Rattled by Comedians In Cars

In the early days of raising a family, “I was rattled!”  That’s right, “I was rattled!”

It came out of nowhere; this blue handled, plastic, toy with a bulbous rounded end rattled me!  It hit the back of my head with a ping and a clink.

That wasn’t the only thing to come flying up.

Try driving along with kids in the back,  some in booster seats, some in car seats, and others just regular seat belt buckled when "Wham!"  "What was THAT?"

Baby bottles.  You’ve never been a mother until you’ve been nearly hit with a baby bottle.  It thunks pretty well on a windshield.  The kid in back goes stock still at the unexpected sound, not knowing whether to thoroughly enjoy his victory or be scared of  return fire, “WHO DUNNIT?”

Oh, the things that can fly!   Books, pillows, and hand fans.   Legos, mega blocks, any toy will do.   Sippy cups, socks, even your brother’s shoe!   Never fear Fisher Price farm toys like pigs, can fly, too! 

Ever hear of projectile vomiting?  I hadn’t either until the second child was born handicapped.  There was no getting him to the stool in time, nor could you predict and have a trashcan ready, but, let me tell you, he could let fly with the best of ‘em.

I know why Mom and Dad liked their station wagon with the three rows of seats.  Because the last row was rear facing!

A cry of “he ate all the pretzels, he’s not sharing“ or “he’s spitting on the window” would never get to the front seats.  Now, if you’re driving along on the interstate and look left at the car passing you, and they’re looking back at you with wild eyes which ratchet from you to the rear of your car and back to you, you’d better investigate.  

Someone might be mooning.  No, not swooning, not crooning, I typed that right, moo-ooon-ing.

 You’ve heard of that show on Netflix titled “Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee” well, we’ve got “Comedians in Cars Getting Conked”

First Comedian:  “He ate the last of my sandwich.”

Exasperated Mom:  “How on earth could HE eat the last of YOUR sandwich?”

Second Comedian:  “He stuck his hand in my face and wouldn’t move it, so…I ate it!”

Exasperated Mom:  “Was there blood?  If there wasn’t blood, no one’s hurt!”

Comedians In Cars can sing in rounds.  They love to do this.  No, not to irritate the mother, but to irritate the song starter.  It’s in the genes.  And, let me tell you, it’s not melodious.

Comedians In Cars, though strapped into car seats, can open car doors and giggle.

Comedians in Cars throw things out the window to see where they go and just what course they take before landing.  Hopefully on pavement and not on the car following you.

Comedians in Cars spit on windows then draw in the spittle.

Comedians in Cars hit themselves then pesticatingly wolf cry, “Stop it.  Quit hitting me.”

Oh yes, dear hubby, you want to drive eight hours to see your parents this summer?

Just conk me in the back of the head, rattle me good, maybe I can enjoy this trip in a concussed coma.

Ah, the dreamy state of sleep’s arrival.   In my dreamy state I'm doubting my vision.  With one eye squinting I see the last bit of someone’s lunchmeat sandwich hurling into space; I see it separate like a NASA rocket into three pieces -- the lettuce, the meat, and the bread -- and hit the dashboard!

More of Kids On The Bus!

"The world according to kids is hilarious.  Wished it worked that way!"

DH, darling hubby, who is a bus driver to 44 primary and elementary kids said that to me last week.  Some kids names never come up, and some names I hear quite frequently.  I feel I'm getting to know the frequent ones through osmosis, LOL.

Today, darling hubby had to switch busses.  You know those idiot lights, aka check engine lights, that come on on the dash?  When it comes to government issued equipment they have to be checked out.

So this new-to-him, old school bus is what he calls a transit bus, not the conventional type.  On this one the lights went out on his dash and it took a while for him to figure out how to get them working again.  His assigned bus is all computerized, push button.

This old bus, you and I can relate to.  It has an old heater under the rear seat.  You know the kind, boxy, metal covered, painted green;  sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't.

