Oh, oh, oh, oh Wilco

What's on the docket this weekend?

Why a quick trip across the lake to Toronto with my girlfriend Yams to see Nick Lowe and Wilco. Hey, that rhymes! Oh, oh, oh, oh Nick Lowe.

I'm Not No Limburger

Drove to Lockport, just north of Buffalo, last night to see the B-52's with the kiddos and the boy next door.

Gorgeous night. Outdoor show.

Pretty sure the entire city of Buffalo smokes. Until last night, I wouldn't have guessed that a cloud of smoke could hover over a crowd outside; I would have been wrong. Blech.

Son #1 told me that I was allowed to dance but made me promise that I would not make any of my crazy rally cries. I acquiesced. The lady next to me did not make any such agreement. After one of her howling outcries, I received the snake eye and responded, "I swear to God, that wasn't me."

When she did it again, he was stunned. Yes, I am not alone in my madness. (Hey, so don't that make you feel a whole lot better, huh?)

Everybody goes to parties. They dance this mess around.

Take Me Down to the Infirmary

The scene inside my car at the tail end of a 6.5 hour journey with small boys and only Cracker to soothe my soul.

Take me down
“Give him back to me”
To the infirmary
“Mom, he stole monkey”
Lay me down
“OUCH”
On cotton sheets
“What is going on back there?”
Put a damp cloth
“He hit me in the head”
On my forehead
“Why are you hitting your brother?”
Lay me down
“Because he just BIT me”
And let me sleep
“I'm going to pull over and bite both of you if this continues”

I know the whiskey, it won't soothe my soul
And the morphine won't heal my heart
But if you take me down to the infirmary, oh yeah
I won't have to sleep or drink alone.

The Weekend's Too Short

Our long weekend at the beach was much too short. More on that later.

The drive, on the other hand, was waaaay too long. Due to construction in the Poconos (in two separate places), traffic was reduced to one lane and merging was a long, drawn out, slow motion hell. And, unbeknownst to us, traffic was also congested due to the fact that it was Nascar race weekend. Yippee.

Lucky for us, we had two kids in the car -- one of whom was hungry. "I want a cheeseburger." "When are we stopping for a cheeseburger?" "Are we there yet?"

So we had the pleasure of stopping for the night at a lovely Howard Johnson's in Bartonsville PA. I wrote a one word review on TripAdvisor that hasn't yet been posted: "Ew." However, in the process of contributing, I happened to notice that many others who stayed at that hotel had experienced car break-ins and stolen items. (Except for one reviewer who writes, "Truly a wonderful place to stay. Clean, upscale, great service. The restaurant is very romantic . . . " Huh? And by romantic, do you mean dimly lit?) Just feeling grateful that all of our stuff is still with us.

But my favorite part of traveling to the beach was our brief visit to Dunkin' Donuts (a.k.a. Stinkin' Donuts) the following morning when the woman standing beside us in line had either fallen asleep the night before in a vat of raw sewage or she possibly had a festering wound on her (insert unnamed body part here) that needed some critical attention. America certainly does Run on Dunkin' cause I cannot imagine what else is keeping that woman alive.

Am I grateful to have spent some time with my girlfriends and their families? Yes. Was it nice to spend a weekend with the hubby and kids? You betcha. Am I happy to have had a lone walk along the beach where a perfectly formed sand dollar washed up right on my toes? Very much so. Do I want to do it again any time soon? Not so much.

D.C. Bound

I’m leaving tomorrow to take the kids on our annual pilgrimage to D.C. for Memorial Day Weekend. It’s a long, but fairly scenic, drive from Upstate NY; however, the portable DVD player, Game Boy and Nintendo DS help the kids cope.

Three years ago, when Son #2 was just two, we were in MD, nearing the end of the trip and it was late. Instead of falling asleep in his car seat, Son #2 began frantically trying to tell me something. Because he was crying and not exactly enunciating well at that age, I couldn’t understand a word. “Slow down. I don’t know what you’re saying.” This chaos and frustration lasted for what seemed like an eternity until Son #1 spoke up. “He wants to hear AC/DC.” “What?? How does he know AC/DC?” “Well, he heard it in a record store with daddy and he loved it. So daddy bought him the CD.”

I called the hubby. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I put the CD in the trunk just in case.” I pulled over, got the CD out, placed it in the player, and Son #2 promptly fell asleep. So much for Beethoven.

Since then, my little rocker has moved on to Green Day and now is the proud owner of his own acoustic guitar, electric guitar and drum set. We’ll see if I can get them to listen to Amy Winehouse this weekend or if that’s too mellow for their budding, Gwar-like taste. Oy vey.