So we did it. We bought the ugliest car we could afford and oh man! I love this hideous little beast car.

It reminds me in spirit of the VW bug from my childhood, which is now parked in my parents’ backyard in a little VW bug doghouse that my dad built for it so the city would shut up about his broken down but otherwise perfectly good car.

The xB is a lot like the original bug: Odd looking, underpowered and noisy but fun as all heck to drive, more headroom than most cars out there right now, your choice of black interior or buying a different car, and a special four-dimensional space-volume feature which allows the vehicle to be much larger on the inside than on the outside, exactly like the phone booth-shaped thing that I don’t know about from that show that I definitely didn’t ever used to watch, sometimes in lengthy marathons, and if you know what I’m talking about you should probably kill yourself because seriously, you are that uncool. Unlike me. Even though I drive this:

Except mine is white, and didn’t come with palm trees in the background. That cost extra.

Having spent two weeks working on this project, I have a few car-buying suggestions for parents.

First. Look for vehicles that are not only safe and reliable, but which have enough leg room in the back that your children won’t be able to kick the back of your seat until they are tall and therefore old/sophisticated enough to appreciate your very real threats to send them to the crappiest college you can find if they don’t cut that out right this minute.

Second Whenever you pull up to a car dealership, be sure and look up the Dutch word for “CAR DEALERSHIP” so you can explain to your baby that this place might look like a restaurant, but it is not a restaurant. Graham was outraged at the terrible service we received. He climbed up to the round “what can we do to get you into a car today?” tables and sat down and said “Foo!”, but food never came. The jerks never even brought our motherfucking menus.

The only place he liked was the Honda dealership because they had pictures of rabbit!s everywhere. The sign outside was like a 40-foot tall stylized rabb-IT!, and all the cars had rabbit!s on the front of them and he thought that was very cool. Plus they had toys and things for kids to play with while the sales guys tried to find out what it would take to get me into a car today (they never guessed the right answer which was “Offer to give me ten thousand dollars if I show you my boobs”).

Third. Children love the thrill of car shopping, hopping in and out of shiny new cars, checking out the exciting sporty models that we aren’t going to buy but still Wow! Cool! A race car!, and trying to help mom and dad pick out their new vehicle for about twenty minutes. After that they are miserable and they hate cars and they hate you and they want to go home. Hire a damned babysitter.

Fourth. From the time you say “Okay. I want to buy this car right here.” to the time you can leave in your new car is about four hours. In small child time, that is several weeks, and remember that by the time the clock starts on the process there’s a good chance that your kids are already starting to hate you because of the car shopping. If you didn’t remember to hire a babysitter, be sure and bring some toys and books to keep them entertained. If you didn’t remember to bring toys and books, at least bring some snacks to keep your children nourished and distracted from how boring and horrible this whole thing is. I ended up having to pretend to take a vehicle for a test drive just so I could run to Arby’s to grab dinner for the kids.

And if you didn’t remember to bring snacks — are you sure you’re smart enough to make a major decision on a vehicle? — at the very, very least for the love of all that is living on this earth bring spare diapers.

Sixth. Seriously. Bring diapers. Oh my God.

Seventh. You THINK that having your baby announce “Poopeeee! Poopeeeeee. Poopeeee diter. Uh-oh. Poopie.” while you’re talking to the manager will help to speed negotiations along. But you’re wrong, it does nothing. Those people grab hold like a pit bull. They have been trained extensively to know that once a customer walks out of their sight – even for a minute to change a horribly foul diaper – they have lost the deal. They’ll smile and keep talking, using their Iceman sales skills to pretend that your baby isn’t clearly signalling a major shit in his pants.

Eigth. If your dealership doesn’t have a changing table, what do you do if your baby’s diaper explodes and begins leaking foul-smelling beige playdoh out of every side? Well don’t worry! I’ve compiled this handy list of cars that are probably on the showroom floor, all of which work great for changing diapers while your sales person waits:

• Honda – There are a few choices at Honda, because their many SUV’s offer the ideal height for diaper changing. I thought about going with the Oddysey minivan because of the handy third row for diaper changing, but then I saw the Element. Its floorboard is covered with a large rubbermaid mat which is designed to be hosed off. Perfect.
• Jeep – Compass, passenger side seat is at the perfect height.
• Mustang – Any vehicle, driver’s seat. Baby can play with the cool horse steering wheel while you change him.
• Lexus – Front passenger seat. You can’t beat heated leather seats for changing a diaper.
• Toyota – The Camry is a little low. Really I’d have to suggest using either the floorboard of the Rav4 or the back bed of the Tundra.
• Scion – The xB includes a changing table in the back. The hatchback also closes automatically with a gentle shove, allowing you to escape quickly from the stench.

