Raw Drip

Dick is  a la-dee-da driver.  What’s a la-dee-da driver, you ask?  Let me put it like this:  with Dick at the wheel we routinely cruise past highway exits, through red lights, and right by our intended destination.  This is because the la-dee-da driver possesses an uncanny ability to slip into a zen-like state of semi-consciousness where theirs is the only car on the road and space & time lose all significance. 

How often do you arrive at work and can’t remember any specifics of your commute?  From time to time we all find ourselves zone-driving.  It’s the monotony of our daily grind - home to work, work to home, on and on, day in and day out - that becomes such a routine our brain’s auto-pilot kicks in to save us from ourselves.   But the la-dee-da driver acts as if every outing were following a routine.  It’s as if the la-de-daa’s auto-pilot never disengages. 

Any suburban mom will tell you:  Planning is key to successfully navigating any shopping trip.  And since planning is what I spend all my free time doing these days,  I find it particularly annoying when la-dee-da Dick misses the first left into our local shopping center, thus causing us to have to cue up behind all the other drivers who are stuck waiting to get past the busy grocery store spewing out an endless stream of elderly shoppers.  When this happens (and it happens a lot), I like to point out that if he’d been paying attention and we’d gone my way we’d already be safely parked, in the store, running our errands.  This point gets the kind of enthusiastic response one would expect -typically a, “Yes, dear*” in a tone of voice sure to strip me of any sense of satisfaction.

*For the record, anytime a husband refers to his spouse as “dear” I can assure you that the spouse in question probably isn’t being viewed as particularly “dear” in that moment. 

More offensive to my la-dee-da driver than my condescending remarks are my occasional assaults on his deadened senses.  You see, if you have a la-dee-driver in your life, much like sleepwalkers, it’s best not startle them when they’re in their zone.  Dick gets really angry when I warn him of potential road hazards by screaming.  

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find it difficult to sit idly by while the spectre of imminent death looms ahead and my la-dee-da driver seems oblivious to its presence.  So when my own invisible brake fails to stop us and finger-pointing accompanied by high-pitched squeals of “daht-daht-daht!!” fail to engender a response, I am forced to scream.  In the past my screams were of the horror movie “I’m-about-to-be-slaughtered” variety which usually resulted in the following conversation: 

Dick (angry): “What’s up with the screaming?  You nearly caused us to have an accident!”

Me: ”I almost caused an accident?  What about the one I saved us from having?  You would’ve driven straight into that car if it hadn’t been for me.  My ’screaming’, as you call it, was actually the warning you needed to wake up and pay attention to the road!”

Dick: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  Everything was under control.  You know what was more dangerous than that car?  YOU!  You startled me and caused me to lose focus.  In the future, if you see a road hazard, warn me in a calm tone of voice so I can react appropriately.”

Me: “Are you insane?  I startled you?  What person when faced with death is going to sit back and calmly say, “Pardon me, darling, but are you aware of that large truck ahead who’s mysteriously come to a complete stop in front of us?  Hm. Perhaps a gentle application of the brakes would be in order?”

Dick: ”No need for sarcasm, dear (there it is again), I understand that you were frightened, but screaming is hardly going to provide me with the necessary information to deploy evasive maneuvers effectively.  Use your words, please.”

Ouch.  His comebacks are always so much sharper than mine.  When my behavior can be summed up with a common refrain we both use to coach our children, I can’t help but to pay attention. 

So despite how annoying I find his assertion that my screaming is more dangerous than his ignorance of his surroundings, we’ve managed to reach a compromise, of sorts.  I’ve promised to try to reign in my instinct for self-preservation and form words that will specifically warn him of the nature of the road hazard.  Now when faced with the spectre of imminent death or dismemberment, I’m able to sputter out something less scream-like and more substantive like, “Car…left! Red….light! STAHP!!!” 

For his part, Dick’s acknowledged his la-dee-da driving tendencies and allows me to tease him about it, relentlessly.

Every Tuesday night a local restaurant has a “Kids Eat Free” promo with tons of fun activities for the 10 and under set.  Last night we stopped by and let the kids indulge in some food of debatable nutritional value as they played with hand puppets and free balloon animals.   

The balloon artist (if that’s what they’re called?) was a multi-talented fellow able to make balloon accessories such as hats & belts, animals of course, and every parent’s favorite - balloon weapons.  Naturally, when faced with a virtual Noah’s Ark of balloon animals to choose from, Adam chose a weapon - a sword.  But, to my chagrin, he insisted that his sword needed to be pink. 

Today’s entry isn’t about how I have a problem with the sword being pink.  Honestly, I really don’t care what color is his favorite (although his happens to be pink at the moment), and I’m not worried about gender identity issues.  It’s just a color for goodness sake - not a lifestyle choice or an identity crisis - he’s not even 4!   But of all the colors Adam could have picked for a sword, blush pink resulted in the most phallic looking sword - ever.

