My husband called out to me as I came in the door from a mundane trip to Walgreens.
"Yeah" I said. "Why?" .... while internally rolling my eyes, well duh, of course its me.
He then says:
"Oh, I just wanted to see if it was you or the hooker I ordered."
Omg, that man makes me laugh sooooooooo hard sometimes and when I least expect it. He has a deadpan humor that I can't beat.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Gas, sheepskins and the air show
I filled up the van last night. It was pretty empty, so I just closed my eyes and filled it up. Cross my heart, hope to die, this is where it clicked off, I did not inch gas in penny by penny, this is where it stopped all on its own:
Speaking of vans though, you know, you never really think about the height of your car when you drive a car because it doesn't matter. But when you drive a 9 foot 1 inch conversion van, it does matter. And makes me bonkers because so often there will be ample parking available ... in parking ramp that has a maximum height of 7 foot 10 inches. Or 8 feet 6 inches. Or anything less than 9 feet. In fact, 9 feet is the typical limit of most places that do have a height restriction such as parking ramps and drive-throughs. Most medical centers around here have parking ramps attached and so I typically have to drop Wheeler off, drive for 20 mins to find a street space 15 blocks away and try to parallel park our huge van on the left side of a one way street or something equally difficult.
But my biggest pet peeve is when you are not told that there is a height restriction until it is too late. Case in point: when I went to the airport to pick up our European guests, the only place to park on the airport grounds a shiny big new ramp. There are signs all along shunting you into it for 1/2 a mile beforehand. I kept looking though to see if what the height restriction was because I'd been there with my car before and knew it was relatively low. However, I kept following the signs to the parking and ultimately I was in position of no return. It was 2 lanes that were funneled off from the main road and there was no way to turn around if you, say, were in a vehicle that was too tall. I started to panic a bit and then I saw the bar hanging down with this sign "Height restriction: 9 feet". Great.
To make matters worse, my dad recently put on new shocks and so our 9 foot 1 inch van is even taller than usual because of that. But, I had no possible way to escape at that point, other than to drive the wrong way on a highway. I eased my way under hoping I'd make it ... and I made it. But I was steamed because what if I hadn't made it? There is nothing to warn you before it is too late to do anything about it. I was nervous when I drove into the actual ramp, but I had enough clearance there too.
Miss Swede, one of our European guests, and I spent 2 hours combing out the previously referenced peed-upon sheepskins. It takes a long, long, long time and alot of elbow grease to comb them. Left side is combed, right side not.
We went to the Langley Air Show a couple weekends back and it ROCKED. Offspring and I walked around, in, on every single plane and had a grand time. Wheeler, predictably, overheated and had to go to the emergency tent to cool down. Poor guy. I'm a plane junky, so I was in total heaven all day.
Speaking of vans though, you know, you never really think about the height of your car when you drive a car because it doesn't matter. But when you drive a 9 foot 1 inch conversion van, it does matter. And makes me bonkers because so often there will be ample parking available ... in parking ramp that has a maximum height of 7 foot 10 inches. Or 8 feet 6 inches. Or anything less than 9 feet. In fact, 9 feet is the typical limit of most places that do have a height restriction such as parking ramps and drive-throughs. Most medical centers around here have parking ramps attached and so I typically have to drop Wheeler off, drive for 20 mins to find a street space 15 blocks away and try to parallel park our huge van on the left side of a one way street or something equally difficult.
But my biggest pet peeve is when you are not told that there is a height restriction until it is too late. Case in point: when I went to the airport to pick up our European guests, the only place to park on the airport grounds a shiny big new ramp. There are signs all along shunting you into it for 1/2 a mile beforehand. I kept looking though to see if what the height restriction was because I'd been there with my car before and knew it was relatively low. However, I kept following the signs to the parking and ultimately I was in position of no return. It was 2 lanes that were funneled off from the main road and there was no way to turn around if you, say, were in a vehicle that was too tall. I started to panic a bit and then I saw the bar hanging down with this sign "Height restriction: 9 feet". Great.
To make matters worse, my dad recently put on new shocks and so our 9 foot 1 inch van is even taller than usual because of that. But, I had no possible way to escape at that point, other than to drive the wrong way on a highway. I eased my way under hoping I'd make it ... and I made it. But I was steamed because what if I hadn't made it? There is nothing to warn you before it is too late to do anything about it. I was nervous when I drove into the actual ramp, but I had enough clearance there too.
Miss Swede, one of our European guests, and I spent 2 hours combing out the previously referenced peed-upon sheepskins. It takes a long, long, long time and alot of elbow grease to comb them. Left side is combed, right side not.
We went to the Langley Air Show a couple weekends back and it ROCKED. Offspring and I walked around, in, on every single plane and had a grand time. Wheeler, predictably, overheated and had to go to the emergency tent to cool down. Poor guy. I'm a plane junky, so I was in total heaven all day.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The chicken club
About a week ago, Offspring told me that he had formed a chicken club. Here's how the conversation went.
