantaneously. I hit “request an invitation” with more than a trace of smugness and waited for my email counter to go up. It was, indeed, instantaneous, but I was in for a surprise. It doesn’t contain a password or any sort of information to log in. It said “Thanks for joining the waiting list.” I’m not “in.”

And I wait. The email says that I can follow them on Twitter. Right. I spent my whole youth on the periphery, watching the cool kids but unable to join in. I don’t need that now. I will ignore them until they want me. And I know that they will! Times have changed. I’m no longer that awkward fourteen year old. I’m cool, right? Maybe I’ll just peek. For a minute.

I wonder if they’ll just send me information to log in, or if I will have to prove my worthiness. Will they run my undergarments up a flag pole? With me in them? Or make me push pennies down the hall with my nose? Or give me a swirlie in a filthy toilet?  Doesn’t matter. I’ll do it. I need in.

I must pin. I want to create a virtual bulletin board more than I ever thought I would. It’s more than that. I need in. Everyone else is in there pinning and creating. And laughing at me because I am not there with them.

Why haven’t I heard? What if I am not Pinterest material? I’m expecting to find a note pinned to my board that says “Sorry. You are so last-Tuesday. Go to Friendster. They are more your speed.” You might as well just stuff me in a locker and leave me there.

Wait. My email counter just went up. And there it is, a message that says “You’ve been invited to join Pinterest.” Really, guys? I just requested my invite exactly ten minutes ago, and you’re already letting me in? How desperate can you get? Ten minutes, and you’re already begging me to join?  Never mind. I’m going back to Subjot. That’s where the cool kids are.

 

 

I Dumped Him

courtesy uploadeccv.com because I don't have a photo of a trash truck

I know that many of my blogs have been related to being dumped. Or taking a dump. But this time, it’s not about me getting the short end of the stick, whatever that actually means. Nor does it involve bodily waste. Aren’t you glad? It does involve elimination, though. Eliminating someone totally useless from my life.

I have had enough. After years and years of deceit, plans left in ruins, never having a clue about our future, I did it. I fired the weatherman. In the eloquent words of Ricki Lake, I “kicked him to the curb.” See? I knew my TV addiction in the early 90′s would pay off at some point.

It has been coming for awhile. Over the last few years, I’ve noticed that not only can he not predict precipitation with any kind of accuracy, but he misses the high temperature by as much as ten degrees. That’s a big margin. Ten degrees can mean the difference between chilly rain or up to your armpits in snow. And it’s not just my weather dude. It’s all of them.

They like to pretend that they know stuff. They have those seven day forecast charts that show nothing more than how they would run things, if they were the Big Weatherman in the Sky. I suspect that the forecast being dubbed partly cloudy versus partly sunny depends more on whether your weatherman is a sky half-full or half-empty kind of guy than what the Doppler gods told him.

Consulting a meteorologist before making plans is a lot like calling the Psychic Friends Network. You hear a lot of esoteric gobbledygook that is up for interpretation. But at least my Psychic Friends offer the personal touch of calling me by my fake name when they’re predicting my untimely death.

I know, I know. Meteorology is an inexact science, and it’s a tricky business. Especially if you subscribe to the chaos theory. There are lots of butterflies out there flapping their wings and blah, blah, blah. My answer to that is insecticide. You know I’m kidding, right? Love me some butterflies and all that. But seriously. I would love to have a job where I could be badly wrong every single day, and not only would I still get paid, thousands would tune in to hear what I had to say. And still believe me.

And why do we do it, tune in day after day? We know they are as accurate as a drunken stock broker, but we cannot make outdoor plans without checking in with them. Like they have all the answers. Of course, they do. The answers just happen to be wrong. Take our trip out of town for an outdoor family reunion, for instance. Before we left, we checked the weather of the town where we were going. 80 degrees, moderate chance of rain. So we packed warm weather gear. When we arrived 12 hours later, the forecast had changed a wee bit. Rain and 60 degrees. Seriously? And the weather we actually got? Sunny and 74 degrees. Alrighty, then.