Naturally, as Adam proudly pranced about poking people with his pretty, pink balloon sword, I found that I could barely maintain my parental composure.   Dick chastised me for my constant smirk and the whispered innuendos I shared with him when Adam was out of ear shot, but I’m guessing I’m not alone here.  I’m sure we all have those moments where the obvious sexual overtones of a child’s turn of phrase or the suggestive nature of a toy brings forth that 12 year old kid who dwells within us.   I just think my inner 12 year old must have a hair trigger because she’s constantly being silenced by the 36 year old mommy in me; the mommy who doesn’t want her kids to see how sick & twisted she really is - at least not until they’re old enough to be in on the joke.

Take Tabitha, for instance, who refuses to refer to her “Jessie” doll (from the movie Toy Story 2) as Jessie - she refers to the doll as “My Woody”.  I can’t tell you how many arguments I’ve refereed over Adam’s unwanted touching of Tabitha’s Woody or, worse yet, Tabitha’s unwanted touching of Adam’s Woody (his Toy Story Woody doll).   By my account, we’ve had more unwanted Woody touches than a Catholic boy’s school.

And then there are the naughty words our language-challenged pre-schoolers inadvertently stumble upon in their attempts at saying a real word.  For instance, Adam couldn’t say the word “clock” for the longest time.  That tricky “L” sound tripped him up every time.  This meant we were constantly looking at “the cock”.   Uh, yeah, that didn’t make me laugh too hard…

Tabitha’s superior verbal skills don’t save her from falling into the occasional unintended naughty word, either.  Just a few months ago, she struggled with the word “Froggy”, which, let me tell you sounds a whole lot like “Fuk me” when mangled by a 2 yr. old.

While I draw the line at actually teaching my kids inappropriate language or behavior for my  own sick amusement, I have to admit that I am the first one laughing when they poke, prod, trip, or stumble into my humor comfort zone where that 12 yr. old within still struggles to contain a laugh when someone says the word “gas”. 

So you tell me, how am I supposed to NOT allow my my mind to wander into dick & fart territory when faced with this most phallic-looking sword? (see photo below)

I’ll be upfront with you.  This is a crap post.  Seriously, there’s nothing hard-hitting, touching or note-worty in what I’m about to share with you.  Rather than judge me for what this post is not, try to think of it like a little chat between good friends who swap product recommendations and random likes & dislikes during the course of conversation.  Only here, when you click on and purchase one of my recommendations, you earn me 10% of every purchase. 

Now, before you go and get all put-off by my blatant attempt at monetizing Raw Drip, I’d like to point out that I do have some altruistic motivations.  Think about it:  the American economy is in recession.  How do you expect to stimulate our economic recovery if you’re sitting around saving money?  What’s going to happen to us if you don’t do your part and drive yourself deeper and deeper into debt through shopping?  Hm?  As I see it, we all need to keep consuming.  So, by shopping (preferably from any of the following convenient links) you’re not only helping me - you’re helping yourself and all of America.  How brilliant is that? 

Stuff that I love (in no particular order):

1. Fantastically relaxing (almost lullaby-like) song “Shed Your Love” by The Helio Sequence.  I played this for the kids on our recent road trip and it actually put them to sleep.  Unfortunately, it had a simliar effect on me so I had to blast the A/C and chew gum like a speed-freak afterwards.
2. Despite the fact that I will get no money for this referral, you really have to try Poco Dolce bittersweet chocolate with burnt caramel - basically toffee & sea salt.  I know the flavor combo sounds a bit odd, but trust me it all just works.  It’s probably the best dark chocolate I’ve ever had - and I’ve had a lot.
3. After sitting around, eating all that chocolate, you’re going to need something to distract from the inevitable ass-spread.  How about fantastic hair?  My sister-in-law recommended to me  Big shampoo by Lush and I’m in love with it.  It’s unlike any other shampoo I’ve ever used.  It’s kind of like putting a salt rub into your scalp, but then it just melts away and lathers beautifully leaving you with an exfoliated scalp and the cleanest, shiniest hair ever.   Take it from a beauty products junkie - this is good stuff.
4. The book, “How to Get into Debt” is an informative read, but also check out some of their other titles like “How to get Fat” (I think I’ve got that covered), “How to Traumatize your Children” (again, I’m on top of that one) and “The Complete Manual of Things that Might Kill You” - a great gift for the chronically ill person in your family.
5. Just to help you appreciate my altruistic leanings, I’ll wrap up my recommendations with a freebie.  Someecards.com offers (for free!) the most ridiculously funny e-greetings I’ve ever seen.   Wry, highly inappropriate, utterly tasteless - whatever you want to call ‘em - they’re funny.  You could spend hours clicking through these cards and laughing out loud.  My advice: check out the “Somewhat topical” section.  Dick sent me an e-card from there the other day that said, “I promise not to make you stand beside me during the public apology if I’m ever implicated in a prostitution ring.”  I really felt that card expressed the true depth of his feelings for me…