Little Lisa flung her coat on top of the old heater.  It promptly got sucked in and stuck in the fan.  All upset she began squealing, "I broke the bus!"

DH tells her with a wink, "Lisa you're breaking my buses faster than the mechanics can fix 'em!"

Then there's the "class clown" Jason.  When Jason got on the bus he was pinching his fingers and thumb together making pinches like a bird pecking at seeds in the air, "Flertie, flertie, flertie, flertie, flertie."  He gets close to DH and lightly pretend pinches his jacket, "Flertie," he says again.

DH, "Jason, what are you doing?"
Jason, "I'm flirting with you."

DH chuckles, "Jason, go sit down."

And we have Ethan.  Ethan lives with just his godmother.  Ethan wants more than his share of the candy canes which DH offers to the kids on Fridays after school.  It's kind of a bribe for them to behave next week.

All kids love sweets.  All kids want more than one.  Ethan wanted four.  He asked, "Can I have 3 more.  For my sisters, ssss."  DH asked, "Sisters, ssss?"

Ethan replied affirmatively, "Yes, sisters, ssss."

Laughing DH admonished, "Ethan, you may have one for you and one for your godmother."

Ethan reached in, took two.  Then, he reached in again and took 2 more.  DH looks at me with a twinkle, knowing the boy had tried snookering him, "I guess in his world he has 3 sisters, ssss!"  Hilarious how that works!

Kids On The Bus, "Little Hearts"

Darling Hubby John calls the kids on his new bus, “little hearts”.   I knew he was more friend than father to our boys, but I didn’t know just how much he loved having children until he retired from his warehouse job.

Darling Hubby has posted at the front of his long yellow bus three rules -- Be Respectful to the Bus Driver, Remain Seated, and Use Quiet Voices.  You’ll remember these because I'm going to tell you about Colbert.

Since Darling Hubby had had a bad backache on Monday, he missed work so the children had a substitute bus driver.  The new driver, also named John, was 20 minutes late.  Alice told hime so, she wasn’t happy.

Colbert, another young rider, told Darling Hubby the rest of the story.

He stood at the top of the steps, using his excited voice.

“We’re glad you’re back.   The other John just yells at us all the time.  He yells on his microphone to “SIT DOWN!”

“And Donny kept spitting.  And T.J. yelled a lot.  And Alice wouldn’t sit down.”

Now, I’ve got to tell you that there are 4 older boys who are in charge of the emergency back door and that there are 2 boxes of lost and found sweaters with gloves resting under the back seat.   One of the boxes also holds a wind-up rubber black spider.

So, Colbert’s telling Darling Hubby,  “Your boys in the back got the big spider out and made the girls scream.  The girls go nuts!  It’s just too noisy.  It’s just too crazy back there!  I’m glad you’re back.“

Want to hear about Little Tyke?  On Hubby’s route he has a preschooler, who doesn’t like being separated from the rest of the boys.   Little Tyke’s separated because state law says at his age he has to be secured in a booster seat.  It’s sure aggravating this very energetic boy.  

Like yesterday, he was aggravated at his friend who wouldn’t let him finish a game on his Kindle, so he started spitting.  Another time he pulled out all his shoelaces.  Some days when he’s really frustrated his boots come off and get flung up and over his head into the seat behind him!   Can’t you just imagine a tiny preschooler trying to exert control over his space; you’ve got to smile knowing he’s a fizzling fireball with very little impact.

Darling Hubby also has a boy named Parker, actually he’s the oldest boy on the bus, and he was upset at not being chosen to be a keeper of the back door. Hubby told him he needed to act more responsible like the other older boys.  So, Parker decided to prove himself and volunteered to take care of the blind girl!   

Those acts just makes the heart more endeared to the little ones, right?  

