I took the boy for his flu vaccine Monday night. Of course, this was just for the 'regular old flu', not the dreaded and overblown (my apologizes if I have offended any nasal passages with that play on words) H1N1 virus. When I first informed him that he would be getting the vaccine, there was the requisite whining about having to get a shot. No, silly, it's not a shot. It's a squirt of whatever-it-is up your nose. Ah, the miracle of science. Ok, then, TER couldn't complain about that; not bad, for a boy who can pretty much complain and be contrary about everything.
Once we arrived at the office of the pediatrician, he immediately sat down and proceeded to cover his mouth and nose with his t-shirt. He informed me that he was protecting himself because that place is "full of sick people!". ooooooookkkkkkkkkkk Good to know that his old ratty t-shirt is the perfect buffer against all germs and viruses. He has many of such t-shirts, so if you would like one for your own protection, do let me know and I'd be happy to provide you with one.
So there he sat, looking as if he had lost his actual surgical mask, but was preparing to perform some radical new procedure (one-handed) on the nearest child. I couldn't help giggling at him, which he did not appreciate. Oddly, once we were called back into the exam room, the necessity to cover his mouthal openings had subsided and he felt he could safely sit there - were no sick children had apparently been all day. Whatever. In comes the nurse, squirted the magic spray up his nose and sent him on his way, with specific instruction not to blow his nose "for a while". Thanks for clearing that up. By the time we got back to the car, he blew his nose. I envisioned the $35 I had just paid projecting right out of his nostrils onto the ground. But, I'll choose to believe that the vaccine had sufficiently made its way to wherever it goes once it goes up the nose. On the other hand, TER was convinced that he would now get the flu the next day, and that he had, once again, ruined everything.
By the time we got home, the nasal episode was forgotten and the boy proceeded to begin making chocolate chip cookies - from scratch. I'm still not sure why allowed this on a school night. Maybe I wanted a cookie? Thankfully, this was his personal project, so I was free to go downstairs to watch the season premiere of House in peace. (mmmmm Hugh Laurie) Surprisingly, I was interrupted by only a few irrelevant baking questions, which included "how many tablespoons are in a cup?" and "do eggshells go in the garbage disposal or in the trash?". All was going well until I smelled the cookies. A lot. A batch was burning. I'm not sure how he missed this fact, considering the house smelled like, well, burnt cookies! A lot. After waiting for a commercial (bad Mommy), I went upstairs to remind him to remove cookies from the oven when the timer goes off. "oh yeah" Well, he WAS caught up on SportsCenter, so it's understood how distracted he was. In his head, anyway.
Burnt cookies = more determination that he had "ruined everything". However, he made me try one, insisting that maybe they weren't that bad. How is that possible that they were ruined not that badly?? To keep the peace, I took a bite, swallowed hard, and smiled, indicating that they will suffice. In my head I felt they would only suffice if you were a starving pygmy, or needed to pelt a burglar with a hard object.
Happily, there was only one batch that went awry. The other cookies looked and were perfectly yummy. I swear I've only had two, as he is using them as his treats when he packs his school lunches. Aaawww - how cute. The burned cookies have mysteriously disappeared (into the trash can, underneath other pieces of trash so to hide evidence of my betrayal that I have eaten them with delight).
Cookies baked, TER went to bed. I finished House and made my way back into the kitchen. At least I think it was a kitchen. It looked more like a Keebler factory had moved in, then exploded. Utensils, ingredients and dough everywhere. And everywhere is where I left it. Hell, it would be there in the morning. And it was, at which time the boy got upset at the fact that there were no clean spoons for his cereal. Drama continues...........eyes keep rolling.
September 22, 2009
September 21, 2009
Sugar Baby!
Good news for me! I am off the hook. My household responsibilities are no more. The water, cable and VEPCO** bills will be paid for me. My salary will now be my fun money, to be spent as I choose, be it on liquor, first-class travel and/or trips to Vegas and Monte Carlo. I need to get on the phone and find myself full-time personal shoppers, maids, chefs, trainers and hairdressers. I feel like Eva Gabor before Eddie Albert moved her out to the Green Acres farm.