But what do you do with the rolled up dirty diaper? This is really up to you. You can run back outside and put it in your own car to dispose of later, however if you’re planning to trade it in I can’t recommend this option because it might affect the value.

You can take it to the nearest bathroom and throw it away. The nearest bathroom is all the way across the floor, down a long hallway, past the financial service office, through the service doors and to the right. Best of luck finding it!

You can hide it in the glove compartments of one of the cars. This is especially funny if the car is used.

You can put it in the trashcan that is underneath the desk of your sales guy. This will help expidite your paperwork a great deal.

So that’s it, all you need to know when you go car shopping when you have kids. Also some stuff about crash tests, carseats, blah blah blah.

Despite our obvious lack of planning and parenting skills, we survived and drove away from the Toyota dealership many hours after the boys’ bedtime. And I have to brag: They were really, really well behaved through the whole thing, much more well behaved than they are being right now while I try to write this post. There was a little bit of running around the Lexus squealing and trying to tickle each other, but I assume that sort of thing is as cute to everyone else as it is to me.

And now! We own a wonderful, roomy, high mileage, super reliable, weirdly loveable, ugly-assed little car. I love it.

Later today we might go trade in our Dodge Carrotvan and buy a Scion XBox. I know it’s not really called the Box but my God, have you seen this car? Fucking box. According to Consumer Reports it is the second ugliest vehicle ever produced, beat out only by the dangerously hideous GMC’s Aztec which was a sport-utility vehicle that looks like… I don’t know. Like if there was a dinosaur that was also a Nike sneaker, only in car form with rusty orange paint and a pop-up tent in the back that makes it look like the car is right at that second having anal polyps surgically removed.

A few years ago we were at a dealership and I was walking around the Aztec thinking there are so many people who could have spoken up somewhere along the way… from the designers to the engineers all the way to manufacturing and marketing and dealers… did not one person notice and go “Wait! Have any of you guys actually looked at this thing?”

A schmoozy sales guy sidled up to me. “That’s something else, huh?”

“Oh yeah.”

“So what would you say if your husband surprised you by driving one of these up in your driveway?”

“I would divorce him.”

He acted hurt and then I felt bad because maybe he was the one who designed it. Maybe they had a big employee vehicle design competition and his was seriously the best entry. But that doesn’t change a whole bunch of ugly. They quit making the Aztec, I’m assuming because the UN was threatening to enforce sanctions against the States if we didn’t stop manufacturing this crime against the silent majority — people with eyes.

And yet here we are, seriously looking at buying an XB even though the first time we saw one we almost ran off the road. But the damned weird little thing is freakishly roomy inside, gets excellent gas mileage, is made by Toyota and so seems unlikely to fill with smoke or need major transmission work at 30,000 miles, and is so ugly that no matter how badly I age it will make me look adorable by comparison.

Our Scion/Toyota sales guy, Randy, found me very confusing.

“God, The color doesn’t even matter. No matter what color, it is just. SO. Ugly.”

“Haha, so ugly it’s cute, right?”

“No. No. It’s so ugly that it’s ugly.”

“So we’re just wasting our time here, aren’t we?”

“Why?”

“Well if you don’t like the car…”

“Oh I love driving it! And if it’s the right car, I don’t care if it’s ugly. It’s not like I have friends anyway.”

“Ohhh, no! Don’t say that.”

“And besides. If friends leave me just because my car is the ugliest thing they’ve ever seen, what kind of friends were they anyway?”

At this point it was obvious that I was making Randy kind of sad and uncomfortable. There’s nothing in the sales script about what to do if someone loves a car that they won’t stop insulting.

And now! Artypants news!
1. Art stuff featured on apartment therapy. Wooo!

2. I can’t wait to pretty up my new car. I found a place that sells inkjet-compatible outdoor waterproof label sheets. Flowers and birds all over the ugly car. Lip gloss on a pig. Or cartoon-style ice cream truck. Clown ambulance. Whatever.