They came on the bus at Christmastime, the most rambunctious of them, and gave Darling Hubby homemade cookies; delicious, even though the icing has smeared into unrecognizable designs.  They handed him notes from their mothers thanking him, with enclosed gift cards.  Others gave him small wrapped presents (including sneezing fits and seven day colds, ugh).

All those antics keep Darling John in love with his “little hearts”.

Oh, oh, oh, I must tell you before signing off, the story that jolts Darling Hubby John the most.  This will make you burst out laughing.

Primary girl, Lucy, was chewing on a red-hot fireball.  She came up to the trashcan, spit in it with gusto, and with a “Whoosh-thunk” said, “That was hot!”  Then quickly turned to John, head on, face-to-face, opened her mouth and blew out her breath, “Here!  Wanna smell?”

Who's On The Bus?

Ever hear of flying monkeys?  When Darling Hubby says "flying monkeys" he's not talking about those in the Wizard of Oz.

Remember being 6 or 7 years old and riding the bus?  Spit wads would fly through the air, girlfriend and boyfriend would pass loving notes, homework papers got passed over seats for sharing, and anything unsecured would be used for playing football, air-bor-ne!

When we first started riding the bus at the red brick house (had to call it the red brick ‘cause we used to live in the green and white house) I was 7 and Brother was 6.  Mom and Dad had me skip kindergarten so I went right on in to first grade; but Brother got to go to kindergarten.  It was exciting to catch the bus for the first time. 

Remember that?  Feeling so big.

Those first steps up into the bus were BIG!  But I’ve always been able to do something easily if someone else was there with me, so it was great to have my brother there to brave the yellow monster with all those wheels. 

Up we went.  Hey, there was my cousin!  Yay, Jimmy; Jimmy was on the bus!  Great! 

Oh, and there sat the neighbor girl Molly.  Molly and I had been walking across the cow pasture to each other’s houses all summer for what they nowadays call play dates.  Yep, we had to avoid the cow pies, and climb the wired fences.  You always had to climb near the fence post so the metal nailed-in square holes would support you. 

Ever have to do that?  Not fun the first time your foot slides on through.  You get scratches all up and down your legs!

Molly would come to my house with a note saying she had to be back home after an hour, then another day I’d take a note over to her mother saying I could only stay for half an hour this time. 

Their house was fun because they had an old treadle sewing machine, which I’d never seen before.  It was intriguing.  And wow, it worked 'cause Molly’s mom was using it!

So, on the bus, it was fun, too – my brother, my cousin, and my playmate!

We’ve come full circle.  You know what I mean, I don’t ride the bus, but now Darling Hubby rides the bus, LOL.  After raising a half dozen children who no longer ride the bus, Darling Hubby is riding the bus.  There’s a bus driver in my house!  What a hoot!  

And to top it all off, HE LOVES IT! 

The first day home he came in chuckling, “The flying monkeys are delivered!

Pushy Therapist's Couch

“If you currently can’t seem to connect with your character (when you have writer’s block) put him on the therapist’s couch”, that was a fellow writer’s advice.

The advice made me smile.  Big.  Then I laughed out loud. 

It made me laugh to imagine coming up to Biker Dude – burly, head of thick black curly hair, facial hair enough to cut for a large doll’s ringlet wig –and forcing him onto the therapists couch to dig deep into his feelings.

Of course, he’d land with a thud like a wrecking ball in mud!

 You think he’d take me seriously?  Shoot, no!  He’d grin with a twinkle in his dark eyes, then he’d chuckle.

“How’d that make you feel?”  I’m supposed to ask this as a therapist.  

He’d probably say, “Like Mack The Dog lunging for some petting after my long day at work.”

“From your viewpoint, what’s the problem today?”  second probing question asked.

“I have a pushy therapist?”  he’d query with laughter.

“No, Biker Dude, I’m asking what brought you to the therapist’s couch?” 

“My baby.

“Your baby?”

“The Suzuki, it’s a sweet ride.”

