The Boy:  MomMomMomMom.  What’s this?
K:  It’s 25 cents.  We call it a quarter.
TB:  A quarter.  That’s what I need.
K:  Why do you need a quarter?
TB:  For Harrison Michael’s candy machine.

And he placed the quarter in the pocket of his shirt.

I love the Cake Lady but what person has a candy machine in the kid’s toy room?  She blames it on The Mister, but either way, it’s bad news.  Just last week the boys figured out how to shake it with just enough velocity to make some candy come out.  Apparently The Mister fixed that problem but someone has done the math that the candy machine requires “a quarter.”

Fastforward 5 hours later when we go over to Harrison Michael’s house.  I dropped The Boy off and left.  Five minutes later I got a phone call.

Cake Lady:  You are NOT going to believe it.  I just went into the toy room and they looked like chipmunks with Skittle juice running down their faces.  I made them spit them out.
K:  In your hands?
CL:  Hell yeah.  I have to be with them.  I don’t want them all cracked out.
K:  Maybe I should explain.  Eat figured out that he needed a quarter.
CL:  nooooooooo.

That was last week. We are going on day 5 that The Boy knows he needs a quarter.  I now feel the need to turn him upside down and shake him before taking him across the street to play. Just this morning, I caught him in his father’s drawer routing around.  He skipped right over the $150 knife, the two sharpie markers, and keys to God only knows what.  I watched him slowly, stealthily slip a quarter out of the drawer and put it into his pocket.  Just as quietly he closed the drawer.

K:  WHAT ARE YOU DOING????

 He jumped two feet in the air, which is about 2 feet taller than he is.

TB:  I’m not doing anything.  I didn’t touch anything.  I didn’t get dad’s quarter.

I’m not saying I advocate breaking and entering. I’m just saying that one day the Cake Lady and The Mister are going to come home to a home without two candy machines. And I’ll have an alibi. Cause I’m smart like that.

NO, I didn’t pick winners from the contest.  Stop bugging me.  I’m busy sitting around alphabetizing the canned goods in my kitchen.  I’ll get to it.  I promise.

What the hell is up with dog?  Could someone explain to me why I just walked into my living room and there was the dog, with his head resting comfortably on a throw pillow that clearly had been THROWN on the ground?  He didn’t even get up.  Two words for you.  Shock collar.

Twitter can be harmful to your health.  I know this from nearly sideswiping a car on the road today.  It’s okay, because it was only a police car.  We’re fine.

Twitter can bite you in the ass.  When you write really crappy things about the idiot in front of you that CANNOT, if his life depended on it, use the damn. A.P.C. machine at the post office, you might want to a) pay attention to where that damn kid of yours has wandered off, 2) cover up The Baby’s feet before you have to hear about how horrible a mother you are, and Third) remain as quiet as possible.  We have people manning the desks, people, for those of you who CANNOT figure out whether you are sending a package or a BOX.  I need you to stand in line so I don’t have to wait for you to figure out whether your card is debit or credit.  But what happens is, by the time it’s your turn and there is smoke visibly pouring from your ears and The Boy is now in line ACROSS the post office waiting to get a passport (even though he already HAS one), you just may catch the attention of the woman behind you.  Who is clever enough to put your return mailing address together with your website address.  Who will then email you and tell you how funny your twitter was about the postal-challenged.

And then you will realize how small the world is.  Or how big your mouth is.  Either one.  You be the judge.

Hi, Melissa!!!  It was nice meeting you too.  Sorry that The Boy was wearing his Thomas the Train slippers and The Baby had no shoes on in the 30 degree temps.  I’m really a better mother.  But you might want to steer clear of the PO at quarter to six again.  I’m just saying.   

Oh, and Baby Brewing was featured on Celebrity Baby Blog.  I’m giving away THE WHOLE FREAKING STORE over there so feel free to go and enter the contest.  And if you win and I know you, I still may even send the stuff to you.  Maybe.  Go enter.  Really.  It’s not difficult and it’s a popularity contest.  And apparently Chachi is wearing one of my shirts around town.  He had to have stolen it from Chris Noth, but you never know….

I got the text message yesterday. 

“They are going to swear out a warrant if we don’t pay the parking ticket today.”

Swear out a warrant?  On the Toyota?  Does the Toyota get to hear his rights first?  I pulled out the registration papers.  Yep, in both our names.  I call him up.

K:  What the hell?
D:  You didn’t pay it.
K:  First I didn’t pay it because I just assumed I had 30 days.  Then I realized that I only had 5 days so I went online to pay it but they don’t have an online option.  Then I thought I would wait until the “You’d better pay this” reminder showed up.  Who the hell doesn’t have an online payment option?  The last check I wrote was to the plumber. 
D:  I know.  I tried to pay it while you were gone.  Where’s the checkbook?
K:  I could not tell you if my life depended on it. You know where a stamp is?
D:  Nope.  Well, the reminder says they are going to “swear out a warrant.”
K:  On who?  Both of us?  For what?  Not paying a $20 parking ticket?
D:  I don’t know who they would arrest.

This reminds me vaguely of the time I got caught exceeding the posted speed limit in Montana while on our cross country trip.  The cop very politely informed that I could “pay him now” and be on my way.  I thought he was joking.  I laughed.  He didn’t.  I mean my father used to tell stories about following the constable to see the magistrate, but come on.  That was the ’60′s.  Who has cash now?  If I can get an internet connection on my laptop, I’ll pay you your $27 via Paypal and print up a receipt on my handy dandy Canon portable printer? Thank God my husband is Mr. Responsibility and had $27 to keep me out of jail. And the cop was able to buy a round of donuts for his friends 20 minutes later. “The Little Lady was doing 17 over the speed limit.  Go on and get yourself some coffee too. WOOHOO!!”

D: I figured you could just run into the police station and pay it after you drop The Boy off at school. It’s right there on the Avenue.
K: No. No, it’s not. That’s the REAL police department. This is the City WITHIN the CITY police department.
D: Where the hell is that?
K: Lord if I know.

It’s right across the street from the train station. The train station where The Husband got the ticket in the first place because he didn’t have his current registration sticker on the truck yet. It was November SECOND. They expired October 31. I believe we affectionately refer to this as “shooting fish in a barrel.”

I decided to go over there and view my options. My friend Dana used to say that when the kids were little, she had visions of calling Protective Services and turning herself in on a Friday night. She figured she might be able to regain her sanity by Monday. I always thought that was very optimistic myself.

It was the littlest building you have ever seen. Remember the jail cell in Capote? I could do two days in that. Assuming I could get an internet connection on my I-Phone….