I would feel better about meteorology if they presented the weather in bookkeeping odds rather than percentages. “Rain 1:5, Hail 1:12, and the odds-on favorite for today is Sun at 3:5.” At least it would be entertaining. Or have them say something like “Well, it’s sunny out there, but you might want to take an umbrella because it might rain later. And the high today should be 70-ish, but take a jacket just in case.” Or perhaps make television meteorologist wear robes and turbans like Jambi the Genie. Then we’d be more likely to appreciate the forecast for what it actually is: a shot in the dark.

Here’s my new plan for weather. If it’s February, it will probably be cold. If it’s August, it’ll be warm. I’ll keep a jacket and an umbrella handy to cover my bases. Oh, and I bought a weather loach. He’s at least as accurate as the weather guys, and he has cute little whiskers.

Jojo the Dojo

I bet you think I’m kidding.

Also, I am fully aware that there are plenty of women who are meteorologists. But Weather Woman sounds like a really lame superhero, and Weatherperson is just a little too bland for me.

 

Talking to the Hand

Another example of behavior that is not modeled. We do not live in a cabinet.

I have an issue with kids and phones. I hate to talk on the phone and only do so when it can’t be avoided. I think cell phones are the work of the devil and have no place in my world. I hate to see people chatting away on their phone when they are actually WITH other people. UGH! It bugs me. And now my kid is one of them.

On the phone. All the time. ALL the time. If I do something that makes him mad, the first thing he does is call his dad to complain about my parenting. If he doesn’t like what is for dinner, again he calls his dad to see if I willl change the menu. He calls his buddy, he calls his grandma. Hours a day he spends yammering. And there’s very little I can do about it.

Sure, I can take away the phone, but that doesn’t actually help. Without the phone, he simply curls his little fingers and pretends he’s got one. Did I forget to mention that I’m talking about Squishy? Yes, my toddler is a phone addict.

I guess he has a good calling plan because we haven’t gotten a bill yet. Good thing because he really does spend hours on the stupid thing. While eating his lunch, using the toilet, riding in the car. And he hasn’t lost reception or dropped a single call. Although he has thrown his toy phone a time or two.

From watching him, it would be logical to assume that he sees this behavior modeled. Maybe so, but WHERE? I don’t talk on the phone. I hate it. And I certainly don’t own a cell phone. And My husband’s telephone conversations go something like this: “Hello? Uh-huh. No. Okay. See you later.” Brother and sister’s calls are more like this: Thank you for the Easter money! Love you, too. Your turn to talk, Mom!” So where does he get it?

I am sometimes afraid that I see his future – he’ll be one of those kids who ends up at the chiropractor because his head has a permanent tilt. He’ll be the parent sitting on a bench at the playground talking to his pals while his kids play alone in the sandbox. NO! Where have I gone wrong?

But there is a bright side.  At least he hasn’t discovered texting yet!

 

Rules For the Farmers Market

 

See the bunny in the strawberry plants?

1) The path between vendor booths is less than 10 feet wide. Please leave your triple-wide stroller at home. It’s a farmers market. Buy a sling or an Ergo and get in touch with your inner Earth Mother.

2) Please do not allow your toddler to orbit around said stroller as you are shopping. You brought it,  so make me hate you less. Strap them in it before I trip over them and spill my hot coffee on their head.

3) Leave the scooters and bicycles at home. Yes, your children are just precious in their little helmets, but really?  Unless you are hiring them out as couriers in New York City during the week, they don’t have the skills to dodge in and out of a big crowd at top speed. Again. My coffee. It’s expensive. And hot.

4) Leave your flexi-lead at home. I’ve met very few dogs who can handle the exciting sights and smells of a crowded market without the occasional reminder. It’s hard to limbo under your leash with a bag of tomatoes on my arm and a baby on my back.  By the same token, if your dog has little to no obedience training, leave them home altogether. Same goes for dogs who are aggressive toward people or other dogs.

5) Don’t hand your large half-trained puppy’s leash to your child. Kids and puppies are so cute together. Except in crowded places where puppy is terrified and child is distracted. Puppy isn’t having as much fun as you think he is.

6) Keep your large dog from sniffing my crotch, and I’ll keep my toddler from punching yours.

7) If your dog/kid takes a dump, please clean it up. People are eating. And we’re watching you. Because we have nothing better to do.

