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.