Ex-Annoyance

You know those obnoxious Gabba Gabba, Yabba Dabba, whatever in hell they are called contraptions? The ones where your child, in a wholly annoying voice, tapes himself, only to replay it back to himself, as well as anyone in earshot.

I've heard that hate is a strong word, one should save for truly hateful things: ex-husbands leap to mind here. So I suppose, in the Grand Scheme Of Things, I don't hate this device.

I do, however, strongly loathe, detest, and abominate not only the damn thing itself, but the a-hole who invented it in the first place. I'm also not fond of the moron who marketed this particular contraption to single fathers who delight in finding, buying, and sending home one annoying toy after another. Simply to piss off the other parent. As if they've not already completed that task. With flying colors. For those of you on speaking terms with your ex? Mazle Tov. Or whatever. I am not that lucky. I am plagued by these kinds of "gifts".

So I wasn't fond of the gum ball machine.

It's not even the cavity part, or the it's an inappropriate gift, chosen by someone who clearly couldn't think of anything else. Since every child that has visited this house has put their sweaty, grubby hands in it, I suspect that machine alone is assisting in building immune systems stronger than that of a cockroach: the world will end, the only beings left alive the roach, and the kids that dug around in the top heavy ball pit. I stopped Fox from ripping off his pals by charging them quarters to partake in this time honored childhood ritual of germ transference. Hey, if you're going to contract something antibiotic worthy in my house, you get it for free.

I also wasn't terribly fond of the pseudo-musical instrumentation devices sent to this house - the ones that when played, (say, in the confines of an automobile) deafen everyone around them, sort of how those morons who blare rap music manage to rock four cars in each direction from them, at a red light. The Real Life Sounding Machine Gun. What child needs that? What parent needs to be scared shitless by that?

Not I.

I've overlooked the enormous amount of stocking candy sent home; honestly, he'll never be as creative and clever with the stocking as I am. So actually, looking at it that way, I'm kind of relieved he's unable to replicate my astounding talent at stuffing stockings with whimsical whatnots, cleverly chosen mind games, wee tidbits that always bring smiles when opened.

I do not need to resort to the damn Gabba Gabba.

I also know for a fact (paranoid, as it might seem) that his father enjoys this stupid ass toy not because Fox enjoys it, but because it annoys the living daylights out of ME. He sends one home, every year. Every year, I exile that toy (if one may even call it a toy - I think the PLO might spill their guts if they listened to my guy using this thing over and over and over and over and over - use this and Barney? We'd know exactly where Osama is) to various places in the house, assuming, (because I'm a moron) that I can outsmart, out-hide my little guy.

I'm not that clever.

He's found it in all my favorite hiding spots. The freezer. The baking pantry. The extra rolls of toilet paper that hang out in his own bathroom - please, he's a man-in-training. They do not, under any circumstances replace their own rolls. Any mother knows this. Any real man can admit to it. Last year, I went all Agatha Christie with it: best place to hide something? In plain sight.

Onto the (ahem) cluttered corner of the counter he usually refuses to go near, lest any of the girly things touch him. (The one standing tampon that lives in the pen jar, on the off chance a girlfriend finds herself requiring one while taking down a phone message, or brewing herself a cup of coffee)

I awoke to the Not At All Dulcet Tones Of The Truly Smitten With This Fucking Toy. Various variations on the Spongebob laugh (a real ball buster if ever there was one - that laugh goes up me one side, and right back down the other) get played over and over and over. Along with my personal favorite (do note the heavy sarcasm dripping here off every typed word) the grating sound of my exes voice. Over and over again. Since that already plays through the old noggin a time or two, generally saying something nasty and unkind, I needn't a refresher course. For damn sure not first thing on Christmas morning. Or any morning. But that one for sure.

The In Plain Sight Hiding Place?

Sucks. Not worth the effort. Actually, neither is trying to be clever enough to get rid of it, unnoticed; either way, he finds it, fills it with what I'll lovingly refer to as Voice Experimentation, and replays it. A. Lot.

He never tires of this. Finds it downright hysterical.

Like that drunk guy, in the bar, in college, that always tried to pick up chicks using the My Mom Told Me This Joke, You'll Love It........followed by removing his glass eye as a further attempt to get laid. Both? Supposed to be hysterically entertaining. Yes, I do know this from horrifying personal experience; it was the absolute last time I played wingman for Shannon. Fine. I'll admit, the roommate? Pretty yummy. The one-eyed wonder dud? I threw up in my mouth a little.......until I got to the ladies room, where I threw up in earnest. I do not often go to bars expecting to find some guy slam his hand into the side of his face to pop out an eyeball, show it off, and ask me to go home with him. I never went home with anyone, even the yummiest that asked; I for damn sure wasn't going home with that. I did wonder what else popped off him at a moments notice. I've decided wondering is far better than knowing.

However, now that that has occurred? Really, not much shocks me in bars anymore.