8 ) Please don’t smoke in the middle of the market. I realize it is an open-air market. But your right to smoke in a crowded public place translates to my right to eat some really bad sushi, follow you around and do what comes naturally after eating really bad sushi. Care to negotiate?

9) Please don’t strip your child naked and let them play in the fountains. It’s not that I’m not a prude. Though, maybe I am. But if they’re young enough to be naked in public, they’re too young to know not to pee where they play. Or worse. Please see number seven.

10) If you are dressed in period costume for the history fair and you are sporting a musket, fair warning that you are about to fire the thing is appreciated. I bring a change of undergarments for my toddler, but not for me.

 

Dancing With Danger

It's a copperhead. It has nothing to do with the story, but it's the most dangerous thing I have a picture of besides my toddler.

As I approach middle age (and I am not telling you how close the target is), I am feeling the need to add some excitement back into my life. Not just excitement. I’m talking about a dose of terror that leaves me feeling lucky to be alive. Not bungee jumping. Too tame. Or sky-diving. Too cliche. Or refusing to file my tax return. Too stupid. No, when I want to achieve that living-life-on-the-edge experience, I leave for school five minutes later. Because I am an adrenaline junkie.

We live in what is known as The Zone of Parental Responsibility. Sounds fancy. Sounds all Dr. Spock, like this neighborhood is chock full of folks who tend to their children and make sure they behave. What it really means is that the school bus won’t come and get ‘em. So we walk. And we love it.

We time our departure not so that we beat the bell. More so that we beat the crazies. Five minutes means the difference between a leisurely walk to school with my beloved child and dying in the road like an animal. Today, I say bring it.

Our neighborhood has no sidewalks, but it’s not usually an issue. There is very little traffic around our house, as we are about a half-mile above the school, and we’re in an area that few people can find and even fewer need to. In the evening, I can walk for a mile without being passed by a single car.  But on mornings when we leave a few minutes late, we find ourselves in  a live-action version of Frogger, one life left, no bonus.

As we walk down our hill, the game begins. There’s an intersection that is quiet for 23 hours of the day. But for one hour, all heck breaks loose. The road that we are on has the right of way, but during this magic hour, the stop signs on the two side roads are magically rendered invisible. I have walked this route 180 times in the last year, and I have yet to see a vehicle actually stop. Some pay lip-service to the law and roll slowly through, but most never actually hit their brakes. Car coming? Hit the accelerator! Pedestrian in the road? Eh, just drive around them. And they do. I have seen cars run the stop sign as my son and I were in the intersection and actually weave around and cut in front of us so that we have to stop so we don’t walk right into their moving vehicle.

Once we get past the Intersection of Death, the road dips significantly and narrows, and there’s a drop-off on either side. Two vehicles can pass each other, if they are both driving a reasonable speed and are willing to yield the right of way. There’s the rub. At 7:25 in the morning, this stretch of road is a speed-demon’s yield-free zone. More than once, we’ve had to make a dive for the bushes because the same soccer mom who nearly runs us down every day hits her accelerator in panicked tardiness and barrels down the center of the road. We know it’s her. We’ve memorized not only the make and model of her mini-van, but her license plate, as well.

If we can make it past Death Valley and up the hill, there are yards and driveways where we can claim brief sanctuary as all the general contractors in their enormous trucks zoom by to dump their kids, and we’re in good shape. Until we get to the school.

On a regular day, all is quiet on the road in front of the school. There may be a car or two unloading their offspring, but we can stroll through the crosswalk unharmed. Fast-forward five minutes, and we’re not so lucky. We can’t even see the sidewalk on the other side for the line of cars. Guaranteed, someone will be parked in the crosswalk. This individual will almost always have such darkly tinted windows that the driver cannot be seen, or they will be balancing a cup of Starbucks daily brew, a cigarette, or a cellphone as they reach back to unstrap their kid in anticipation of shoving them out the door. I guarantee they don’t notice me.

I now have a strict policy to not step into the crosswalk until I can see the whites of their eyes. Too many times, I have claimed right of way and nearly been squashed as Distracted Parent drives on while watching their kid over their right shoulder. Even making eye contact is no guarantee that they have actually seen me. Just last week, I crossed the street in front of a grandma parked in the crosswalk. She had made a little wave, which I assumed was an acknowledgement. You know what happens when you assume? You make an ass of you, and a grease spot on the road of me. She had apparently been waving in response to some conversation on the cell-phone she had dropped in the floor. She reached down to get it and started forward at the same time, just as I was walking in front of her. Judging by the look on her face as she hit the brake, that split second took about 200 years off her life. And she blames me.

