Auto Manufacturers Must Not Have Kids

This is the conclusion I have come to this week.

Why?

Well... remember riding in, say, your grandma's car in the 1990's?  And how she didn't have a nifty button to push to roll the windows down, you had to use that horrible crank thing?  Yeah, that was no fun, right?  Worse, if you've ever had the misfortune of driving your grandma's car, and happened to want fast food, or cold beer (whichever is your choice intoxicant), you know those things require MEGA muscles!  And if the person in front of you at the drive thru is smoking in their car and you want to roll the window up whenever its being down is not vital to your mission, it's doubly rotten.

Boy, it sure is a good thing they developed those nice little switches that make the windows go up and down BY THEMSELVES!  No longer will we have tired arms at every drive thru, no longer will you bump a window crank getting something heavy out of the car, no, now there's a BUTTON!  And better yet, in the driver's door, there's a button that LOCKS all the other windows, so your kids CAN'T even play with them!  One of the best features, by far, about Clyde, the 1990 Honda Accord I inherited (funny enough, it did used to be my grandma's car) when I was sixteen, was those automatic windows... which honestly I didn't even expect in a car that old.

Surely, when I bought a NEW car... when I was lucky enough to get my hands on a 2010 vehicle IN 2011... it would have the same ingenious invention...

But wait...

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NOT THE CRANK WINDOWS!!!!




So at first I was like... "Eh, okay.  I got this.  I'm a big girl, strong arm muscles from carrying babies.  I can do this."

Then I was like "Man, this is really irritating when the guy in front of me at McDonald's is smoking... but oh well, more exercise."

Then I met Ophlf, who you may remember from a previous post.  Despite being "completely fictional"... Ophlf picked up RIGHT AWAY on those crank windows and what they meant.

The first time I was driving down the highway before I heard the faint whistling sound from the back seat.  'What is that?!' I thought.  'Was one of those creepy abandoned places I visited *actually* haunted, and the ghost decided to hitch a ride??'  I glance in the back seat.  Nope.  Crank is suspciously out of place.  Hmm.  Maybe I bumped it.  Surely Ophlf couldn't have figured that out AND reached it from his 5 point harness car seat!

The second time I was barely down the street because the window was WAY open and I was catching an icy breeze.  Stop to close it.  Notice that it's open just enough that, if he could reach the handle, Ophlf couldn't possibly have pushed it any further.  Hmm.  Maybe it's not the ghost.

Then a couple days ago... Ophlf did not want to get into the car.  No, that's an understatement.  Getting Ophlf in the car was like getting a cat into a bathtub full of water.  Finally wrestling the little goober into his car seat, restraining his upper body at very least, Ophlf commenced kicking.  Kicking everything in reach of his (long!) legs.  I sat and observed.  My first assumption had been right.  Ophlf could not reach the window crank... with his hands... but the feet... right to the window crank.

The normal warning him not to do it again, applying consequences, etc, was completely ineffective.  Ophlf was hell-bent on rolling that window down as far as he could.  Usually when I wasn't looking, so that later, when I was driving alone and could not easily stop and roll the window back up (which requires a yoga-like reach into the back seat, because car manufacturers are dumb), I was stuck with a whistling and/or cold gap in my car's keep-the-outside-out-and-the-inside-in armor.

THIS DRIVES ME CRAZY.

I'll illustrate, because I feel like it, and so you can see how hilariously bad I am at MS paint.

Yeah.  So here I am thinking I'm safe with a nice new car, and THEY'VE PUT THOSE INFURIATING CRANK WINDOWS ON IT!  Combined with Ophlf, I'm doomed to an eternity of bad hair days and frantically fleeing said window.  WHY, car manufacturers, WHY would you do this??

And then it dawns on me.  They must not have children.  To someone with no children, a crank window is merely a mild inconvenience.  To someone with children, crank windows can be irritating.  To someone driving around a child like Ophlf, these sort of windows MAKE YOU WANT TO GO EVEN MORE INSANE THAN YOU ALREADY ARE!

Ever determined, as I am, I was going to put an end to this window problem.  I scoured the internet for some sort of device to child proof this type of window - because if they were still making cars with that feature, some smart parent had come up with a device to child-proof them.

Nope.

Nada.

Nothing.

The best I could come up with was a bunch of guys with beards explaining how to remove the window crank.

