In the event that you find yourself without a radio . . .

Honda is dedicated to protecting its drivers. I appreciate this. I appreciate the various safety features that come standard in our Element. I even appreciate that they don't interfere with the rather spartan attitude of the vehicle. I do not, however, appreciate that anytime the battery is changed or drained - you need a super secret special code to make your radio function.

There are other things I don't like about the Element. I don't like that small items in the trunk slide under the seats and wind up in the front. I don't like that it sat in the driveway for 6 months in desperate need of brakes. But generally, yay Element. So I was generally pleased when I was forced to get new brakes earlier this week after the Blazer once again thumbed its nose at us and left me, the kids, 14 bags, a vacuum, and some snacks, sitting awkwardly, forlornly even, in the driveway. And there the Blazer still sits. Defiant. Mysterious. Not starting. The kids and I, eventually, disembarked and started in on our next great vehicular adventure.

Element brakes do not, despite Honda's best efforts, magically appear when summoned. (They're working on it, though). So it took a few days and more than a few hundred dollars to get the Element in tip top shape again. And I was excited to retrieve it from AutoTire, knowing that not only would it be actually take us where we needed to go but it would now be ever so much safer to drive since it actually has functioning brakes and properly aligned alignment. Jordan and I really shouldn't be allowed in retail or repair establishments without supervision. He sprayed Axe on me, I laughed when I should have parented, we babbled and quirked all over poor AutoTire man who was all too pleased to offer me the keys and direct me to the parking lot where the Element awaited us.

We were so ready for the windows down, music up, carefree spring afternoon that makes having an operable vehicle so much fun. Windows down. Radio . . . wait a minute. All it says is "CODE" and then silence.

"CODE" seems rather demanding. Especially when I don't have the "CODE". And I'm much too busy of a woman to spend days on the phone with Honda or in the occult Honda Element Owners' Club chat rooms trying to figure it out.

So we drove in silence.

Well.

Maybe not silence.

We were forced to sing.

Okay, I was forced to sing.

Jordan was forced to slouch in his seat, praying we didn't stop at a red light next to the super cute blond girl from his science class or anyone else he has ever or might ever meet.

But it didn't take long before I drew a complete blank. What else could I sing? I'd already exhausted my collection of Queen, Cake, Hole, The Beatles, some Jan and Dean, Lady Gaga and yes, even Miley Cyrus.

What choice did I have but to resort to camp songs? Jordan was no help at all. I gave him the microphone/soda bottle but he just stared blankly at me.

So I started singing this shark attack song that he learned at 5th grade camp. I thought, "sure! this'll be fun! He'll love it! This is right up his alley!I'm such a cool mom!"

Did I mention that Jordan turned 12 recently?

12 is a very cool age.

A very NOT shark attack song from 5th grade camp with my mom - age.

And again, he stares.

But then to my dismay I realize - I can't remember how the song goes!

And thus began my relentless mental pursuit of this song. I drove this very secure and owner-loving Honda around for more than 3 days trying to remember the words and tune to this ridiculous song! And it isn't even a very good song. Sedona was a real sport. We spent the 10 minutes to and from school every day trying different tunes, arguing about the order of events, even deciding at one point that we should call the 5th grade camp counselor and see if he could help us.

As we left the China Buffet one evening, we got it! Sedona and I lined the pieces up and sang pitch perfect shark attack magic. Ahh sweet satisfaction. Jordan, of course, was thrilled and said something like, "cool, mom" (roll eyes here).

So in the event that you find yourself without a radio. . . . . call a friend, practice quiet mindfulness, employ your phone's Pandora app, enjoy the silence but do not under any circumstances allow yourself to become singularly obsessed with the lyrics, motions or tune of a camp song.

And for your viewing/listening pleasure . . . Jordan (who was NOT paid to do this) joins Sedona in singing/signing "Shark Attack".

Who knew?

As it turns out. . if you fancy becoming a writer and dream silly little dreams of calling yourself a writer and maybe even having more than one slightly unflattering pair of glasses. . .you have to actually write something. Who knew?

I'm reading a fantastic book by Ariel Gore and even she suggests that writing things (other than manuals for your employer)is the first step in becoming a writer. So on that authority, I rejoin my 3-7 followers on this little adventure in blogging.

I'm exploring other blog platforms and toying with a separate, more sophisticated blog (read: not one that is all about the kids and the gnats and the silliness). You know, one that will tackle the tough issues, that will discuss politics, religion, sex, and the abhorred fashion/diet trends. Where else can I pontificate about NKOTBSB and the Israeli conflict?

Or maybe I should stick to what I know. And what I know is that this moment is a gift. There are but joyful tasks at hand. There is gratitude and grace flooding in and I'm struggling to capture it in all its glory. Animals rubbing their faces with their paws and yawning ever so delightfully that I almost want to die. Babies snoring in messy rooms. Calm settling on a joyfull home. These are the ridiculous amazing moments that I know.

And so I find my way back here and I have notes all over the place about things I'd like to write. Things I'd like to share. Things I'd like for you to laugh at and retell. Things I'd like for you to pay me for having said. Well, laugh anyway and smile and revel in that moment of joy that you find yourself about to miss.