My new found life of luxury is due to the fact that I was informed earlier today that my abode actually belongs to my son, not to me at all. I know this because he called to say that he forgot THE keys to HIS house. Luckily, I happen to have a spare set (although I had thought they were the original - oh well) of keys to HIS house, and was able to let him into his personal dwelling. From here on out, I shall consider myself a guest, and expect to be catered to. This plan, however, may be flawed. We're talking here about the odds of TER having any hosting abilities when he can't remember to: flush the toilet; put the milk jug back in the fridge; turn off the light/tv/computer/water faucet; or lock the front door.
Fiddledeedee. I will just be the kind of company who fends for herself, not wanting to be a burden or put anyone out. Besides, I will get enough joy out of knowing that the boy's invisible paycheck will pay for all costs associated with HIS house! He can't kick me out - he needs me to drive him places. He will make the car payment, and I'm happy to cart him to baseball practice. My very own Sugar Baby!
** VEPCO: Predecessor of our current monopolistic electric company, Dominion Virginia Power.*** But I like "VEPCO" and refuse to refer to it as anything else. Just like the little convenience store down the street from my parents' house will forever be Short Stop to me, no matter how many times it changes names and ownership.
*** BTW - never make out a check to Dominion Virginia Power simply as "Virginia Power" - I heard once that crooked bank employees will change the payee to "Virginia Powerston" and run off with your money! Then VEPCO turns off your electricity and in order to call and yell at them, you have to to find a flashlight to find a phone book to look up VEPCO, which you can't find, because it only exists in my head.
My new found life of luxury is due to the fact that I was informed earlier today that my abode actually belongs to my son, not to me at all. I know this because he called to say that he forgot THE keys to HIS house. Luckily, I happen to have a spare set (although I had thought they were the original - oh well) of keys to HIS house, and was able to let him into his personal dwelling. From here on out, I shall consider myself a guest, and expect to be catered to. This plan, however, may be flawed. We're talking here about the odds of TER having any hosting abilities when he can't remember to: flush the toilet; put the milk jug back in the fridge; turn off the light/tv/computer/water faucet; or lock the front door.
Fiddledeedee. I will just be the kind of company who fends for herself, not wanting to be a burden or put anyone out. Besides, I will get enough joy out of knowing that the boy's invisible paycheck will pay for all costs associated with HIS house! He can't kick me out - he needs me to drive him places. He will make the car payment, and I'm happy to cart him to baseball practice. My very own Sugar Baby!
** VEPCO: Predecessor of our current monopolistic electric company, Dominion Virginia Power.*** But I like "VEPCO" and refuse to refer to it as anything else. Just like the little convenience store down the street from my parents' house will forever be Short Stop to me, no matter how many times it changes names and ownership.
*** BTW - never make out a check to Dominion Virginia Power simply as "Virginia Power" - I heard once that crooked bank employees will change the payee to "Virginia Powerston" and run off with your money! Then VEPCO turns off your electricity and in order to call and yell at them, you have to to find a flashlight to find a phone book to look up VEPCO, which you can't find, because it only exists in my head.
September 9, 2009
Bite Me!
A friend told me this evening that “if we were gay cowboys……..I’d quit you…….because you don’t blog.” Damn, girl, glad I’m not a gay cowboy – not that there’s anything wrong with that. They make for some box office gold!
As a straight suburb-girl, I blog for you today. The subject: my fingernails.
I began the awful, disgusting habit of biting my nails in the womb. This is because at that time, my mother still nibbled on hers! That sainted woman was 27 years old before she stopped. That is a fact that might make one cringe, until you learn that I am almost 38 and still bite mine. I can hear your squeals of “eeewwww” now. Don’t worry. I have stopped. For the moment. I think.
In an effort to appear a feminine creature adorned with lovely painted fingers, I wore acrylic tips for years. However, the biweekly ritual of having a sprite-like Vietnamese woman called Kim attempt to beautify my hands became too much – from a financial perspective. As part of my own personal attempt at Recession Salvation, I have given up on my plastic claws. As a result of the years of abuse to which I subjected my keratin stubs, they are very, very weak; and thus are a pain in my ass. Although they are actually “long” enough to poke something, they are practically wobbly. I apply what is purported to be Strengthener every day, but I feel certain that it’s really just shiny goo that smells funny.
The good news for those of you who have cried yourselves to sleep at night over the lack of my postings…………I read that increased blood flow to your fingers can stimulate and increase nail growth. That means more typing for me; and more reading for you!
As a straight suburb-girl, I blog for you today. The subject: my fingernails.