Once I drop off my son, there is little traffic. Most parents drive up from the other direction, so I don’t even see them. I find the return walk a little sedate and rather boring, and I long for a bit of action. But never you fear. It’s just a few short hours until afternoon pick up.

 

 

Back to School Blues

This photo has nothing to do with the blog except that padlopers make me happy. And I need that.

The beginning of the school year is hard for me. It’s not the forced adherence to an arbitrary schedule. It’s not having to say goodbye to the kids I’ve had such fun with. It’s not the sudden inability to pack up the troops and head off on some fun adventure. Sure, there’s some of that. But here’s my secret. I despise the end of summer because I have to shop for school supplies.

When I was a kid, I loved shopping for my school supplies. I’d run home from school on the first day proudly brandishing my list. I couldn’t wait until dinner was over so we could dash out to the store. Each item on the list represented an opportunity to buy something new. All for me. The possibilities were so exciting. Would there be enough money in the budget for me to have the Garfield folders instead of the plain ones? Would my mom spring for those weird triangular pencil grips that were all the rage, even though I had nibbled through every one she had ever bought me? And if there was something really unique on the list like a watercolor set, so much the better And I couldn’t wait to go to school the next day and compare my new treasures with those of my friends.

Fast forward a few years and a few kids, and the shine has definitely worn off a bit. I dread the arrival of “the list,” and I am in a snit from the moment it arrives. I don’t mind outfitting my kids for a school year. What bugs me is that I am forced to go to Wal-mart.

I know that there are other stores that sell school supplies. Office supply places spam my inbox every day with their “unbeatable” deals. But school supply lists rarely contain only school supplies anymore. As much as I hate shopping at Wal-mart, it’s worse when I have to visit multiple stores. So off to the mart we go.

I don’t know about your area, but our big, soul-sucking box stores have a little cardboard kiosk where befuddled parents can pick up supply lists starting in early July. A simple courtesy or shameless marketing? And here’s the catch. They only carry the lists for nearby schools. In my town, there are a LOT of schools, and the Wal-mart that is most convenient for us is apparently out of our area.

There’s something a little demoralizing about being zoned for a Wal-mart. We’ve all seen People of Wal-mart . I’m sorry I can’t live up to those standards . And you can forget about visiting the one that is officially “in our area.” Yes, it is brand new, but the floor-plan was designed by a schizophrenic. The make-up and produce are in the same area, the whole building has a ceiling that consists of bare pipes. Except for the bakery, which has an 8 foot ceiling and such low lighting that it’s like buying your baked goods at a garage sale. Yummy.

The aisles themselves also also drive me nuts with their inconsistency, as though the whole thing was thrown together in a hurry. Nothing says “quality control” like having so much space in Baking that you can fit 5 carts abreast but making Storage Containers so narrow that two carts can barely pass one another. And there’s no way to get from the front of the store to the back without going to the path in the center of the store because the sections are now a perpendicular maze. I get so frustrated that I end up channeling the spirit of the floor plan designer, talking to myself and swearing under my breath.

So this year, the kids and I stopped by a Wal-mart while we were running errands in a different part of town. I was determined that this year would be different. I would not end the trip in a horrible mood. I would not complain. I would enjoy this time of excited anticipation with my children. Whatever.

The smell hit me the moment we entered the (well-hidden) school supply section. I sniffed the baby. I sniffed the older children. We collectively checked the bottom of our shoes. Apparently, we didn’t bring this delightful aroma with us. It was already here. It smelled as though someone had taken a dump in the floor. A big one. Having once reported to my register 15 minutes late because I was trying to prevent shoppers from slipping in a puddle of urine, I am well aware of the probability of that little scenario. Yes, I once worked at Wal-mart. And I have seen things.

And that little trip never got any better. We were unable to locate most of the items on the list, and we were forced across the street to Target. Don’t get me started. Target is just as soul-less, minus the poop, and I wasn’t any happier when I left their store.