'That could work...' I thought.  I didn't want to have to remove it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

One video featured a fancy little tool, which the bearded man (I assume he has a beard, I'm not sure I ever actually saw his face, that's just how I picture him) assured you could be made at home or bought at a store.  This almost made me laugh audibly.  Broke as I am, and mechanically inept, there would be no tool for me... regardless of how seamlessly easy it made the process look.  Take a look for yourself:

Lacking the fancy tool, I looked for another method.  And I found one, a method using things I already had!  This website advertised that all you needed was a flathead screwdriver and a rag!

I set to work immediately, even enlisting the help of best friend, best friend's roommate, and best friend's ex husband (don't ask).  Not a one of us could get the stupid thing off with a rag.  All we learned is how to break the window crank... which was not exactly what I was going for.  Ophlf could've (and probably would've eventually) done that himself!

Ever determined, I showed the tool video to my brother, who, though he doesn't get enough respect from me (well, I'm his older sister, what do you expect?) is actually kind of a whiz with tools and various other science stuff.

He made me the tool.

I'll wait while you go back and read that sentence again.

HE MADE ME THE TOOL!

Not only that, he went out to my car in the freezing cold, and, though scraping up the door panel a little bit (although our previous attempts had done quite a bit of that, so it's hard to tell what's what), GOT THE STUPID THING OFF!

I almost hugged him.

Now the door panel by Ophlf's car seat looks like this instead:

HAH!  Take THAT, three-year-old!

And now, despite the fact that *I* didn't actually do anything other than look up a video and tear a rag up, I'm feeling incredibly accomplished.  The nap time saga may still rage on, but I WIN the crank window battle.

I think I deserve chocolate.

The Three-Year-Old Napping Saga

This is not funny.  Like I promised.  It's actually quite soul deadening.

Upon their third birthday, children seem to enter some sort of anti-nap vortex, wherein even though everyone with half a brain, child included, realizes they NEED a nap, they do everything in their power to resist the evil nap.  It's as though turning three also instantly changes all their blankets and teddy bears to monsters to be vanquished through the powers of nap resistance.  And all the grown-ups who have unwillingly entered this evil vortex with the child are slowly driven insane.

That's the world I'm living in right now.

Actually, scratch that.  I'm in a special anti-nap vortex wherein the grown-ups involved are all QUICKLY driven to a point of such insanity that stabbing their eyes out with an icepick and setting themselves on fire, thus ensuring a long recovery in a burn unit, sounds far more appealing than continuing the Epic Nap Battle.

Don't worry, I'm not in a burn unit.  Yet.

It could honestly be any day now.  I'm thinking about buying gasoline... and not for my car.

"Why?" you might ask, if in fact you have never visited this particular Vortex of Doom.

Well... let me see if I can illustrate this for you with a friendly timeline.  A friendly timeline of a completely fictional day in the life of a completely fictional person who knows a completely fictional three-year-old named... *tries to think of something non-offensive*  Hmm.  Maybe it should be Biblical.  What were Job's kids' names?

I looked it up.  One of them was named Ophlf.  Which sounds like a sound I might make while on fire.  So that's it.  Also, this Job dude had a lot of kids.  No wonder the guy was tormented... I bet he spent YEARS in the Vortex of Doom.

So, timeline.  Here we go.  Get ready.  It won't be funny, I promise.

12:00 - Ophlf (gosh, that's hard to type) eats lunch.  This goes fine.

12:30 - Ophlf goes potty.  This is starting to sound like a children's board book.

12:45 - Ophlf is put in his bed, read a story, and tucked in with all four of his stuffed animals.  If the previous day's events are repeated, Ophlf will fall asleep right away and sleep for hours.  "Wow," you're probably thinking, "that doesn't sound like the sort of thing that happens in the Vortex!"  But you're wrong, because it does.  Why?  Because little Ophlf likes to keep us guessing.  Some days, you gear up in your battle armor only to find out that the opposing army only wants tea and crumpets.  Other days, you set aside the armor and let your noble steed go for a romp in the field, and the army sneak-attacks you because you got complacent.  They're not a nice army.

12:50 - Ophlf is singing.  OK, that's cute enough, little Ophlf is singing himself to sleep!

12:55 - Ophlf has confused singing with yelling.  Unpleasant.

1:15 - Still yelling.  You ignore the yelling in hopes that Ophlf will tire himself out and fall asleep.

1:20 - Ophlf has now started doing amateur gymnastics on his bed.  You again resist the urge to go up there, because it usually only makes things worse.  That is how three-year-olds work.  They are extremely counterintuitive.