I began the awful, disgusting habit of biting my nails in the womb. This is because at that time, my mother still nibbled on hers! That sainted woman was 27 years old before she stopped. That is a fact that might make one cringe, until you learn that I am almost 38 and still bite mine. I can hear your squeals of “eeewwww” now. Don’t worry. I have stopped. For the moment. I think.
In an effort to appear a feminine creature adorned with lovely painted fingers, I wore acrylic tips for years. However, the biweekly ritual of having a sprite-like Vietnamese woman called Kim attempt to beautify my hands became too much – from a financial perspective. As part of my own personal attempt at Recession Salvation, I have given up on my plastic claws. As a result of the years of abuse to which I subjected my keratin stubs, they are very, very weak; and thus are a pain in my ass. Although they are actually “long” enough to poke something, they are practically wobbly. I apply what is purported to be Strengthener every day, but I feel certain that it’s really just shiny goo that smells funny.
The good news for those of you who have cried yourselves to sleep at night over the lack of my postings…………I read that increased blood flow to your fingers can stimulate and increase nail growth. That means more typing for me; and more reading for you!
August 26, 2009
My Blog's a Blank
In recent weeks, I have been reminded/hounded/berated/beaten about the head and face regarding the perception that it has been "way too long" since my last posting. To some, I have even made unkept promises of forthcoming amusements pouring from my fingertips. Sorry guys. I pinkie swear that I have racked my little pea brain to come up with a topic worthy of your read. I've got nuthin'! Which is sad because, as we all know, I'm a smart girl. About some things. Most days. All things being relative, of course. Just don't ask me about chemistry.
The few sparks of possible writing material quickly revealed themselves to be either: stupid; not interesting at all; only funny to me; nothing I'd want seen written on the side of a bus; or frankly, none of your damn business.
I do have one actual update to give you. When last we found ourselves in this State, I had been victimized and traumatized by you-know-where. Well, after two morons from the company contacted me to basically tell me 'too bad, so sad for you', I wrote a prolific nastrygram back to the head office. Immediately after my diatribe was passed down the chain of ineffectiveness, I was offered a $25 gift card to you-know-where, to compensate me for the trouble I had encountered. (A new porsche would have been more equitable.) Mind you, I will never shop there again, BUT did enter the store to pick up said free money! And as my good deed that day, promptly turned it over to a charitable organization.
In other news.........there really isn't any.........that I'm ready to share. See, now you're waiting with baited breath, aren't you? Probably not, but whatever.
Seriously, though, I'm going to start making shit up if bouts of literary genious continue to evade me.
The few sparks of possible writing material quickly revealed themselves to be either: stupid; not interesting at all; only funny to me; nothing I'd want seen written on the side of a bus; or frankly, none of your damn business.
I do have one actual update to give you. When last we found ourselves in this State, I had been victimized and traumatized by you-know-where. Well, after two morons from the company contacted me to basically tell me 'too bad, so sad for you', I wrote a prolific nastrygram back to the head office. Immediately after my diatribe was passed down the chain of ineffectiveness, I was offered a $25 gift card to you-know-where, to compensate me for the trouble I had encountered. (A new porsche would have been more equitable.) Mind you, I will never shop there again, BUT did enter the store to pick up said free money! And as my good deed that day, promptly turned it over to a charitable organization.
In other news.........there really isn't any.........that I'm ready to share. See, now you're waiting with baited breath, aren't you? Probably not, but whatever.
Seriously, though, I'm going to start making shit up if bouts of literary genious continue to evade me.
July 16, 2009
An EscheWAL of the MART
Last night, TER and I went shopping for the remaining items required for his upcoming trip to Williamsport, PA for Baseball Camp. I’m almost of jealous of what will be his exciting adventure – playing the game at the Little League capital of the world. Second only to the fervor of counting the days during which I will be childless is my anticipation of seeing the place for myself when I go there to pick him up next Friday. I love baseball and cannot wait to see that Mecca!!
In a moment of what can only be described temporary insanity on my part, I drove straight to the place that shall not be named, but that I will refer to as WM. It was a conscious effort to save money on the myriad of items still on the shopping list. Little did I know the high price I would pay for my frugality. It may be a case of no good deed going unpunished, or it could be bad karma coming after my ass. If it was karmic retribution, I think I am even with the gods.
