I am still wading through your tome on sleep and how to get some. I got none last night. I slept in one hour spurts and fed She Who Awakes Constantly every hour. Something must be up. It's bad, people. I'm going to compile all of your comments into a handy list that I will then refer to, so keep 'em coming.
You will be relieved to hear that I am not pregnant. It was an errant puke, I suppose, one of those UPEs--Unidentified Puking Episodes. At any rate, Random is relieved. And I guess you could say I was too--I mean who the hell do I think I am, anyway? Pregnant after a quickie, whilst on birth control pills and breastfeeding full time? Who am I, Fertile Myrtle? Heh. We all know what Tire* would have to say about THAT.
But here is the REAL point of my post:
There are several toys in the house that drive me absolutely insane.
These are generally toys given to us, generally in a goody bag or something, generally unrequested and immediately regretted. These are toys that, for whatever reason, inspire extreme movement or noise or jumping up and down or thrusting over and over in faces. Or they are just plain ugly, and always underfoot.
Past toys of this ilk include:
- A red flexible square of see-through plastic, about three feet by three feet, that came with a bowling set and that was used as a cape, a mask, a jumping off item, and anything BUT what it was supposed to be used for. I hid that thing about forty thousand times and MP always found it--I shoved it under the couch, behind the couch, folded it up and put it between books on the bookcase. Still she found it and put it on the floor for me to slide, trip on, and curse. It is now in some landfill. Sorry.
- A pinwheel. This thing, although initially amusing and pretty, has been shoved in my face so many times it was broken over a knee (okay, it wasn't, but we plotted its death like that). It too met a garbagey end, and is entertaining some vultures as we speak.
- The wooden sausage. See a previous blog post.
- A tin of marbles. I gave MP this, in her stocking. Or rather, Santa gave it to her. I'd like to shoot Santa and her good intentions right about now. Those marbles are always underfoot, an army of marbles, always being poured into some other container (shoe, plastic bag, flower pot, coffee mug) and always threatening to choke baby Chloe. I want to kill these marbles. Lordy, does MP love these things, though, so I have not confiscated them yet.
- And last but not least--a pom pom, which MP calls her "pom." This thing is used every day if possible, cheered heartily with, rammed, again, in our faces, left in my kitchen (there is a standing rule: no toys in the kitchen. The pom, however, somehow transcends the "no toy" rule as, MP attests, it's "not a toy.") MP will jump like mad with this thing, and bemoan the fact that there is only one of its kind (and it will stay that way, God help me, until she decides to become a cheerleader, at which point I will accept my fate as a Cheerleader Mom, ai).
So. What toys do you rue the day you ever purchased? What toys do you hate to listen to, hate to look at, hate to play with, hate to watch in action? What toys make you want to commit yourself? And why, pray tell, do you hate these toys? Please share your horror stories.
By warning each other, we will be doing ourselves a great service. It will keep the Bad Toys from making us crazy.
*In case you have no idea what I am talking about, I used to draw a comic featuring an infertile heroine and her pet tire.