Problem, First World It Is

Over the past few months, Conor has developed an obsession with the navigation system on our cars.  I have no clue how this particular obsession started. I really don't. But when we purchased a new SUV last March, Conor decided that he absolutely had to map every destination to which he journeyed. (We had a nav system in our last car, but he didn't really care about it. Then, bam! New car=new obsession. Go figure.)

It doesn't matter whether it's down the street or to his grandparent's house, to the library or to the beach, it is absolutely required to first look up the address on a smart phone and then input it into the GPS. Red Robin, Outback Steakhouse, the bowling alley, his aunt's house or the mall...no matter that he's been there a bjillion times and can give you the directions himself, ve must put ze address in ze system or else!

Put it in ze GPS system, Fraulein. Schnell.

I'm not kidding, the library is a 15 minute walk from our house, and he still insists on putting the address in the system. (Hey, of course I drive, it's wicked cold out there. I'm a delicate flower, you know.)

School.  He routes the drive to school. 3 miles from our house. He still routes it. It's maddening.

(And yes, he sits in the front seat of the car. Hell, he's bigger than I am and I sit in the front seat. Seriously, though, I don't always like him sitting in the back seat with his younger--physically much smaller--brother.

And, of course, he knows how to program the thing. He's better at it than we are.)

Now, I don't know what it's like where you live, but I live in Baltimore.

Yes, Baltimore. And I don't mean the suburbs of Baltimore.  I pay city taxes, hon. I reside (gasp) within the city limits.

Baltimore--home of The Wire, Homicide: Life On The Streets, and Hard Times At Douglass High.  You can argue about the accuracy of the portrayal of my beloved city, but its reputation is such that The Onion recently satirized Charm City's parade for our Super Bowl XVLII Champion Ravens.

[Yeah, baby, Super Bowl CHAMPS! Boo-yah! We're wacko for Flacco, baby!]

(See The Onion's Baltimore Looking For Safer City To Host Super Bowl Parade. It would be funny if it weren't so sad.)

I don't care what you say.  I love this city somethin' awful.  I'm not really sure what it is, exactly, that captivates me. Amazing restaurants? National Aquarium? Revered colleges and universities? Award-winning hospital?

Maybe it's because I spy John Waters at the grocery store now and again... and the cashier has no idea who he is!

Yes, that's him. How do you not know who John Waters is?
Um, hello, Hairspray?!

Maybe it's because you can buy crab cakes and a microbrew at the baseball stadium or the pockets of beautifully renovated row houses throughout the city. Perhaps it's because I can walk to the grocery store, the library, a Starbucks, the chinese carryout and still only be five miles from downtown.

Maybe it's because there are people here a whole helluva lot weirder than my kid with autism. (Like John Waters, for example.)

Yeah, hon.

My lust for Monument City aside, in truth we have a serious crime problem and some significant urban decay. As a resident, I've gotten good at avoiding dodgy neighborhoods and crime-infested areas when I'm not scoring some smack. (I kid, I kid you. It's a big problem. The city's, not mine.)

Anyhoo, my GPS?  Not so much with the dodging.  My kid?  Not so much either.

See, the thing is, Conor takes the GPS route as gospel.  If the thick blue line points one way to the bowling alley, then by God you are to follow that route like a Catholic pilgrim to Medugorje. One does not deviate from the path set by the almighty car navigation system.

Grave danger you are in. Impatient you are. The GPS you must follow.

Taking a turn not sanctioned by the GPS system? Have you gone to the dark side? (You can almost see the fireworks going off in Conor's brain. It blows. his. mind.)

So last night, as we were heading to our local Red Robin restaurant for dinner, I lost my bearings because I was in the back seat, engrossed in figuring out how to get Face Time to work on my typical son's iPhone. (Hint: don't let the little whippersnappers change the date and time on their phone. It mucks everything up.  Who knew?)

I look up at the buildings flashing by in the dark, and ask my husband, "Where ARE we?"

"Following the GPS, hon," he replied in his best fake-Baltimore accent.  (He's a carpetbagger from Connecticut. I know, right? He's cute though.)

Oh, for the love of Pete. "Which would you rather do," I asked my husband. "Drive through the ghetto following the GPS or tell Conor we have to go a different way than the route on the screen because it's safer?"

"Drive through the ghetto," he promptly answered.