The department store trauma began when I asked an employee where I might find the dressing rooms so that the boy could try on the gym shorts which took him no less than 20 minutes to pick out. Keep in mind that this woman was on the floor, re-folding girls tops that had been haphazardly rummaged through by the rude customers who populated the store. My question about the dressing room was met with a blank stare and a mumbled “huh?”. This was the only discernable verbal response I got because this publicly-visible employee spoke no English. Why in the world is such a deplorable linguist positioned in a location where it is a hugely viable possibility that she would be asked questions in English? Good night in Heaven! So, I proceeded to wander about on my own and eventually found the dressing room, wherein it took TER 10 full minutes to try on two pair of shorts. I still don’t understand that delay.
Once his shorts had been formally selected, we proceeded on to look for beach towels. Crazily, I assumed beach towels would either be found in the towel department, or perhaps with the seasonal stuff, like pool toys and whatever. Nope. No beach towels were to be seen. I decided to throw the dice and ask the next employee I found (no small feat) about the possible location of beach towels. She had no clue, but at least could tell me so in broken English. She kindly walked with me to the Customer Service (hahahahaha) desk at which a gentleman informed me that all moisture alleviators would be found in the housewares department, near the washcloths and shower curtains. When I insisted this was untrue, he then informed me that they must be out of stock. What? Ok, whatever. So I ventured off one more time to search for more items on the list, by this time muttering under (and sometimes over) my breath such phrases which I should not have been vocalizing in public. To TER’s credit, he kept silent during my semi-public tirade and immense frustration at the ludicrous happenings inside the store. I finally told him that I HAD to get out of there, NOW! Whatever we didn’t have in the cart, I would get elsewhere. I just HAD to leave. You know that feeling you get when you know that if you don’t remove yourself from a particular setting, somebody is going to get hurt? That was me.
The few check-out lines which were open all had at least three other brain-addled customers waiting in line. So, I had the bright idea to just use one of the self check-out lanes, all of which were shockingly line-less. Upon scanning my third item – travel-sized shampoo – the senseless scanner/screen combo informed me that I had to “wait for assistance”. For what? I again graced anyone within earshot with a few choice words. You will be stupefied to learn that no assistance came forth. The machine cared not, assumed I was some moron who lacked swiping ability and refused to allow me to continue the check-out process. That’s it. I was DONE. Done. Done. Done. One foot already over the line of the cliff of Tolerance of Absurdity, I stormed out of WM. Left, just left. Left my cart right where it was, and left. Had to leave. Just had to. TER followed silently behind. When Mom is shaking in an attempt to not commit an act which would force WM to, in the future, carry straight jackets (likely in the housewares department) for occasions during which irate customers need to be restrained, a bright child will obey the wordless orders to make no sudden moves and to accept as appropriate everything Mom just said and did.
As God as my witness, I will never again enter a WM store. Now, who wants to go to Target with me tonight?
In a moment of what can only be described temporary insanity on my part, I drove straight to the place that shall not be named, but that I will refer to as WM. It was a conscious effort to save money on the myriad of items still on the shopping list. Little did I know the high price I would pay for my frugality. It may be a case of no good deed going unpunished, or it could be bad karma coming after my ass. If it was karmic retribution, I think I am even with the gods.
The department store trauma began when I asked an employee where I might find the dressing rooms so that the boy could try on the gym shorts which took him no less than 20 minutes to pick out. Keep in mind that this woman was on the floor, re-folding girls tops that had been haphazardly rummaged through by the rude customers who populated the store. My question about the dressing room was met with a blank stare and a mumbled “huh?”. This was the only discernable verbal response I got because this publicly-visible employee spoke no English. Why in the world is such a deplorable linguist positioned in a location where it is a hugely viable possibility that she would be asked questions in English? Good night in Heaven! So, I proceeded to wander about on my own and eventually found the dressing room, wherein it took TER 10 full minutes to try on two pair of shorts. I still don’t understand that delay.
Once his shorts had been formally selected, we proceeded on to look for beach towels. Crazily, I assumed beach towels would either be found in the towel department, or perhaps with the seasonal stuff, like pool toys and whatever. Nope. No beach towels were to be seen. I decided to throw the dice and ask the next employee I found (no small feat) about the possible location of beach towels. She had no clue, but at least could tell me so in broken English. She kindly walked with me to the Customer Service (hahahahaha) desk at which a gentleman informed me that all moisture alleviators would be found in the housewares department, near the washcloths and shower curtains. When I insisted this was untrue, he then informed me that they must be out of stock. What? Ok, whatever. So I ventured off one more time to search for more items on the list, by this time muttering under (and sometimes over) my breath such phrases which I should not have been vocalizing in public. To TER’s credit, he kept silent during my semi-public tirade and immense frustration at the ludicrous happenings inside the store. I finally told him that I HAD to get out of there, NOW! Whatever we didn’t have in the cart, I would get elsewhere. I just HAD to leave. You know that feeling you get when you know that if you don’t remove yourself from a particular setting, somebody is going to get hurt? That was me.