But if you would please excuse me. My daughter just brought home her list. I need to run to Wal-mart.

 

Do Me a Solid

This has absolutely nothing to do with my post, but I like this picture.

Some people use horoscopes to predict their day. Others check to see what kind of stuff they have in their schedule to get a sense of how things are going to go. For me, it’s much more simple than star charts and Franklin planners. My day hinges on poop.

Not my own, let’s be clear. Although at my age, who can deny that a good one can be a very satisfying start to the day. No, it’s more serious than that because it is totally out of my control.I am, of course, referring to Mr. Squish.

My day is always better if I can get my work done early in the day. Once I hit “save,” I am free, and it’s a glorious feeling. My ideal schedule is to get my work finished, take Squish somewhere fun to play, come home for lunch, and start on my second project while he takes a nap. Sounds easy, right? And it totally can be, but it’s all up to Squish.

I cannot work when he is running around. I find myself stopping every 5.3 seconds to pull him off the couch/cat/counter, and it’s hard to concentrate. If I can get him to sit still for 30 minutes, I get on a roll, the creative juices can flow, and I can at least get enough traction that I can finish my work after I spring him. And that means Bob the Builder. I know. I am a terrible parent. I let my kid watch a bit of TV. <insert judgement of my parenting here>

But here’s the rub. In our house, there is no access to the wonders of a claymation construction worker until tiny person produces a poop.  And not just any poop. It has to at least appear to be the day’s work. Can we do it? Yes, we can!

Our rule is not as weird as it sounds. My young toilet-trainee had lots of accidents while watching his show because he found Bob too riveting to answer the call of nature. Since the institution of the poop-for-Bob policy, Squish has had 2 accidents. It works, and we’re sticking with it until it doesn’t anymore. May that day never come.

The tricky part is getting it done. Most days, he’s like clock-work. He gets up, he asks to potty, he poops out a present, and my work can begin. But then there are the days where he doesn’t want to, where he isn’t, um, moved by the spirit. Those days are special. He offers a non-committal shrug and says “It not workin’ today.” Those days go something like this:

“Do you want to go poop?”

“Naw. I fine.”

“Go play for a few minutes while Mommy does her workies.”

“Mommy, my scooper is broken!” (accompanied by dramatic wailing)

“Baby, that’s a puzzle. It’s supposed to come apart. Let Mommy finish this really fast”

“Is my room clean? I cleaning my room.”

“Squish, that’s the closet. Get out of there! Do you need to go poop? Poop for Bob?”

“No. No poop today. Dis Daddy’s coffee?”

“Don’t drink that!”

“I hungwy. Need brekfuss.”

“Sweetie, you just ate. Are you sure you don’t need to poop? Watch some Bob?”

“No, I fine. I gonna feed Feebee.”

“I already fed the dog, pumpkin. Give me that. She can’t eat all of those!”

“I frow dis away. Dis trash.”

“Baby, that’s my checkbook. Get out of my purse, and get that out of the trash!”

And on it goes until:

a) Squish gives up and produces a dook, or

b) I give up on my deadline and take Squish somewhere to burn off some energy so that maybe he’ll actually take a nap.

Today we were lucky. It’s only 9am, and it’s all taken care of on both ends. We’re going to pack up and go to the zoo to celebrate. It’s been a productive day. For both of us.

 

 

 

Why?

 

Looking pretty good for 16!

Some days, my life reads like a country song. Today has been one of those days. I will tell you my pitiful story, and then you will offer your forgiveness for today’s blog being a repost off my old site. Last night, my 16 year old cat had an awful medical issue that carried into today. She’s fine now, but between getting her to the vet and worrying about whether she’d be okay, I’m left feeling a little drained. Combine that with 45 minutes of sheer terror this morning when I realized my good friend hadn’t called or emailed me after his kayaking trip, and then I couldn’t reach him by phone, and you’ve got the makings of a rerun day. It all ended well Piper the cat did well with the anesthesia and will be home soon, and my friend Steve isn’t at the bottom of a lake somewhere (a shout-out to Steve for not being dead!). But I now have exactly two brain-cells left, and they’re not talking to one another.