3. My first gallery showing of birds on plexiglass will be at The Funky Chicken Art Project in Dahlonega, Georgia. If you’re in the Atlanta area and you haven’t been to the Funky Chicken Art Project, you should feel sad because you’re missing out. And then happy because it’s not a bad drive to go check it out. Bonus! You can go to Amacawhatevercola Falls afterwards. And! they have a pet flying squirrel named Booboo.

4. I’m working on a book that was written to celebrate the life of a three-year-old girl who died last month in Australia after accidentally locking herself in the car in the summer heat. Ava was a vibrant spirit, full of dances and giggles and hugs and as you can imagine her family is feeling pretty lost without her right now. The book will be available on Lulu next week, and proceeds will go to a child safety awareness group. This book is important to me for two reasons. First, there are a lot of people hoping to raise awareness about this simple but deadly type of accident… especially important as we head into summer here in the United States. But I’m also hoping the book will bring some small comfort to anyone who has ever lost a child. It’s very girly, but I think the message of joy applies either way.

I sound like a big dork talking about this. Just buy the book. And tell people about the book. And if you have any great connections for promoting or publishing, please let me know. I mean connections I can use. Don’t just contact me so you can brag that you’re well connected and I’m not. Wiseass.

4. I finished my artist’s statement.
Artist’s statement

My brother is a terrific contemporary artist in New York City. His work offers critical commentary of our capitalist trappings via symbols of power, science, and intense forces of nature which convey the masculaized distortions of our contemporary isolationist culture driven by corporate greed and iconic waste.

It’s about birds, and this time right now — these trees, these boys, these dances on these days.

So! I’m off to clean out the van so we can take it to people who will give us money for it. Unless you think the french fries and teddy grahams will add to the value? There’s enough in the floorboard to nourish a young family for a long time.

I’m just on for a second – after last week’s vomitfest and car trouble (actual smoke in the cabin? Where the babies sit? NO. That is not okay!), things are basically back to normal but now I’m all busy with the car shopping and the running around trying to get caught up on shipping orders and doing illustration work, and putting together five sets of birds that are going to a gallery in Georgia. I have to submit an artist’s statement. There’s no way to write an artist’s statement without sounding like you’re full of shit but I am working on it and doing my best. You can’t say the truth which is “My work is about getting paid to make pretty things” or no one takes you seriously. Not that being taken seriously has ever been a realistic goal of mine, what with the red tights and the pigtails and all, but still. It’s a gallery after all, so I figure I’d better come up with something.

Meanwhile Graham is making up for lost calories by eating adult-sized portions of refried beans at every opportunity. Today we noticed that he has an awesome little pot belly. I want to do a whole post all about this age – toddlerdom is full on around here, in adorable ways and in screeching hair pulling ways. You know, grabbing the buckle on his carseat so I can’t click it in and then screaming “Bupple!!” because he wants to buckle it himself, and then crying in frustration because he is a baby and babies are not physically able to do those buckles. Hell, I’m 34 and the damned things are like Rubik’s cubes to me. I’m not being sarcastic though: I adore this age.

Nicolaus is working hard at all of his jobs as always and being very fourish and scoutish and naturalistish and all. We Netflixed a movie for him this week called Red Fury from 1982, thinking he’d love it because it’s about horses. Except turns out it’s not really about horses, it’s about racism against Indians and oh my god! I JUST NOW got that… RED? Fury? But he liked it anyway. Today I think we’re getting a documentary about dolphins but I bet it’s secretly about the environment or something.

I don’t remember him eating food yesterday. Huh.

This really isn’t even a post, is it? Blah. Here’s some of what I’ve been working on, so you can make fun of me whenever I complain about having so much work to do. Boohoo I have to draw fun pictures of little girls. Yeah well. It’s grueling. Promise.

Ah, Graham. He is feeling better after we spent the weekend pouring liquids into him. By Sunday night he was eating actual food without incident. I’m still nervous about taking him anywhere, although we need to get out so we can return to that diner with their towels. I’m thinking we should wash the towels first. What’s the ettiquite there?

This evening the weather was unusually nice, so we went for a walk. We got down the street a couple of blocks before Graham looked up at the broken clouds. “Uh-oh!” he pointed, “Wall? Sheeling.”