"Ah," I declared. "Remember, Jim. If once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny, consume you it will, as it did Obi-Wan's apprentice."

Be careful, my love.

How 'Bout Dem O's, Hon?

My father raised me as a Baltimore Oriole fan and thus, I have remained one.  If you’ve ever been to an O’s game, you know that in the 7^th inning stretch, John Denver’s “Thank God I’m A Country Boy” blares.  Everyone stands up, and like a bunch of awkward, drunk puppets, we all slap one knee while lifting that same leg up and down to the beat of Denver’s song.

I don’t know why the team adopted this little ditty as the 7^th inning stretch rally song.  If Alabama is the Deep South, Maryland’s the first step into the shallow end of the southern pool. We’re Southern Lite, I suppose. People commute daily from Pennsylvania to Baltimore, for Pete’s sake. Cal Ripken Jr. used to hit homers that practically made it to the northern border.

But, this is our tradition and I join in with everyone else in the stadium.  What the hell, it’s fun, especially after two or six microbrews and a couple of Boog Powell’s pit beef sandwiches. Laced, of course, with a very hot, nose clearing, wet horseradish sauce. (Boog Powell ranks third in Oriole all-time home run hitters, with his best year in 1964. Now he owns a pit beef place at the Yard. Just FYI.)
Ok, ok, it is ENTIRELY possible that I’m the only person doing this drunk puppet dance. By the 7^th inning, it’s not entirely clear. I guess you’ll have to go to a game to see for yourself.

In any case, when Conor started stomping his foot and slapping his knee and screaming at the top of his lungs during our outing to Panera Bread yesterday, I insanely thought to myself, “Thank God I’m A Country Boy.”  He was, I gather, extremely upset that they didn’t have his first choice of bagel (an “everything” bagel) or his second (sesame) or his third (poppy).

Yesterday was Mother’s Day (as if you didn't know), and I suppose every mother in Bawlmer needed her everythink bagel, hon. I don’t know, but there wasn’t a bagel in the joint. Not one Conor could stomach, anyhow. (Who turns down a cinnamon crunch bagel, I ask you?  Who?  That’s just plain craziness.)

Yoose all gimme dat everythink bagel, hon, and no one gets hoit, s'aw-ite?

After a couple of these stomping, knee-slapping, caterwhauling “dances”, Conor’s behavioral therapist, Paisley, and I fled the scene like armed robbers who just realized an FBI agent was ahead of them in the bank line.  Fled, I tell you.  Like the law was right on our tails.  (Book me, Danno, I need a vacation.)

We got to the sanctuary of the car and spent 15 minutes trying to figure out what would be an acceptable option—

“CONOR WANTS MASHED POTATOES FOR LUNCH!" (you want to go home for lunch, C?)  

"CONOR WANTS TO GO TO CHIK-FIL-A FOR LUNCH!" (Closed on Sunday, dammit.) 

"CONOR WANTS TO GO TO AUNTIE ANNIE'S FOR LUNCH!" (Ok, want to go there? Please say no, please say no. The mall has lots of people.)

“CONOR WANTS MASHED POTATOES FOR LUNCH!" (you want to go home for lunch, C? You can have rice cups!) 

Finally, we drive to a nearby small, locally-owned bagel shop.  They had gobs of “everything” bagels.  We know this because I sit in the car with Conor while Paisley does some reconnaissance.  Hey, I’m not getting out of this car if there’s no everything bagel, you feeling me?

They have the bagels.  They have lemonade.  He tearfully orders. We sit and eat.  We feel better.  We ask for ice cream.

&*($*&%.  

Paisley and I get on our phones to see if the ice cream place is open.  Hey, I’m not doing this “we don’t have what your kid wants” thing twice—IN PUBLIC. No. Way.

They’re open. We drive over. Conor orders--"vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles, please."  Paisley gets pistachio.  I dream of a glass of wine.  We sit.  We eat.  We talk. Hey, nothing wrong here,  nothing to see, let's all just be calm and breathe.  Deeply.

As I handed Paisley her money yesterday afternoon, I looked her in the eye and told her, “You know, you earned every penny of this today.”

“Thanks,” she said.  “I’m glad he didn’t have a tantrum.”

Yeah.  Thank God it was only Thank God I’m A Country Boy.

See?  John Denver's practically doing the drunk puppet dance himself.  You can't help yourself.