Him: Hey mom - I opened a chicken club today.
Me: Oh?
Him: Me and Flavor of the Month Friend are in it.
Me: Oh.
Him: Fernette used to be in it, but I kicked her out.
Me: How come?
Him: I dunno.
(silence)
Me: Oh.
(longer silence)
Me: So what does one do in a chicken club?
(other than lay between two buns, hardeeharhar ...)
Him: We're just chickens.
Me: Ok.
(end of conversation)
In the meantime, it turns out that being in his chicken club means that one must:
- love chickens
- flap ones arms like a chicken when angry / frustrated / irritated / grouchy (this is surprisingly annoying when he does this)
Optional activities include:
- walking like a chicken (head poking back and forth)
- bawking like a chicken
Today I worked up my courage and asked today if I could be in the chicken club. He said no ... then reconsidered and said yes. He looked squinty eyed at me when granting me membership though, so I think I'm in the chicken club probationary period.
Man, I love having a 7 year old. It just don't get any better than dis.
Our cone
We have orange cones - or more properly, a single orange cone - in the back seat of the van that I use to block the parking space next to us when we are somewhere without an adequate h/c ramp space. That would be everywhere by the way. I've pretty much stopped using them because I had 3 and 2 were recently stolen. I think I wrote about it on here. Sometimes I feel like posting a big sign on the back of our van that says
But anyway. I don't much put out the cone anymore. However, Offspring has found a novel and highly useful way to utilize the cone. He speaks through it. It is worth noting first that it is a long long way from the back seat of the van to the driver's seat. It is also worth noting that the van is exceptionally noisy in the interior because it has lowered floors and the ramp (the aforementioned 1000 pound capacity lift) rattles like crazy when driving. Even when idiling. So I'm constantly yelling from the front seat 'WHAT DID YOU SAY?!??' to Offspring. A few months back, I was driving along and suddenly Offspring's voice was in my ear, clear as day, "Mom, could we stop at the toy store?" or whatever it was he said, although this is the most frequent sentence uttered while driving, followed closely by "Can we go to Chick Fil A?", the answer to which is no, I can't eat anything there and even when I could eat there, their chicken tastes really weird, its rumored to be marinaded in pickle juice, ewwwww.
I looked in the rearview mirror and there was a giant orange cone where my boy used to sit. Its so big that it pretty much covers his whole body when he speaks through it. I can usually see his legs waggling out under it. After I nearly drove off the road choked with laughter, I was struck by the usefulness of this. So I merely answered him (loudly, as I don't have a cone) and ever since he pretty much speaks through the cone when we're in the van. Poor Wheeler is caught in the middle though and so he has to listen to Offspring's voice booming through the cone and often has to shout my responses to Offspring (as I don't have a cone).
I have to admit though that he's been talking through the cone matter of factly for several months now but it still makes me laugh every single time he does it. I don't let him see me laugh because then it would rapidly deterioate from something useful to very, very annoying.
PLEASE DO NOT PARK WITHIN 8 FEET OF THE PASSENGER SIDE OF THIS VERY SPIFFY GLAMOROUS CONVERSION VAN. IF YOU CHOOSE TO NOT HEED THIS 'SUGGESTION' AND DO PARK WITHIN 8 FEET OF THE PASSENGER SIDE OF THIS VAN, I WILL LOWER THE 1000 POUND CAPACITY LIFT ONTO YOUR CAR AND CRUSH IT. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
But anyway. I don't much put out the cone anymore. However, Offspring has found a novel and highly useful way to utilize the cone. He speaks through it. It is worth noting first that it is a long long way from the back seat of the van to the driver's seat. It is also worth noting that the van is exceptionally noisy in the interior because it has lowered floors and the ramp (the aforementioned 1000 pound capacity lift) rattles like crazy when driving. Even when idiling. So I'm constantly yelling from the front seat 'WHAT DID YOU SAY?!??' to Offspring. A few months back, I was driving along and suddenly Offspring's voice was in my ear, clear as day, "Mom, could we stop at the toy store?" or whatever it was he said, although this is the most frequent sentence uttered while driving, followed closely by "Can we go to Chick Fil A?", the answer to which is no, I can't eat anything there and even when I could eat there, their chicken tastes really weird, its rumored to be marinaded in pickle juice, ewwwww.
I looked in the rearview mirror and there was a giant orange cone where my boy used to sit. Its so big that it pretty much covers his whole body when he speaks through it. I can usually see his legs waggling out under it. After I nearly drove off the road choked with laughter, I was struck by the usefulness of this. So I merely answered him (loudly, as I don't have a cone) and ever since he pretty much speaks through the cone when we're in the van. Poor Wheeler is caught in the middle though and so he has to listen to Offspring's voice booming through the cone and often has to shout my responses to Offspring (as I don't have a cone).
I have to admit though that he's been talking through the cone matter of factly for several months now but it still makes me laugh every single time he does it. I don't let him see me laugh because then it would rapidly deterioate from something useful to very, very annoying.
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