The few check-out lines which were open all had at least three other brain-addled customers waiting in line. So, I had the bright idea to just use one of the self check-out lanes, all of which were shockingly line-less. Upon scanning my third item – travel-sized shampoo – the senseless scanner/screen combo informed me that I had to “wait for assistance”. For what? I again graced anyone within earshot with a few choice words. You will be stupefied to learn that no assistance came forth. The machine cared not, assumed I was some moron who lacked swiping ability and refused to allow me to continue the check-out process. That’s it. I was DONE. Done. Done. Done. One foot already over the line of the cliff of Tolerance of Absurdity, I stormed out of WM. Left, just left. Left my cart right where it was, and left. Had to leave. Just had to. TER followed silently behind. When Mom is shaking in an attempt to not commit an act which would force WM to, in the future, carry straight jackets (likely in the housewares department) for occasions during which irate customers need to be restrained, a bright child will obey the wordless orders to make no sudden moves and to accept as appropriate everything Mom just said and did.
As God as my witness, I will never again enter a WM store. Now, who wants to go to Target with me tonight?
July 12, 2009
Big Bang Befuddlement
If you shot a high-powered rifle off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean at a 45 degree angle, how far do you think the bullet would go?
Yeah, um, I don't know either. This is the question 13-year old TER asked me yesterday. Out of nowhere. Apropos to nothing. While I was sitting at the dining room table clipping coupons for the grocery store food that nourishes his body and mind just so that his surely-larger-than-mine brain can come up with questions like this. To ask me. Why me? My only response was to cock my head to the right, squint my eyes in confusion, laugh stupidly and say "I can't believe you just asked me that!".
The fact that he can even come up with such questions makes it clear that he will, in very short order, be more intelligent than I ever was. As most parents do when presented with an off-the-wall question, I told him to Google it. Or, that he should call his uncle, who was, at that same moment in time, hanging out at a gun shop. His response to this pass-the buck suggestion was to tell me that he didn't really care that much. I don't get it. How can a child possibly come up with such a query, ask it of an adult whom he knows wouldn't have faintest idea of how to even hazard a guess, but not truly be curious enough to hunt down the answer for himself? Then what is the point of asking the question in the first place?
I tried to Google the answer, but still don't know how much ground (or water) a bullet would cover in such a situation, assuming that there was no wind. I'm the one who doesn't give a good gosh damn, yet I'm the one trying to find out. What's wrong with this picture?
However, a random person on http://www.answers.yahoo.com/ who claims to have a degree in mechanical engineering tells us that:
Neglecting air resistance, it would travel 20.66 miles if fired at a 45 degree angle.
Vy = 571.144 m/sVy = Vo + (gravity)(time) 571.144 = 0 + 9.81(t)t = 58.22 seconds Vx = 571.144 m/sX = Xo + (Vo)(t)X = 0 +(571.144)(58.22)X = 33,252 metres X = 109,094.50 feet X = 20.66.
Good to know.
July 8, 2009
Stop Using Protection
Mind out of the gutter - this is not about ungloved love.
The town in which I live is populated by less than 15,000 people, but contains more than 967,000 stop signs. One would think this would result in traffic congestion which rivals that of horrifyingly wretched, ozone-depleting cites such as Los Angeles and Atlanta; the latter of which should be bitch-slapped for the fact that 99.9% of its roads contain the word Peachtree. However, since I am the only one who comes to a complete stop at each and every one of the red octagons, vehicles manage to make their way around town with no real hindrances.
Not only do I stop at stop signs, I also - GASP - cease my car's movement at red traffic lights, of which there are merely 48,000 in town. Law-abiding citizen I am, I further only make a right turn on red after coming to a complete halt. Evidently, most are unaware of this requirement. Or maybe I am wrong; perhaps it is an actual mandate that red lights are only meant for those turning left, going straight, or need time to send an email on their Crackberry.
