Matchbox VW bus (purple)

This week's car pretends it isn't freezing and blustery outside. High winds and cold temperatures here in Ohio feel anything but a purple, sunroofed VW bus, so this is my summer mental getaway.

Not that cold weather stops the kids -- not as long as they have the Just Dance games for the Wii. G, now three years old, can go on marathon dance sessions if allowed like some 1950s dance off contestant.

A week ago I allowed G and his brother A to play Just Dance on a Saturday morning as they were both ready to live La Vida Loca (one of their favorites on the game). G was still in his PJs, but I let him play anyway. I watched him dance up a storm but noticed while his legs were going wild his arms never went much higher than his waist, regardless of the dance moves the video game instructed him to do. Odd.

I continued to watch him and it finally hit me.

"G----," are your pajamas too small?"

"Oh yes," he called out, never looking back as he moved to some mean footwork to Rhianna.

He  had outgrown the red, one-piece, footed pajamas he had worn to bed so he was physically unable to raise his arms up high. It was like some type of River Dance training outfit, which actually worked out because it decreased the likelihood of him smacking his brother in the face.

Regardless of the activity or how many times I give instructions, the two of them constantly stand too close to each other when doing anything that requires dangerous arm movements. Always.

Before the cold spell hit, we went for a hike through one of the local Metroparks. While most of the snow had melted, there were areas of ice on the trail, and they both decided they break up any ice they saw -- with sticks.

"I'm helping other hikers so they don't slip," said G, and strangely, I think he was being earnest in his motivations.

Both of them immediately moved together, however, so that sticks began flying inches of each others faces in a strange choreography of near misses. No flinching, no moving, just eye blurring stick movements and intent faces. Numerous times I moved them apart during the hike, and numerous times some type of pre-school gravitational pull brought them back together.

To the untrained eye those sticks might have seemed to be making contact, but nobody ever got smacked. The visual was like some type of comic, well rehersed stage show. 

They do the same thing in Just Dance -- I don't even want to imagine the two of them playing badmitten or lawn darts.

It might not be painful to them, but it sure is to me.

Hot Wheels Classics 1956 Chevy

I'm back -- did you miss me?

What do you mean, you didn't notice I was gone?

I was forced to unceremoniously take a break due to responsibilities but have returned. Since my absence disrupted the weekly diary concept, posts will be under the tiny car name without the week count -- not really that big of a change, but I thought you would like to know.

I had been writing a humor column for a family magazine and editing a business newspaper, but the company that owned both publications folded. Beginning in November, I became a women's fragrance sales associate at a high-end retailer, a strangely enjoyable gig. You have no idea how many articles on perfume I read or how many perfumes I smelled.

Guys, trust me on this one: Narciso Rodriguez For Her is seriously sexy.

While I enjoyed being a perfume guy, I opted to part ways (on a very positive note) to go play with -- what else? -- cars. I'm selling Chevrolets at Pat O'Brien Chevrolet in Willoughby Hills, Ohio, and readers of this blog will no doubt see this as a logical fit. I love cars. If you would like to buy a new Chevy Sonic AND get advice on perfume selection, it is quite possible I may be the only Chevy salesperson in the country who can do that, and if I'm not the only one, I'm certainly in an elite class. Sadly, there is no magazine called Cars and Perfume.
 
While the past four months have been quirky, they have also been rewarding, and, more importantly, a source of sweet, sweet story material. You don't know where life will take you, no matter what road maps you use (and like getting driving directions on you smart phone, there are times that it seems you just can't get a signal), but if you can smell good and surround yourself with hot cars for some of the journey, your travels can be all that much better.

 To mark not only my change in career but also my return to DTCs, today's featured car is a Hot Wheels Classics, Series 4, 1956 Chevy -- I couldn't think of a more iconic Chevy than this one.

Week 113: 1968 Citroen DS

This week's most awesome tiny car is part of Matchbox's Heritage Classics 2007 line, a 1968 Citroen DS.

Citroen reminds me of citron, French for lemon, and lemon reminds me of ...

LEMONPOT!!

You know, the superhero? Lemonpot? No? Well, let me tell you about him, as told to me by Lemonpot himself.

(The following actual conversation occurred while driving my three-year-old son to preschool. This was not the first time he had told me about Lemonpot. Parenthetical comments are mine.)

G: (From the backseat). I'm a superhewo called Wemonpot (Lemonpot -- he has trouble with his L sounds). I weally am. And I have...Squirrel Power!!

Daddy: Squirrel Power?

G: Yes. I climb trees and throw acorns!

Daddy: That's a good power.

G: It is.

Daddy: (I hesitated on asking this one, but I ultimately I had to know). Why are you called Lemonpot?

G: Because I also can gwoh wemons and I (what sounded like grow) pot.

Daddy: What???

G: I gwow wemons and fwow pots.

Daddy: OHHH. You THROW Pots.

G: Yeah, yeah. I can fwow both wemons and pots. That's why I'm called Wemonpot, see? And acorns. I fwoh acorns, too.

(As we drove, I could hear the sounds of fishooo, fishoo and cries from vanquished bad guys from the backseat as Lemonpot battled the forces of evil with imaginary acorns. After about three or four minutes, Lemonpot spoke again.)