1:35 - Ophlf has turned his light on and is now cheesing for the video monitor in his room, while making loud, sudden noises that frighten any animals within a six mile radius.  Time to go up there.  *You do.*  Ophlf looks jubilant that his attempts at getting you back in his room have finally succeeded.  You mentally start pricing how much gasoline it would take to soak your own body.  As you go back downstairs, with the light off and one teddy bear gone, Ophlf is cheerily fake-snoring while huddled in some sort of weird yoga-ish bear-type pose.  You tell yourself that you are not going back up there for at least another 15 minutes.

1:45 - Waving a teddy bear in front of the monitor, kicking the bedrail away from his mattress, all in the midst of jubilant screeches.  Has it been 15 minutes yet?

1:50 - Steadfastly refusing to speak to him and give any sort of reward for the behavior, you return to Ophlf's room.  It reeks.  Oh, the old poop-during-naptime trick... you know it all too well.  You complete the disgusting job without so much as a word, then return him to his bed.  Another teddy bear gone.

2:00 - Bedrail overturned, Ophlf on top.  Pointy metal things sticking up in the air just waiting for an amateur gymnast to fall on them.  Go back up there.  Another bear.

2:15 - Well, it's not his bed, but Ophlf is actually lying still... on the floor where he kicked the bed rail away.  You opt for as little intervention as possible and stay away.

2:30 - Check the monitor.  No Ophlf.  Thumping continues.  This can't be good.  Go up there.  There he is.  Right under the video monitor, repeatedly throwing a book and his last teddy bear against the wall.  Book and bear gone, you just barely manage to hold your temper.  When you try to put Ophlf back in bed with his  blanket, he kicks it off and begins to whine and cry.  Despite whining and crying usually being negative things to see in a child, you feel just a little bit accomplished.  Maybe you are finally making an impression on little Ophlf.  This time, when you go back downstairs, you steadfastly refuse to look at the monitor or return to the room.  For the safety and sanity of all.

2:50 - Thumping continues.  Refuse to care.  Start wondering where the matches are.  Will one match do it?  If not, will you, minorly burned, be able to light another in order to ensure a good long time in the burn unit?  Should you stuff your pockets with dryer lint to fuel the ignition further?

2:55 - Ophlf is standing at the gate on his bedroom door (you can hear him).  Shouting for anyone/everyone he knows.  Deep down, you know that the nap battle will be lost today.  You wonder if your Giant Eagle Fuel Perks can be used on gasoline meant for self-dousing.

3:15 - Check the video monitor.  It's been too quiet.  There's little Ophlf, emptying out his carefully folded clothes from the dresser drawers onto the floor.  Resist urge to bang head against wall.  Go upstairs, tell Ophlf that he is getting a time out after nap time, and that he will help you pick up the clothes.  Close door, because you  know this makes an impression on Ophlf.  He is not scared, he's just mad that the 'yelling at the gate' option has been removed.

3:30 - Ophlf puts two and two together and realizes he can open the door.  You can tell by the (far too audible) gleeful laughter.  Go back upstairs and close it.  This time, remain outside the door.  Commence temper tantrum.

3:45 - Temper tantrum still raging.  Realizing that Ophlf has been up there three hours now, and that you should've probably given up an hour ago (but who wants to give up right when they think they might be getting through to the kid?), wait for a lull in the tantrum and then enter the room.

Ophlf wins.  No nap today.  Thinking about it, you're pretty sure there's a Shell station down the street.  Oh well.  At least the burn unit will be an improvement over this day.

Dear Tim Horton's Guy

Dear Tim Horton's Guy,

I don't know your name, because either you don't wear a name badge, or I have never bothered to look at it in the course of our seven year relationship... so you have two choices.  Because you look alarmingly like David Boreanaz, you can be "Guy who looks like David Boreanaz" or "Tim Horton's Guy".  Since most people don't like being defined by their profession, especially if it involves a drive-thru window, I'm going with "Guy who looks like David Boreanaz".  Oh, and a bonus... I'm ridiculously attracted to David Boreanaz and I wish to have his babies... so, yeah, you're welcome.

Anyways.  Thank you, David Boreanaz look-alike, for your ever faithful service to me at the Tim Horton's drive-thru window.  You have worked there since before I started college, which was, you know, like AGES ago, back when Miley Cyrus was still adorable, and you have never failed to deliver my Timbits with utmost excellence.  In fact, the other day, I'm pretty sure I saw you grab just enough Timbits for me out of SOMEONE ELSE'S waiting box... which kind of made my day.

And speaking of making my day, today's exchange was another perfect example.  I mean really.  Here it is.