What does shock me, is that my son, five years in, still finds this toy one of the greatest inventions of mankind. Maybe he's practicing the fine art of "dating", as a way to simply hear his own voice (we've all been on dates with that - though, I should be honest: date. Not, dates.) while convincing himself he's fabulously amusing. If he were paying attention, the date, not necessarily my son - though perhaps he should get used to this face - he'd notice the I Hope He's Got His Gold Amex Ready. A, I'm ordering the most expensive thing on here, B, I'm getting it to go. C, I've already texted my girlfriend to get that famous Emergency From Home Call, signaling that as a dinner companion? You aren't even worth a peek at the coveted dessert menu. You'll be good fodder for the What The Fuck Was I Thinking game that occurs at the next girls night in, martini's optional.

I'm gearing up for this year's Battle Royale over this blasted thing. I've had some decent practice, since his cell phone does basically the same thing (God help me, please: give me the patience to not rip an expensive gifted device from his very hands and toss it out a window traveling at just shy the speed of sound) - I've relegated him to various spots in the house.

If only I'd soundproofed a room.

Any room.

Sending him into a freezing garage slows him down not a decibel: it increases, as now he needs to shout to stay toasty. The garage also has a nasty echo.

When you're out shopping this holiday season, and you see this cart, in the mall? With some weird Sort Of In College But Mostly Smoking Pot guy hawking these things as the Best Cheapest Entertainment Around! lurking over the miniature packaging? Take a good look around. Single fathers who hate (yes, I used that intentionally) their exes send these suckers home on a yearly basis. I saw one of these vendors, and I had this thought, for a brief moment - maybe, if I send him with one already, Fucktart can see just how irritating it truly is. He'd understand the pain.

Because it's me, it would totally backfire. Do you see how? Hmmm?

That's right.

Two of those bloody things would come back to this house.

I'd have double the annoyance I have now.

Quite frankly?

I'm all stocked up as it is. I needn't punish myself.

After all, that is what I have an ex for.

My Team

I've become one of ladies I used to make fun of. In a good way, mind you....but laugh at nonetheless.

As a gift, I received a year long, once a month cleaning service. Not Cleaning Lady, but Cleaning Ladies. Whom I adore. The same kind of adoration I reserve for special things, like The Capitol Grille, or, my child. Seriously, they're right up there with my child.

Whom clearly, I adore.

Now that we're all clear on just how I adore them, allow me to ruminate on the panic these lovely ladies ensue: they've a job to do. They've been hired to come and clean. Not just any old cleaning either, but this 25 point (or 22, or 27, I forget) point Healthy Home cleaning. (Quite needed now that Fox and I have been diagnosed with Strep. I could point fingers at the fact that I spoke to Mag's on the phone while she had it, so I could have contracted it that way, but more than likely, I got it the old fashioned way: off the handles of market carriages when The Stores run out of those handy dandy straight rubbing alcohol wipes - another item on the Adoration List) Right. My point. These ladies are arriving, tomorrow, to do this, for me.

And I, like every other woman with a Cleaning Lady I know, am cleaning the freaking house before they arrive. I tried to call Mag's, ask her to talk me down off the ledge of I Don't Really Need To Vacuum, since I'm so fond of the one lady that shows up with a vacuum strapped to her back - and it is, after all, what she's been hired to do. Paid handsomely, ps., to do so. So why do I feel the need to vacuum, or dust (well, let's not get carried away - I'm not tempted to dust in the least, ever, so that's a poor example) - I'll do the picking up part (which is really the part I detest) but I keep sending up fluffy clouds of Pucker fun, and I keep thinking:

They Will Judge Me By The Level To Which They Need To Clean. As though a quick pre-vac rates me higher on the List Of Houses They Enjoy Cleaning. I don't want to be up there with that lady, the one who has them change out her cat litter. Once. A Month. I don't even like cats and I pity that one. And. Geez. It's not like I'm asking them to Poop Police the Deck.

I whipped through the kitchen like a whirling dervish, only to find, I've not all that much energy to straighten (a term I'll use, uh, loosely - not more than an hour needed tops, but still) for the rest of the areas covered by The Team.

Oooohhhh. I like that. The Team. My Team. My Team Of Cleaning Ladies. My Team Of Cleaning Ladies Who Divide And Conquer faster than Napoleon ever did. (I just sort of plucked him randomly, by the way, so if it took him forever to do whatever he did in history, obviously, choose your own, better, more thought out conquerer) I stopped shy of cleaning the stove, or scrubbing out the sink; they even take all the stuff off the fridge doors, clean them, and hang the stuff back up. I know this. I watched them the last time.

But.........I have this, thing, some people call and obsession; how ugly does that sound? Yeah, that's what I thought too - about cleaning my floors. Floors so shiny they scare dogs. I'd love to have them so shiny sunlight blinds people when they arrive to visit. I own more products and electronic machinery I could go into business cleaning floors. I'm trying my best to leave them, all stored away, having even taken apart the ones that require water and fluids, in my attempt to keep my paws where they belong: putting away the last three loads of laundry, folding the sofa blankets - come to think of it, that's something else they do. Fold stuff.

