Next Time, Warn Me About the Playground

The windshield wipers on J*'s car are still dysfunctional. She can go where-ever she wants when it's sunny.
Tuesday, there was a threat of rain. I rigged the wipers up in such a way that you can twist some wires together and they kind of work, if you rub the wires together first and tap the wiper motor and are lucky. The point is, I ended up taking her car into Weaverville to get I* from daycare.
She gave me a few dollars before I left, to fill the tank and to get I* a "little treat" for the ride back.
"What does he like?" I asked.
"Well, I hate to admit this, but: I usually stop at McDonald's and get him some french fries."
Well, I'd do anything for the little shaver. So I drive to daycare, get I* and head for the drive-thru. That's when he pointed to the large plastic objects with-in the McDonald's, the neat array of plastic cubes in primary colors that glow out the plate glass and beckon two year olds.
If anyone saw a rusty old Blazer speeding away from the Weaverville McDonald's with a screaming two year old late Tuesday afternoon, thanks for not calling social services. He wasn't that upset, really.

Note to the Blogosphere: I attempt in this space to portray my daily life in as accurate a fashion as I dare, and this includes occasional references to our family life that are not altogether flattering, and are not altogether socially acceptable in western North Carolina. I make these references with the assumption they will be received by all you internets with love and trust. Therefore, now that you know my sister's dietary interest or lack thereof for her son, please do not lord it over her, nor direct toward her smug remarks. That will necessitate the unfortunate bowlderization of this space and we will all be the lesser for it.
P.S. Tomorrow, we're going to the circus. Take that, you new age freaks!