Clearly, I’m not getting the answers I expected.  Nor answers I can work with.  This Dude is intent on being entertaining with literal interpretations.

So, in my mind I turn to his brother.  He’s nothing like Biker Dude.  Brother is tall, thin, impulsive, full of silliness and named S’pencil. 

“S’pencil, have you ever seen a counselor before?” I’d try to solve the problem with this new patient and a new query.

“Absolutely, I saw you.” 

“You did?  I don’t remember.  When?”

“Just now.  When you were questioning Biker Dude!”  Oh, boy.

Still trying to connect with my characters and trying to get to the heart of the problem, “Do you consider yourself to have a low, average or high interpersonal I.Q.?” 

“He’s 5 ft. 9, and I’m 5 ft. 11, so I’d interpret-personally that I have the higher eye-to-eye queue.”  My mind is smiling again.

Going at this from another angle, I’d have to ask,  “Do you get along with your siblings?”

“Yep,” says S’pencil, “we get along just fine.  This afternoon on the way over Biker Dude said, “Hurry up!  Get along.”  “And I got here just fine.” Then he, too, would have a twinkle in his eyes.

In my mind I wonder, shall I put them on the therapist’s couch at the same time?  Biker Dude would command the space, as the saying goes.  And S’pencil would tower over him in a kingly way. 

I’d better separate them -- one on the couch, one in a chair, and me behind the desk.  Yes, the symbolism is there; the desk is a barrier with me behind it, chuckle.

Then, I can just imagine it; these two would sit there in glee watching me.

Give Me A Second, I'm Thinking

A dangling participle should be included, the worst sentence, as worstest sentences go, should also have misspellings, wrong tense, an few grammatical errers, and doesn’t never need no double negatives.

I’m thinking.

Just give me a second, I’m thinking.

I’m thinking my gray-haired perfectly coiffured English/Lit teacher would stand with her hands on her ample hips, look at me with squinting probing eyes, and wonder if she should lower my grade for that sentence or not.  She knew quite well I was up to something.

A prank?

Fulfilling a dare?

Provoking the teacher and therefore the class?

Enjoying a secret laugh at trying to pull the leg of a professional adult?

She knew.

She knew and I knew.

She knew that I knew better.

Ah, what fun.

She was fun, too.  She’d bring out photos, and artwork, and magazine pages to distribute throughout the class.  Our assignment?   Make up a story to go along with the scene.

Another time we were to write the ever-traditional essay about “What I Did Over Summer Vacation”.  Ugh.  My family was lucky to go to the local pool where we braved the turbulent waves made by the belly flopping water bully.  It was fun to spit chlorinated water upward like a whale’s blowhole in the bully’s direction.  We never did anything as exciting as the class’s Little Miss Popular who in just a few weeks time tripped up the Eiffel Tower, swam the Thames, and yodeled from the top of Switzerland’s Matterhorn. 

Once there was a fun assignment for my fellow classmates of filling in conversation bubbles.   Not for me.  Being funny didn’t come easy.   But I had admiration for others.  Teacher said we could use one of her papers that had characters already on it or, as Johnny would ask,  “Can we draw our own?”  Of course, Johnny could do it all.  He could draw the characters himself, fill in the bubbles, and write commentary that made you laugh out loud, my hero.  Just like Charles Schultz he could draw a Snoopy dog in love.  Of course, he became my boyfriend!

For one of my teacher’s other assignments we had to incorporate the five senses in our writings.  Her example went something like this:

“I heard the upward gurgle and felt the coming bulges of gas.  Then the stench from the splattered chunks of vomit of last night’s spaghetti supper rose to encircle my nose.  Like green bile in the back of the throat, the stench rose upwards to the eyes causing streams of tears to wet my reddened fevered cheeks.”

Sheesh, that was sensory overload!

With inspiration like these to write wrong, write funny, and awaken the senses how could I not aspire to Wuthering Heights.