Jan
15
January 15, 2007
Today was a Workplace holiday — no disrespect to MLK’s legacy, but for me this has always been one of those, “Wait, what do you mean there’s no mail today?” holidays; ditto President’s Day — and after Riley and I had watched a little Elmo, gone on a fruitless outing for a sled, and walked a skittering, careful path around our still-snowy neighborhood with the backpack carrier (which, now that Riley’s bigger and heavier: oy, as in oy, my fuckin’ back), we found ourselves mired in the late afternoon doldrums, the Long Dark Tea-Time of the Toddler Soul.
While he assessed and rejected a variety of distractions I offered and ultimately became thoroughly entranced with the Roomba Virtual Wall Unit (all I can guess is that the buttons look vaguely like the Lotto machine thingie at the grocery checkout line, and lord knows he loves to punch the everloving shit out of those), I decided to document some of Riley’s more awful toys, the ones that I hide in his closet until times of great despair and desperation.
First of all, the corn popper:
I call this the Corn Baller, because I can’t help it, and I’ve been watching a LOT of Arrested Development lately. It seemed like such a cute toy idea for his first birthday. And it is cute, sort of. At first. I mean, until he’s been pushing it for longer than 2.3 seconds, after which time the BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG of those balls “popping” kind of, ha ha, makes you feel like you’re going craaaaAAAAAZY.
The talking, singing dog:
My family bought this for Riley, because they are a vengeful lot who have not forgotten the Manic Panic hairdye stains I left on their towels in high school. This terrifying Fisher-Price plush hellhound giggles, sings, and chirps little phrases, depending on where it’s being touched (Inappropriate Contact Dog complete with rape whistle is a separate model). I can personally attest to the fact that if you throw this dog into a closet with great force, it will pause long enough for you to assume it’s turned off, then an unearthly giggle will float out from behind the closet door and a squeaky voice will accuse, “You got my nose!”
The talking, singing fridge magnets:
Another gift from my side of the family. Ah, I can still hear their diabolical laughter during the Christmas present-opening festivities this year.
This is a LeapFrog product that has various animal shapes that can be stuck together, and a plethora of things that can be pushed in order to produce noise. The animal shapes, when pushed, belch forth a hideously catchy tune that goes, “You made a match! Look what you’ve done! Something something something cow pig horse something SOUND! MOOOO (baaaa, neiiigh, ETC)!”
The whole nightmarish ensemble is meant to cling to the fridge, probably so you can whip up a nutritious dinner while Junior, handily distracted, stays out of your way.
Of course Riley loves it. OF COURSE.
The nostalgic Parker Brothers toy:
Here’s one from JB’s parents, who learned that Riley loves any kind of phone and so went to a Goodwill looking for a toy version — then gifted Riley with his very own Merlin Electronic Wizard. Once you flip the switch to On, the toy intones, “I AM MERLIN. SELECT GAME. SELECT GAME.” Merlin also has such witty repartee as “MERLIN WINS” and “MINDBENDER”. Riley is fond of the Music Machine setting on Merlin, I am fond of hiding Merlin in the bottom of his closet underneath the singing dog.
The wooden puzzle:
Another one from JB’s family (I think?). A nice wooden puzzle seems pleasant enough, doesn’t it? Sure it is, until you’ve stepped on one of those motherfucking shitass pieces of wood for the billionth time OW GODDAMMIT. That missing piece in the upper left? Is totally embedded in my right foot.
The “Pop Goes the Weasel” phobia-box:
(Don’t go freaking about the octopus, now. Octopuses = totally cool, unlike the monkey death box.)
I got this music box toy as a baby present when I was still pregnant and had to put on the fakiest smile of gratitude you ever saw because I swear to god I would have rather opened a box of live tarantulas than this box that requires you to turn a little crank while it plays its horrifying tune and the inevitable heart-stopping conclusion grows ever closer as the music tinkles on and on and a single solitary droplet of sweat begins to run down the side of your face oh my god oh my god and the crank turns one…more…time and space and time seem to hang silent and echoing and FUCK!!! – a monkey leaps out and eats your face pops up.
Seriously, this thing is even worse than those Pillsbury biscuit cans. I think my idea of hell would involve this box, a bunch of biscuit cans, and someone slowly blowing up a neverending supply of balloons.
I’ve tried to play it for Riley, but I end up cringing so much and shielding my face (okay, I might have some…mental problems, here) that I can barely hold it together long enough for the monkey to do its thing. Riley is mostly interested in trying to shove the monkey back down into the box once it’s popped, while I take the time to catch my breath and fan my sweaty décolletage.
Anyway, those are the worst of the lot. I didn’t even get around to the spinning, rideable zebra with lights and music (LOVE YOU, MOM), or the fake CD player thing that squeaks, “I love to sing nursery rhymes!” in such an oddly porn-star voice I can’t help inserting my own dialogue (“I love to do the piledriver!”), or the xylophone which can be banged on over and over and over and over and over and over, oh my god.
However, they have all saved my sorry ass on more than one occasion during the Long Dark Toddler Times, and so here they stay. Along with the Roomba Wall Unit, of course.
Jan
13
January 13, 2007
Well, I’m glad to be back home and settled in our little plague-ridden house — we all have juicy, repulsive coughs and the Kleenex is disappearing at a frightening rate, but still: home is where the mucus heart is.
Thanks for indulging my frequent yet boring updates from the road last week, and here are some of the last of the photos I took in San Francisco:
Freaky statue in Yerba Buena Gardens.
Street in front of my hotel.
Moscone Center.
More buildings I can’t identify.
And here’s what happened to the front pocket of my suitcase during the flight home:
JB says I must have left the cap off but even though I admit I am sort of a cap leaver-offer at home I doubt I did so before packing the suitcase. I think it EXPLODED mid-flight, and I for one would like to know why an armed air marshall did not take immediate action to save us all from deadly paste shrapnel.
Also, I guess I need to replace that library book.
Lastly, here’s what I came home to:
My family, Dog, a beautiful blanket of snow and no need to drive anywhere. Life is good.
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