So here’s a repost, with a few additions. I have tried very hard to edit it, but apparently I was going through an ee cummings phase when I wrote this originally. Please forgive words that should be capitalized but aren’t. I know. It bugs me, too.

 

I don’t understand. why is it that:

1) My husband managed to install our surround-sound  approximately 30 seconds after we moved in, but he cannot snap up a sleeper to save his life??

2) My six year old can locate the great barrier reef on a globe but cannot find the hamper in his bedroom?

3) The old man can watch Gladiator without flinching but faints when he gives blood?

4) My dresser drawers are stuffed so full of clothes I can hardly close them, but most days I can’t find anything to wear?

5) I can spend a 12 hour day shopping thrift stores but can’t find the energy to fold my laundry?

6) We have many square feet of open floor space on the top floor of my house, but the cat will locate my son’s Tow-Mater slipper when she needs to vomit?

7) I’m so tired I can’t stand myself, but when I lay down I can’t sleep?

8 ) I have caught my kids’ poo in my hands, but when I ask my husband to use the booger sucker on the baby, he leaves a daddy-shaped hole in the door?

9) My daughter can name 14 species of gecko but cannot remember to bring home her lunchbox?

10) If we are checking books out of the library to save a  little money, why do we refuse to return them on time?

11) Why is it that when I need him to wake up, the baby is so sound asleep that I need an air horn to rouse him, but he’s up like a shot when I’m just trying to put laundry away?

12) Why is it that I can find 32 socks, but none of them actually has a mate? (this one needs a blog post of its very own)

13) I don’t mind when the tortoises at the zoo poop when I’m soaking them, but I am unamused when Squish does it?

14) Why is it that Squish would eat a bug but turns his nose up at broccoli?

 

Things I Don’t Understand, Volume 2: the Automotive Edition

Having spent several hours on the road today, I had lots of time to ponder. There are things that make no sense, but I wonder if it’s just me. Here’s what I don’t get.

1) Memorial decals on cars. I see these everywhere. “In Memory of Mamma/Daddy/Grandpa,” and usually accompanied by their birth and death dates.  One reason that I am bothered by these decals is because they are a traffic hazard. When people pull up behind you and see your sticker, they can’t help see the arrival and departure dates displayed therein. You think driving and texting is bad? Try driving and trying to solve a mathematical equation to determine if the person in front of you is a poor orphan who lost their mamma way too young. It’s a recipe for disaster. Math and driving just don’t mix.

Another issue I have. Does Mamma know that you’ve dedicated something to her that is going down in value like a rock? And did you buy that 1987 Chevy Astro in Mamma’s memory? Seeing as how she only died last year, it makes me wonder about your relationship with your mom.

I promised my husband a lifetime of haunting and spiders in his cereal  if he ever thinks of dedicating a car to me when I turn up my toes. If you must make a memorial, do as he has agreed to do if I go first. Cremate the dearly departed and have the ashes made into a diamond. Then wear it as a piercing in some place tender. Because love is classy like that.

2) Truck Nuts. Seriously. I had to look these bad boys up on the internet to make sure I was referring to them by their proper nomenclature, and did I come up with a bunch of entries! One of them claimed to sell the leading balls on the internet. I afraid to ask how they came to that conclusion, but I am definitely not here to dispute it. I bet their mamma would be very proud, may she rest in peace. But the danglies are everywhere. There’s even an entry about them on wikipedia. I can’t decide if that little discovery makes me more alarmed or sad. Anyhoo. I find these appendages frankly appalling. It’s not an issue of free speech. It’s about responsibility. Please neuter your truck. Eliminate the possibility that it could spawn a litter of Ford Escorts. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you? Bob Barker would thank you. ***

3) Line cutters. You know the ones. You approach a long line of merging traffic, and they’re the folks who zoom into the next lane and attempt to merge at the last second because they don’t want to have to waste their precious time waiting in line (no anger or bitterness here). We all hate them. That’s just it. If we all hate “them,” then “they” can’t be any of us, right? So who are ”they? Humanoids in SUVs? Complete figments of our collective imaginations? I have no answer.

That’s it for this week’s ponderings. What automotive mysteries keep you awake at night?

*** Little known fact: none of the cars ever won by contestants on “Price is Right” went home before it was neutered.