G: I'm a weally good superhewo.

Daddy: You are.

G: Yeah. And I'm happy that I can also fwy. FASHOOOM!!

G: (Now spoken by my son as a type of narrator). Lemonpot has fwown off to his home.



My son and I drove the rest of the way in contented silence, knowing the world was a safer place under the citrus infused watch of Lemonpot.


I snapped the photo of this great Matchbox. Photos by Phil will return next week. Matchbox is a registered Trademark of Mattel.

Week 112: 1975 Chevy Van

Happy Halloween from Daddy's Tiny Cars. I'll keep it brief and send out candy wishes to all, hoping everyone is safe and dry following Sandy's arrival.

Trick or treating was postponed in my neighborhood due to the rains and downed trees around our heavily wooded streets. When I was young this would have been devastating, but Halloween now has a lot more options for kids so that trick or treating, while still valued, is not the only game in town.

For example, last week my five-year-old son's school sponsored a Pumpkin Social, a chaotic mass of face-painted kids pushing around make-shift cornhole and other carnival type games. My kids loved it.

I don't like being crowded, so this event was stressful, but I diabolically found a partial solution. The indoor, school-sponsored fundraiser used purchased tickets for all of the games, and in the cafeteria area they had set up a snow cone machine, also taking tickets. MuHAHAHA. What kid can resist a snow cone? I steered my kids near the machine.

What does this have to do with my aversion to crowds, you may wonder? Snow cones take time to make, so the kids would be in line for awhile. Snow cones take time to eat, so they would be out of the throngs of kids for awhile. They were getting sugary ice, so they didn't feel tricked, and I let them come up with the idea of the snow cone, so they didn't know I had manipulated the whole thing.

It was all so perfect.

Yes, eventually the snow cones were eaten, but an added bonus was the blue stained my three-year-old's face adding a spooky effect to his skeleton costume.

And then we found the dance room.

Four tickets each got the kids into a room with a real DJ and disco lights. They were hooked (my kids love music), and, fueled by high octane snow cone fuel, they were ready.

Once in, G, my three-year-old, began a repetitive robot dance, accented with a Three Stooges style Curly floor roundabout -- weird, but strangely compelling to watch. The dance was like an old school Peanuts special where all the kids have their singular signature dance floor moves. The dance room was occupied but not packed, so I was fine that my youngest kids wanted to spend most of the time there.Meanwhile, my older son, who was with us and once went to the school, got to catch up with some former teachers and met some friends, so he was happy. All was perfect.

The kids had a great time, and there have been other Halloween events besides that one, so the disappointment of a delayed trick or treating is minor. I love it when things work out.

So I'm waiting for them to go to sleep, and I'll kick on an old black and white monster movie for Daddy for Halloween, and if you have power, I hope you'll be able to do the same.

Happy Halloween everyone!

Photo of my 1975, black light era van, by Phil Pekarcik.

Week 111: 1969 Mercury Cougar Eliminator

Serious muscle this week -- a Hot Wheel's 1969 Mercury Cougar Eliminator, decked out in yellow, white and red flames and presumably part of the Cranston Fire Department.

Firemen are a mainstay of childhood pretend games, as are robots. Even now, I would find a robot fireman cool. A robot fireman... that can fly.

And shoot lasers out of his eyes.

Yes, that would be cool. Maybe not as cool as the Eliminator above, but still very cool.

My youngest son, G, loves robots, the old school, 1950's I..AM..A RO..BOT type. A few days ago I had prepared a special treat with dinner (Stouffer's  Harvest Apples, if you must know), and after we ate, G picked up the discarded red Stouffer's box and put it over his right hand.

"Boop.........Boop....... I....AM...THE....KITCHEN....ROBOT.........Boop...."

G moved about kitchen in classic robot style, fingers straight out on the left hand and probably straight out on the right, too, if I had been able to see them under the box.  All the while, he continued to say "Boop.....Boop.....Boop....." at about five second intervals.

To make a Kitchen Robot: 1. Purchase Stouffer's Harvest Apples 2. Eat contents. 3. Put empty box on right hand. Now you're ready for Halloween.

As it turns out, while the Kitchen Robot did a bit of pretend cooking, it primarily just said "Boop," and G never broke character. He booped easily for one-half hour (which would be approximately 360 Boops), and finally his brother Racer A got tired of the booping and told him the robot broke.

G's eyes began to well up tears as he fought to fight back his sorrow. I shot a furrowed eyebrow glance at A, who smiled and shrugged, and went into parental damage control mode.

"Oh, the Kitchen Robot isn't broken. Don't listen to your brother."

*Sob*"He is broken! *sob* The Kitchen Robot is broken! He doesn't work anymore." G had become so wrapped up in the character he had lost track of the pretend aspect.

We were seconds away from a meltdown, and I had to think fast.

"A----, quick, get me the number five robot wrench over there and the spare 4B circuit on the shelf."

If there's only one thing I have learned about parenting, it is that kids can't resist a pretend command given with minimal instruction. Like a type of magical summoning, kids will respond. Unless they are pouting.

