Potholes

Since getting our leased Ford Focus, my little family's life has had a lot more freedom. More trips to the beach. Quick commutes into Manhattan. Howard Stern in the AM.

But freedom comes at a cost.

Specifically, the inner walls of my skull pay a heavy price every time we drive down, well, ANY road in the great state of New Jersey.

Potholes, potholes EVERYWHERE.

It's not enough that Jersey has the most confusing road system in the US, boasting 10 foot on ramps with STOP SIGNS ON THEM and exit signs posted 10 feet AFTER THE EXIT so that even the locals get lost on their regular commutes home from work, NO; Jersey is also apparently trying to set the record for number of potholes per square yard.

Our car silently weeps every time we turn her on for fear of the road ahead.

Typical scenario:

Andrew driving down the road. Our little family happily chatting and listening to something cute Brooklyn is saying when...

SMASH

SMASH

SUHHH-MASH!

Our jaws slam into our skulls.

Once, twice, three times a lady.

The front end of our car emerges from a depth of hell otherwise known as three six foot deep potholes back to back.

There is a loaded silence that would make a Buddhist monk tremble. 

Rage boils in everyone's blood.

I turn around to see Brooklyn draw an imaginary switchblade.

Andrew has broken the steering wheel off of the dashboard and is now eating it.

I have crapped my pants in upset.

Peanut, our teacup yorkie, has somehow found a mouse, has deskinned it, and is wearing the skin over her face.

When you hit potholes like you do in Jersey, you feel it in your soul.

It rattles your DNA.

What it looks like:

What it feels like:

(Note the airbag.)

Okay, so our airbags haven't deployed...yet...but our struts are now leaking fluid as a result of the house-eating potholes.

There's a rumor I'm starting now that says New Jersey potholes are actually sinkholes caused by the earth trying to swallow Jersey in revolt of the road system and the smell of Bayonne, in general.

The future is wide open...

I'm The Map

"I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the MAAAAAP!"

Parents of young children will recognize this as the most obnoxious song in the history of children's television and mankind in general. The show Dora The Explorer, from where this song hails, is notorious for spoon-feeding young kids with nerve-grating exercises in repetition, delivered by shouting characters. To make matters worse, children are enchanted by this show.

"Do YOU know where the BALL is?" Dora screams at my rapt daughter, who's standing six inches from the television. Brooklyn immediately points to the ball.

Dora blinks, waiting longer than necessary for the lowest common denominator to locate the bright red ball, one of the only objects in frame, barely hidden by a bush.

8 seconds later, "THAT'S RIGHT! THERE'S THE BALL!"

The pies d'resistance is the show's most infamous musical number: "The map song" is delivered in the overzealous, high-pitched, nasal male voice of an animated map with generic cartoon eyes.

Andrew and I like to troll each other with the song. I'll interrupt a tender moment between us to burst into "the map song." He has scared me shitless by barging into the bathroom and shouting the googly-eyed navigational reference's mantra. Other parents and I share in our mutual disgust for Dora The Explorer by singing "the map song" together, our sick anthem of parenting valor. 

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"Is that a Diego toy box I see? Do you have kids?"

I was furiously hacking away at a script for an "I Used To Be Fat" marathon special on MTV back in 2009 when one of the new music coordinators stuck his head through the office door. 

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Allison just gave this to me for my daughter Brooklyn. She's going to be psyched."

"Cool! Does Brooklyn like Dora The Explorer?" he asked.

"It's on 23 out of the 24 hours in the day at our place. I'd say she's pretty hooked," I laughed.

"So you know all about the Map, then right?"

"Oh. My. God. Ask any parent you've ever met; the map is the bane of our existence. That awful voice repeating the dumbest line EVER over and over and over again. 'I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the maaaaaaaaaaaaap!' Wait, who's the map? Oh! HE'S THE MAP, everyone!"

Maybe it was the late hour, or the fact that I just sank my 5th coffee of the day, but I felt real aggression unfurl in my heart during my map rant.

Music coordinator guy stood in the doorway blinking at me.

"So, yeah, my uncle is the voice of the Map."

Shit.

I just obnoxiously screamed the Map song into the face of the Map's nephew. My foot tasted particularly bad today. Map would surely be sending Dora's Backpack to strangle me with a conveniently packed telephone cord now.

"Oh. God. I'm sorry. Er, Brooklyn loves the Map! She's a huge fan!"

Backpedal. Backpedal. Backpedal. Hear those rusty, guilty gears grind.

Overwrought with guilt, I dragged this poor guy through an awkward conversation about his uncle in which I transparently feigned interest in his acclaimed career in children's programming.


Graciously, before leaving, music coordinator guy turned and said, "Don't worry about what you said. It doesn't offend me."


I'm an ass. I'm an ass. I'm an ass. I'm an ass. I'm an AAAAASSSSS!

She's a beauty. God bless.

In an effort to house train Peanut (i.e. prevent her on pissing on the carpets), I've been walking her more frequently.

Today we ventured out to the park across the street and with much potty training success (read: turd produced), we headed back towards home.

The park across the street sits about 4 feet higher than the surrounding sidewalk and is contained by a 4 foot stone wall on all sides.

As Peanut and I walked back, we ended up skirting the perimeter of the wall, looking down at the sidewalk below. We came upon an older man with coke bottle glasses and a newsie hat waiting on the sidewalk below for the bus, his elbow propped on the top of the stone ledge

He gazed up at Peanut.

"She's a beauty. God bless you. Is that a yorkie?" he said with somewhat of a slur.

Feeling invigorated by our walk, I thanked him enthusiastically and explained that she was a teacup yorkie, only a year old, and also offered up that her name is Peanut.

He seemed genuinely delighted and sent us off with another "god bless. She's beautiful."

Happy for the mutual enthusiasm over my little pup, I allowed Peanut to take charge of the walk and she led me down a set of stairs nearby and around the wall to the sidewalk. We passed by the same man from a moment before who smiled and nodded in approval before leaving his post to catch the bus.

As he pushed away from his spot, my eyes were caught by a urine stream left behind on the stone wall, too high up to be left by a dog.

I'm not sure what's worse: the part where I held friendly conversation with a stranger while they were unrinating in public, or the part where I wasn't even a little shocked upon its discovery.

Humans...animals with opposable thumbs. Nothing more.

Peanut's Day At The Office

Thanks to the Vintaggio app for iPhone, slapping together sloppy little silent films has become my new favorite way of documenting Peanut's adventures.