Thursday, March 1, 2012

Not to seem like an ingrate, but some gifts suck. I get that it's the "thought that counts" and that the purpose of giving has nothing to do with gift itself and all that nonsense...but, you know, if you are going to be doling-out your hard earned cash for something, it might as well be something that is not super crappy.

Please never buy any of the following for someone you actually care about (now that my mother is deceased, I feel I can post this without impugning her wrath):
  •  Northwoods-printed flannel Bolero jacket or a t-shirt with wolves
  • Wooden bear toilet seat cozy
  • This:
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, "What the hell is that thing?" It is a medicine dropper for kids. Cute, right? You shove the trunk down your daughter's throat and make her swallow...oh...wait...

  •  Tree frog.
That's right. One year, Henry was the proud recipient of a tree frog. Of course, Henry isn't old enough to drive his ass to PetsMart and buy two dozen crickets every week. He's not old enough to pluck out tiny bits of frog poo from the bottom of the cage. He's certainly not old enough regularly check the humidity level of the terrarium so that Hoppy doesn't shrivel into a pile of frog-like dust.

Henry is, however, old enough to awaken at two in the morning, and elect to heap every last ounce of dirt out of the cage and on to his vehicle in an imaginary mid-morning trucking calamity that was, in fact, an authentic mid-morning calamity for mom:

Kind of makes you wonder what happened to Sea Monkeys.

About six months ago, Hoppy disappeared. I came in to Henry's room to find the terrarium door slightly ajar, and no frog in sight. There was no evidence of dirt or plants askew...

I blamed Dennis. Seems like the sort of thing he might do. It was all the more suspect given his recent musings about driving Hoppy to the Arizona border and letting him go free:

"We're going to kill him, honey. We forget to feed him...the kids mess with him. He's going to die, anyway. Wouldn't he rather die a free frog than one locked in a tiny glass prison? I mean, what kind of death is that?"

Dennis was adamant he'd done nothing wrong, and chided me for not allowing him to give Hoppy to someone more deserving.

I'm sorry to report that I found Hoppy today. Not hopping. Not even close. I was looking for a missing pair of Steve Madden booties (which, Dennis, had better not have gone off to the Salvation Army or, mark my words, you'll rue the day you made that choice) only to find shriveled frog remains. Not cool.

I called Dennis to tell him that the mystery has been solved...sort of:

Me: How the hell did he hop all the way in to our room, and end up in the back of the closet? Do you think a mouse got to him?

Dennis: Like, the mouse went in to Henry's room, broke into the cage by opening the little latch, then dragged Hoppy out and raped him in the closet and left him for dead? Jesus Christ, I hope not. That's awful, honey. Truly awful. Why would you even suggest that?

Crappiest. Gift. Ever.

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