Racer A wasn't pouting, though, and he quickly moved to the back of the Kitchen Robot, losening  the pretend bolt and popping off the pretend plate to install the spare 4B circuit board, whatever it looked like.

"Great. Good job. Now power him down now and reboot him and we should be good."

Racer A made a "ZHouuuuuuu .. pop" noise with his mouth, and we both waited, watching G.

"Boop.......Boop.... Boop.... began G, his expressionless robot face looking straight ahead as he resumed his Kitchen Robot duties, apparently unaware of the temporary technical failure he had just endured.

Crisis averted.

Oddly, the Kitchen Robot returned the next day, and even the day after, but only when the Harvest Apples box was on his hand.

Such is the true beauty of a method actor.

Boop....Boop...THANK...Y0U...PHIL...PEKARC1K....F0R....PH0T0...OF H0T WH33LS EL1M1NAT0R...Boop....Boop...

Week 110: 1963 Cadillac Ambulance

This week's tiny car is a strange one, a combination of a 1963 Cadillac Ambulance and a surf buggy. I've featured this same car before back in Week 35, but it was a straight-forward ambulance and not all beach funky.

I've featured this one because I'm going to blog about odd combinations. Forgive me in advance.

Three-year-old G, five-year-old Racer A and myself were on sitting on the couch when G nonchalantly began telling me about an imaginary person, Mr. Maht-Maht, who has a golden chore chart.

The kids have weekly chore charts I print every week, with G's on blue paper and A's on green. Last week, A switched to Purple. Apparently, a golden chore chart is top of the line.

So, Mr. Maht-Maht and his golden chore chart. Here's where things go south.

I've got a golden chore chart, I've got a golden twinkle in my eye. Wait, what the...!!!

In the past I've talked about Racer A's imaginary friends Nickadizzy and Shotts, but Mr. Maht-Maht is something quite different. I had to go tell my wife, who, after laughing, came out to ask G about him. Here's the conversation:

Rochelle: Tell Me about your friend, what's his name, Maht-Maht?

G: He's not my friend. He's just some imaginary guy.

Rochelle: Okay, well tell me about Maht-Maht.

G: MR. Maht-Maht.

Rochelle: Mr. Maht-Maht. Tell me about MR. Maht-Maht.

G: Ummm. He has a golden chore chart.

Rochelle. He does? A golden chore chart? What else.

G: Ummm. I don't know. Let's see. Oh yeah, he's a wiener.

Rochelle: A wiener?

G: (with the tiniest smirk at the corner of his mouth. Yes. He's a weiner. He's growing boobs.

Rochelle: Oh, he's a weiner that's growing boobs. Do you know what boobs are?

G: Oh sure. They're what you got. (G points)

Rochelle: That's right. Anything else?

G: (thinking). Oh yeah. He's got a...a.... (G points to his wrist and looks me.)

Daddy: A watch?

G: YES! A watch. He's got a watch, and when it gets to three, he can turn into a human. But just at three. But he can grow legs if he wants when it's not three. He has a friend, Mr. Cot-Cot. He's human. And a super hero. He has a sword."
---------------------------------

Not even acknowledging all the Freudian, gender-development discomfort of this imaginary guy, I'm not sure I want Mr. Maht-Maht hanging around. There was a cartoon on Cartoon Network called Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends.  I don't want to picture Mr. Maht-Maht as a character.

I'm going to go play with Mr. Maht-Maht.
What's so funny? Why is everyone laughing?

OR

Why do we have to wait until 3:00
before we can go swimming with Mr. Maht-Maht?

Okay, the truth is I had no intention of blogging about this one but my wife begged me, so this is fulfilling a rare blogging request.

 I don't think I'm taking requests anymore.

Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the great pic of the surf Caddy. Sorry it had to be featured with Maht-Maht. I mean MR. Maht-Maht.

Week 109: 2012 Camaro ZL1

We love looking at cars over at Daddy's Tiny Cars, like the hot little Hot Wheels Camaro above -- especially my son Racer A and I. While the rest of the family might not have the same enthusiasm as we do, our combined gusto for cars, old and new, is enough for the whole family, and we would even have some left over enthusiasm for a dog or cat, if we had one.

Today, Racer A and I packed up our car-looking-energy and took it to Rock-N-Roll Capital Street Machines'  Halloween Cruise Appreciation Night in Solon, Ohio. Accompanying us was my wife and son G -- Racer Z had some other things to do so couldn't make it this time.

On the off chance this blog makes its way to anyone at Rock-N-Roll Capital Street Machines, Daddy's Tiny Cars wants to give a big shout out to the great folks over there and this cool event. We all had an excellent time, and the free candy given out made it even better for the kids.

At every car, A was awestruck -- he even loved the look of the old dashboards, and that's without any prompting from me. As we went around and looked at the cars, A wanted me to snap a picture of him in front of some of his favorites, so below is a montage of some of the cars.

Halloween, muscle cars and candy, with beautiful autumn leaves on the trees -- do you really need anything else?

For tonight, I'd say no. I don't need anything else.

Photo of modern day Camaro muscle car courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.