If your child points to the sky and says uhoh wall, well, I don’t honestly know what he’s trying to tell you but I do know that it means you need to take your danged kid outside once in awhile. But he’s been sick, and we’ve been sick and it’s cold and it’s so easy for you to sit there and judge, isn’t it? You with your free time and your British nannies and your fancy baby outside-taking machines which are plated with gold not because you’re pretentious or anything but because gold is hypoallergenic and it’s all about what’s best for the children. Maybe someday we’ll be able to afford such things for our kids, but until then we have to take them outside on walks ourselves and that isn’t cheap I hope you know.

Besides, we do many fun things indoors. Like look up videos on youtube of babies dancing and kittens playing and people taking walks outside. And we paint! And we rescue animals and perform science experiments, not on the animals but the animals are invited to watch the experiments. And we read a lot… Graham has quite a few favorite books already in fact. Look!

Graham’s ultimate favorite book, which we must read a thousand times every single day or bad things happen:

He also loves this night time classic:

Kevin says I take children’s books too seriously and read way too much symbolic intent into cute, innocent stories. I don’t know, he is probably right. It’s probably just a book about a damned catterpillar.

And if we take this one at face value, then really all of the little bugs really are just being carried away to a (**SPOILER**) party at the end and not devoured at all.

Life And Death In The Meadow, a counting book

And The Carrot Seed really isn’t preaching anything — it’s just a sweet little book about gardening and about how people in the olden days used to tell their kids over and over that they were going to be failures. Which, then the Dustbowl and the Great Depression happened so they were right.

And this one — which was my brother James’ favorite book when he was a kid — probably IS just a simple story about a bear who, thanks to a rather convoluted and unlikely series of events, happens to be in a box which he later wishes to exit.

It’s always a proud moment when a parent can say this: Today we were the reason that three people stood up from their table at a local diner and walked out. We had just been seated when Graham leaned towards me and threw up the entire pacific ocean. “Uh ohhhh,” he kept saying, “Uh oh.”

And then he’d puke more.

And people! Would not stop watching. As I hugged my continuously puking little person, I looked over at the wide-eyed starers at the other tables and laughed at them, “Well don’t watch. It’s gross!”

“Uh ohhhh Mama.”

But they kept watching, and I kept getting soaked until Kevin said um, I think we should leave. He’s smart. We went home without even drinking our tea.

I promise I will update with non-vomit things soon, there is just really so much vomit. We’ve all been sick this week except for Nicolaus who is cheerfully dancing around and offering to rescue his brother if we turn Graham into an animal first, since he’s an animal rescuer and not a fireman or an ambulance driver. Every time anyone throws up he comes running with his microscope and offers to see if he can figure out which kind of germs are making us sick. No, that’s quite okay Scout, no need to… you know… put barf on a slide or anything. Seriously, don’t. Because! JUST… can you stop arguing? Please? With the barf? Hey! Wanna watch a movie?

So no, none of us are pregnant, which is good because any tiny amount of household-running that was taking place before the week of vomit has certainly not happened at all during the week of vomit. If we had a whole trimester of vomit no way would any of us survive.

Graham is the only one who is still actively sick. We took him to the doctor today because he stopped peeing, and she told us that he needs to consume 32 ounces of gatorade in the next 24 hours. That’s an assload of gatorade. I used to drink 32 ounces of gatorade for my breakfast but I wasn’t a baby and I had IBS and it’s a medical condition you know, where you sort of pare down your diet to the four things that don’t make your stomach hurt. Based on my rigorously scientific elimination diet, it was determined that I was sensitive to anything other than gatorade, bread, cheese, and dry cereal flavored like peanut butter. So for me, 32 ounces was no big deal but for a baby? A fucking lot of gatorade.

Plus he doesn’t want anything to drink, he wants food. “Foo! Peesh. Mower. Mower FOO.” He’ll beg us. We offer the gatorade.

“No no no. FOO. Daddy foo. Mama foo. Mower foo peesh. PEESH.” You speak Dutch, right? I think there’s a translator on the web somewhere.

So we give in, a little — some bread won’t hurt, right? a little pasta maybe? a graham cracker? I mean, it’s got his name right there in it — and then we pay the price. Sometimes in public which is awesome.