It’s that time of the year. The time of the year when school is very nearly out, and it’s like all the kids are jacked on sugar cookie-crank. My nephews — I cannot believe I now have FOUR of them. FOUR. I’m beginning to think both my sisters have some kind of secret handshake that goes with their 2-boys club or something to that effect. It’s got to be some kind of conspiracy. Boys. Four of them.
I love those loony-tunes more than anything though. I’d give them the world on a string if that cliche were possible. Unfortunately, there’s only so much a single girl on one income can do for them. I DO know, though, there are things, every year, I simply won’t get for them because…well…they’re gifts worthy of either A) regifting, B) Goodwill, or C) the bottom of the pile when dumpster diving.
This year, like the many before, is no exception…
- Furby is back, apparently. (Why is it always the more crap changes, the more it stays the same?) Furby is like water: Furby cannot be created or destroyed. Furby probably has his own landfill by now.
- PieFace seems to be a game where it’s funny to have someone get bitchslapped with whipped cream in a plastic hand. My nephews would love it, but my sisters would hate me forever. It’s not worth it.
- Real Simple, courtesy of Martha Stewart, thinks kids would love a mermaid blankie. It’s not even a mermaid. It’s half a mermaid. It’s a fishtail. That’s just morbid.
- It’s a supermarket cart…for kids. Of course, since it’s a “clever” idea by Pottery Barn, they’ve taken the concept, shrunk it down to kiddie size, and are charging $49 for it. If my nephs really want a supermarket cart because they’re that nutty, I’ll go to the actual grocery store just down the street from me and take one home for free. It’s bigger and faster, I’ll bet.
- Poopyhead may possibly be the most genius name for a kids’ game, ever, but somehow I feel like it belongs somewhere else…in another part of the world…like Japan where such things as poop museums exist:
(A place where everyone can be a poopyhead, poopy hat and all.)
- It’s a sad day when Furby looks a tad sight better than whatever the hell this boogersnot creation is.
- And now your kids can re-live their late ’60’s childhoods with the new inflatable VW van!
- This is a toy salad. You read that correctly. A Toy. Salad. What fresh, crispy, leafy, vinegar-and-oil hell is this for a KID? I am aware that the 21st century child is weird as can be due to his parents being afraid of the “obesity” word (I’m sorry…”epidemic”…since we want to create lexicon-emphatic hysteria), but if we’re going to have them imagine being a grown-up, making such choices, why not create a wooden ten-layer cake to go with their wooden salad since we grownups know that one negates the other upon consumption. Isn’t that how it goes?
- After your kid makes a wooden salad, he can scare off all the bugs that had been drawn to it.
- Dear Nephews, Once upon a time, there was this wonderful mode of written communication called letters. You now call it email. You, too, can put out your authentic mailbox just like the ones your grandparents grew up with, and just like your grandparents, you can wait…and wait…and wait for the day when your mailbox isn’t filled with takeout menus for Dominos and Chinese food (aka bourbon chicken); limited time offers from your local car dealerships; flyers soliciting timeshare; leaflets about the end of the world from Seventh Day Adventists, and so many…oh so many bills.
- Fuck you, child, for wanting this. Fuck you for totally eliminating whatever dregs of sanity your mom and dad may have left. Fuck you and your Elsas and Olafs and Let It Goings. You are, quite possibly, the reason why they drink.