Last week, Ellie and I took a trip to the library. While searching for some new literature, she grabbed my hand and pulled me with the strength of six elephants. She begged in a panicked whisper, “Mommy! Please! Let’s get out of here and go somewhere quiet!”.

I plan to take a train take a train to Bolingbrook in a two three week ten day sometime soon. It’ll just be Ellie and me. This seems like a fun thing to do with a toddler rather than juggle driving, hurling fish crackers at a target over my shoulder, singing rounds of Old McDonald, looking for toll change under the seat of my ’96 Honda and instead finding a moldy piece of banana and the parking ticket I never paid, and catheterizing myself to avoid public restrooms at all costs.

I’m so excited for this trip and told Ellie that soon we will get to ride on a train for a fun trip to see Aunt Jen and Uncle Keitaro. We’ll get to read stories, snuggle with our meeper blanket and look out the window, have snacks, sing songs, etc. She stared blankly at me and replied, “Are there tunnels, gates with lights, or horns? Will it make noise and will other people be on it?”.

I am begging each and every one of you to spread the word and take alternate forms of transportation the third weekend in July. I’m sending an APB to the Amtrak Office of Inspector General that it is in the public’s best interest to just take chances with traffic gates/lights/possible collisions because if even a horn honks within the first three minutes of our journey, events of catastrophic proportions will derail all trains heading to Chicago. While I’m used to 60 minute plus meltdowns, this is a four hour trip people. Save yourselves. Aunt Jen and Uncle Keitaro, save me a whiskey on the rocks with a twist.

To do:

Half a box of tissues all fresh and clean from the washing machine. Check.

My cutie patootie Bean has some sensory issues primarily to sudden noises over a whisper. While visiting my Grandmother today, I seated myself in my usual spot on the floor between Ellie and Grandma’s dog. Ellie took her usual position as additional appendage to the right side of my torso.

She started stroking my hair which is an indication to “stop your goddamn talking, I’m stressed”. Seconds later, the dog half-barked (you know when they don’t even really open their mouths and it’s more of a hmpf) at a leaf in the breeze on the neighbor’s patio. Four houses down. I could feel Ellie’s body become rigid. Her hands then took a firm grasp of my hair and before I could stop it, she lifted me into the air six inches by the bangs and crown (neither of which are long to begin with). I now look like a chihuahua with mange.

During my tour for a new job, years ago, I was led to my veal cage desk at the end of a long and winding maze of identical cubicles. I worked there for about a year. Each day I shaved a little less time off the arduous task of locating my personal paper stack in purgatory. Sadly, that was the highlight of each day.

Early on, the one constant that eased this “commute” was the unoccupied cube across from mine. Reaching this spot meant just make a right and sit. Then the task of pretending to work could commence. One day I asked Boxer Dan, who was fake heaving empty boxes around, if there were plans for anyone to ever occupy that space. He replied, “That’s Maris’s desk”, and off he walked. Like I should know who that is.

I noticed people asking questions about Maris when hovering near my *constant* like, “When does Maris get back from Belize?” “Did you hear Maris is doing doggy yoga with her Whippet?”. Then, I got it! This was a Frazier funny! No one ever saw Maris. I couldn’t wait to play. When Sighs-Too-Much Randall mentioned to Needs-A-Lip-Razor Karen that things seemed to finally be over for Maris and her husband, I quickly chimed in, “Well you know, he didn’t marry her for her money. That was just a bonus.”

Crickets chirped and it became evident the only one playing this game was me. Maris did indeed exist. She did indeed vacation in Belize and took downward facing dog pose to a new level. She did indeed get divorced. And as luck would have it, she worked off site most of the time, coming in only on an occasional weekend. I indeed began wearing a paper bag over my head and was appropriately known from then on as Bitch-With-A-Big-Mouth-Bag-On-Her-Head Kara.