If only they'd hang it up and put it away too. Perhaps iron.

I've been informed, that's an entirely different level of My Team than I currently have.

In fact, no one I know even knows of a Team like that, save for a dry cleaner, who does house calls.

Ps: none listed in the phone book.

Thus, to clean or not to clean?

Pucker looked at me as though I've nine heads, (sad, as I'm having an especially good hair day) answering me firmly, the same way I reprimand her when she eats my things:

NO MA'AM.

That's why you have The Team.

Never do today, what may be shoved until tomorrow.

Especially if someone else is going to do it for you.

Decorate with what's on hand....

My new table centerpiece for the seasons?

It's hip, it's timely, it's modern....it's downright frightening: a pillow case, striped, should you be interested, filled (and I mean filled) with candy. Sure, I did the Initial Purge: we removed everything to which I was allergic.

Four pieces: mounds, mounds, almond joy, mounds.

The freezer is well stocked with snickers, milky way bars, and even minty musketeers, should I feel the need to either break my teeth, or float one in some coffee on the one day I run out of creamer, whipped cream in a can, or ice cream. Seriously, in a pinch, any or all of the above works marvelously. One might assume, having made great strides to empty out the great walloping mound of poorly contained candies, I'd purged a good deal.

It's not good to lie so close to when Santa's coming.

Fox brought home damn near 400 HUNDRED pieces of candy, and that does not include the pieces that were left here after I stayed home to play Happy Door Opening Candy Pusher. I do wonder if it's escaped everyone else's notice that October is National Creepy Pedophile Month, you know, the one's we teach our children to not take candy from ever, and yet, we're quite happy to send them off, to gather gobs of the stuff from folks we may, or may not, know. There could very be a pedophile lurking among us, none of us the wiser, as we were so damn busy buying the freaking candy, two costumes (fucking dog ate the first one) and Exceedrin to get through the night we've totally neglected the most important aspect of Halloween: which creepy guy walking the streets with "kids" is The One?

Of course, since it's me, and I know won't rest until I know, I checked online: nearly fell off my Awaiting For Candy Grabbing Costumed Beings chair when I discovered that not only does one live nearish me?

He. Lives. Here.

Okay, right. Not physically in my house. Honestly, I may have dated a few suspects in the past, some with downright dubious histories....but Gosh, that's been years and an entire continent away at this point. To find out that one moved back in with his mother - and off on a tangent here, I totally understand the I Love My Child Unconditionally, but I draw the line at molesting anyone - then? You're dead to me, and on your own, bucko. So, a, I'm shocked, but sort of impressed, that she allowed him to move back in, and downright freaked out to realize he lives, like, within walking distance of me.

My child is adorable. People tell me that, unbidden, all the time. I needn't fish for compliments for him; myself, perhaps, but then, really, I've spent 35 years attempting to tame hair with the same personality as me: feisty, fabulous, and a wee touch fragile. My child's friends? Equally adorable. In fact, I'm hard pressed to come up with an unattractive child I know. So to let this guy saunter back into his mothers house, be pressed to her breast with maternal concern? Makes all the hair on my legs stand on end. (currently, that might frighten the hardiest of souls - it's been cold out!) He could have been in a costume himself, looming, lurking....I can't think of another scary word starting with l....right up close and personal with our children.

This, uh, doesn't really answer my questions about what on Earth to do with the candy that I may indeed, hang onto, and pass out again next year - I know for a fact one of the other mother's did this. Oh, I'm not judging, don't misunderstand, but the packaging had that slightly smashed, sort of well handled look to it that a tampon gets when left in a handbag too long. In my bag, sadly, the tampons no longer even sport the protective plastic coating - Pucker just adores the plastic. I don't ask why any longer. I try to recall to put my handbag up on the table.

Which is the LAST PLACE EVER it should be, as do you have any clue how many germs are on the bottom of a handbag? We put them on the floor of our cars, the floors of restaurants, cabs, the subway, a bus, in the uncleaned totally germ infested carts at the market. I've popped mine on the floor of a ladies room stall, the sink shortly thereafter; airline carpeting, diaper changing fold outs...places we'd never go without shoes, and yet, we don't think twice about swinging the old bag up onto the counter where we prep food.

Wait, I dry heaved. I think my bag is on the kitchen counter as I write.

I'm so going to have to move that.

Passing by the dining room table, I snuck another peek at the Bag o' Candies; perhaps, with a little strategic, artful presentation, I could pass it off as a holiday decoration all the way through Easter. Better yet, I'll host a martini party, forcing upon everyone a well presented goodie bag, they'll assume holds perhaps, fancy orange peel filled olives, or peppered baby onions; when they look inside?

That's right. They'll find malt balls and lolly's, candy bars out their ears, enough crappy mass produced and possibly year old chocolate to kill a larger than normal sized horse.

Now, if I can simply find candles to match that pillow case........