While fully decelerated at such a red light this weekend, I observed a family crossing the street to my right. Dad walked beside two youngins who were riding their bikes. Both kids wore helmets - my first clue that this was a dorky family. I have never understood why and when it was determined that children must be protected from all possible danger. Helmets, knee pads, leashes for unruly toddlers (in my day, if we ran in the mall, we just got smacked), gps microchips implanted in the back of the necks of newborns......Good Lord. Soon, there will be invisible force fields in which to encase your children as soon as they get out of bed (with its protective rails, of course) in the morning.
It's ok to fall down and skin your knee; both of mine bear scars from childhood falls. And, it's ok to let your kids do stupid things and learn from the consequences. Go ahead, touch the hot stove and see what happens! You're talking to a girl who once, for no explicable reason, through a rock the size of a baseball up in the air - proceeded to look up at it and have gravity bring it back down right onto her face, knocking out a front tooth! Guess what, I didn't do that again.
But I digress. Behind Dad and overly-protected bike-riding kiddos was Mom. She was pushing an umbrella which carried a kid who was probably two years old. Keep in mind, the boy was IN THE STROLLER. He wasn't pushing, he wasn't standing in it, hell, he looked quite comfortable in his chauffeured state. My eyes popped out of my head when I realized that he too, HAD ON A HELMET! WTF?? Ok, this family is worse than dorks, they are complete, brainwashed buffoons.* I predict that each of their now-unscathed children will be verbally tormented and have cafeteria food hurled at them by the time they reach second grade.
I was just about to roll down my window and harass them myself, but the light turned green and the impatient jerk behind me immediately honked his horn at me! I had to drive away - 75 yards to a stop sign.
* Please note that neither Mom nor Dad wore a helmet. I defy you to explain that one.
The town in which I live is populated by less than 15,000 people, but contains more than 967,000 stop signs. One would think this would result in traffic congestion which rivals that of horrifyingly wretched, ozone-depleting cites such as Los Angeles and Atlanta; the latter of which should be bitch-slapped for the fact that 99.9% of its roads contain the word Peachtree. However, since I am the only one who comes to a complete stop at each and every one of the red octagons, vehicles manage to make their way around town with no real hindrances.
Not only do I stop at stop signs, I also - GASP - cease my car's movement at red traffic lights, of which there are merely 48,000 in town. Law-abiding citizen I am, I further only make a right turn on red after coming to a complete halt. Evidently, most are unaware of this requirement. Or maybe I am wrong; perhaps it is an actual mandate that red lights are only meant for those turning left, going straight, or need time to send an email on their Crackberry.
While fully decelerated at such a red light this weekend, I observed a family crossing the street to my right. Dad walked beside two youngins who were riding their bikes. Both kids wore helmets - my first clue that this was a dorky family. I have never understood why and when it was determined that children must be protected from all possible danger. Helmets, knee pads, leashes for unruly toddlers (in my day, if we ran in the mall, we just got smacked), gps microchips implanted in the back of the necks of newborns......Good Lord. Soon, there will be invisible force fields in which to encase your children as soon as they get out of bed (with its protective rails, of course) in the morning.
It's ok to fall down and skin your knee; both of mine bear scars from childhood falls. And, it's ok to let your kids do stupid things and learn from the consequences. Go ahead, touch the hot stove and see what happens! You're talking to a girl who once, for no explicable reason, through a rock the size of a baseball up in the air - proceeded to look up at it and have gravity bring it back down right onto her face, knocking out a front tooth! Guess what, I didn't do that again.
But I digress. Behind Dad and overly-protected bike-riding kiddos was Mom. She was pushing an umbrella which carried a kid who was probably two years old. Keep in mind, the boy was IN THE STROLLER. He wasn't pushing, he wasn't standing in it, hell, he looked quite comfortable in his chauffeured state. My eyes popped out of my head when I realized that he too, HAD ON A HELMET! WTF?? Ok, this family is worse than dorks, they are complete, brainwashed buffoons.* I predict that each of their now-unscathed children will be verbally tormented and have cafeteria food hurled at them by the time they reach second grade.
I was just about to roll down my window and harass them myself, but the light turned green and the impatient jerk behind me immediately honked his horn at me! I had to drive away - 75 yards to a stop sign.
* Please note that neither Mom nor Dad wore a helmet. I defy you to explain that one.
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