You: You're going to turn into a Timbit you know

Me: (Smiling only because you look like David Boreanaz, anyone else could not get away with commenting on my eating habits at the drive thru) ...and french fries, and grilled cheese sandwiches.

You: What?

Me: Those are the other things I eat.  Yes, I eat like a five year old, I know.

You: (laughing) That's awesome.  You're awesome.  Have a great day.

Ahem... I'M AWESOME!  Furthermore, by looking like an actor that I'd like to have babies with, you have inadvertently reinforced this notion I have that said actor ALSO realizes my awesomeness and/or knows I exist.  So good work, buddy, bet you didn't know you were actually serving Timbits AND a side of reinforcing delusional relationships with actors who don't know I exist!

Now, I have one bone to pick with you, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz... this morning... there was a little bit of JELLY on one of my honey dip Timbits.  Now let's get one thing straight here.  I don't like jelly.  If I did, I would probably order donuts that contained it.  Since I do not like it, I choose donuts that do not contain it.  Therefore, contaminating one of my precious fried-dough morsels with the sticky substance is a serious offense.  I mean, I had to actually get a napkin and wipe it off before I could eat that Timbit.  This caused me some deal of anguish.

That all said, I'm going to let it slide, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz.  Why, you ask?  What makes you deserving of my forgiveness after such a heinous offense?  Well, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz, the answer is simple.  You look like David Boreanaz.  You tell me I'm awesome.  Now I feel like David Boreanaz thinks I'm awesome.  For that, I'm willing to overlook the offending jelly.

BUT - I do have to warn you, David Boreanaz-look-alike - my forgiveness only goes so far.  This jelly-on-non-jelly-containing-donut thing must not be repeated... because sooner or later, I'm going to inadvertantly start resenting you (and possibly also the actual David Boreanaz) for the contamination of my breakfast foods.  So, if you'd like our wonderfully fulfilling relationship to continue in the fashion it has for the last seven years, perhaps you should develop some sort of jelly detection system, and then only give contaminated Timbits to other customers who are less awesome than me.  Just a suggestion.

In closing, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz, besides the jelly incident this morning, I think you are awesome too.  The only way in which you could possibly be more awesome is if you were ACTUALLY David Boreanaz.  Then we would make babies.  But since that's sadly not the case, just keep up the good work - the more you feed my delusions about my relationship with said actor, the more of your tasty Timbits I'll devour.  Wait.  Why did that sound sexual?  Ugh.  Anyways.  No more jelly.  Reinforce belief that David Boreanaz thinks I'm awesome.  Do those two things and we're golden, got it?

But remember my fickle forgiveness... keep up the jelly thing, and I may be forced to go to Jolly Pirate.  David Boreanaz does not look at all like a pirate, and you would be unable to sell more of your delicious breakfast to me, which I'm sure gives you great fulfillment... so I don't see that going well for either of us.
Much love, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz.
XOXO,
Katie

I Am Not Funny

Just so you know, I realize that.

I am not funny and neither is my blog, it's actually quite serious and occasionally depressing.

But you should also know that I am neither quite as serious/depressing as my blog might portray.  It's merely an outlet for that part of my being - writing it has some sort of therapy value.

Lately I have been reading the pure genius found at Hyperbole and a Half, and realizing with only a slight pang of regret that I will simply Never Be That Funny... even if I stopped being serious/depressing and tried.

That said, reading the aforementioned blog has given me a lot of random ideas for things I'd like to blog about that are not quite as serious/depressing as my usual fare.

Like how I made my entire family hate even the sight or mention of peanut butter cookies.  Or the time that I was 15 and in the emergency room with my first (five) kidney stones, which is actually an amusing story.  Or the harrowing saga of trying to get a three year old to succumb to an afternoon nap.  Or this hilarious sign I saw and took a picture of the other day (which would make a short blog post because I did take a picture of it).  Or nearly half a dozen other things that crop up in the terrifying corn-maze (you know the one) that is my mind daily, but for some reason I can't think of right now.

So, if I blog about any of that stuff in the future, just know that I realize that I am not funny.  I am not trying to turn my serious/depressing blog into a funny one.  It's more like - ok, this is the actual example I thought up just now - normally what I put on my blog is whatever my brain pukes up.  This time, my brain ate something like this funfetti cake that my mom made me because she was so glad I got a job (I am not kidding about that part)... and started barfing rainbows instead.

This is the "I'm so glad you got a job" cake I spoke of.

And that's the whole point of this post.  To tell you that my brain may start barfing rainbows.  You're welcome.