I Would Have a Good Title, but I Had to Watch the Pens Game

Apparently there is some sort of Man Law that states that you cannot call a cheap GPS a dual anniversary and Father's Day gift. Darn the luck, that means I'm still on the hunt for a Father's Day gift for Mr. Husband. This may very well be the last year I'm responsible for picking something out, so I suppose I better make it good. He has a lifetime of ties and trinkets to look forward to, after all.

In my quest for the perfect gift idea, I realized that various companies have been emailing me some craptastic Father's Day suggestions. Babies 'R Us, I'm talking to you. This email?

RIDICULOUS. Telling me to buy my husband a diaper bag for Father's Day HAS GOT to be some sort of twisted joke. Even if he were to like such a gift (he wouldn't), that would be against all the laws of what is right and good. Men do not need special diaper bags. Period.

Just in case there are any men many reading this, allow me to make the whole "manly" diaper bag thing crystal clear. Real men suck it up and carry whatever their baby mama buys. If that means you are stuck carrying a pretty princess diaper bag for several months, just shut your trap and do it. I don't care if carrying that pretty princess diaper bag makes you nauseous. Imagine carrying a real live human being right next to your kidneys for nearly ten months, squeezing it out of a tiny little hole, and THEN we can talk about nauseous. You owe your baby mama the right to buy whatever the heck diaper bag she wants. Carry it and shut your trap.

While you're at it, men, make it a mission to see if you can change more diapers than your baby mama. I dare you.

The day after Babies 'R Us assaulted my sensibilities, Bath and Body Works joined in the Mess with Her Head Party with this offer:

Um, NO. If I were to buy Mr. Husband a bunch of froo-froo soapy things for Father's Day, I'd be getting bricks in my stocking this Christmas (yes, twits, that was an intentional nod to you). Now that I think about it, I can't think of a single Dad that I know who would be overjoyed to find that his wife and kids thought he needed smelly stuff for Father's Day. Ponder for a moment the image of the guy you think would appreciate the gift of goop. I'll just leave that one hanging.

The WORST of the email Father's Day offers that I have received is one that I deleted before it could completely enter my conscious. I swear on the biggest bag of gummy worms, I seriously received an email offering me a great deal on Allure Magazine for Father's Day. Um, yeah. Mr. Husband wouldn't just be mad, I think buying him Allure for Father's Day would be all the judge would need to hear for him to declare the trial a case of justifiable homicide.

I think I'll just buy Mr. Husband this little thing. I'm sure he'll LOVE it.

(C'mon, you HAD to know it was about time I posted another freaky doll.)

A Little Monkey Business

I don't know if OCD is genetic or contagious, but I do know that both the Toddler and I suffer from the affliction. For me, it means hours of digging around in the Saltwater Tank of Horrors. For the Toddler, it means fixating on a character and spending every possible moment relishing in the glory that is that character.

Since Elmo is SO two months ago, lately we've been on a Curious George kick. We read the same book over and over and over each and every night. Except that we don't actually read the book because it is one of those allegedly vocabulary building annoyances that just has lots of pictures with the appropriate label next to each one. I've never quite managed to entertain myself by reciting every kind of toy under the sun, so mostly we just look at the pictures and play a little hide and seek. I ask Alexis where various items are and she continuously changes the subject and asks, "Where's George?" and then finds him for me. We can't turn the page until she has shown me George at least eleventy bazillion times.

The kid is obsessed with spotting George.

A few days ago, we made a run to Coldstone for a little Rocky Road Trip goodness and were sitting outside, inhaling the world's best ice cream as fast as we all could. Alexis, for once in her life, was actually eating her ice cream at a pace that somewhat resembled normalcy. She might have even managed to get five whole bites down before it all melted if it hadn't been for a minor interruption. A Dad and his three kids came plowing through the place. Except, one of the boys was channeling his inner rebel and decided to stop a few stores down and stare at the piles and piles of empty boxes. His Dad called his name over and over and over, and each and every time he did, the Toddler freaked out.

"George! Come here, George. Now, George."

Every time the Dad said, "George," the Toddler's head spun round and round and she looked high and low for her most recent book crush. And then George suddenly came running to his Dad and in that moment, reality smacked the Toddler upside the head and she realized there would not be a cute little monkey joining her for a little ice cream.

I can only hope the sight of little boys continues to be such an utter and complete disappointment for the Toddler.

Goodbye!

Mr. Husband and I are quickly approaching our 8th wedding anniversary on June 3rd. Since we are ever-so patient and ever-so romantic, we already exchanged gifts as we passed each other in the dining room last night. I've been holding his gift for a while because a stroke of genius came over me (in the form of a forwarded link from Mr. Husband--if he doesn't like what he got, then he shouldn't have asked if he should buy it). It was the PERFECT anniversary gift--a GPS. After all, nothing says "I lurve you and always will" like a GPS system. Especially when the GPS system is super-marked down and cheaper than you've ever seen one. That's romance right there.

Today was the debut of the fancy little GPS system, specifically the TomTom. Except, Mr. Husband set TomTom to use an Austin Powers voice, so I think we should call it AusTom. Anyway, AusTom was assigned to leading us to a fish store that we had never been to before (we are in the midst of restocking the Fishtank of Horrors--the worms need company). AusTom comes complete with a few little issues:

1. AusTom seemed to be under the impression that we needed to drive over the bridge, through the woods, around the block, down the street, and then back again to get to our destination. Once I saw where the joint was located, I was all WTH? We could have gotten there 20 minutes faster if we had taken a different route. You know, the DIRECT route.

2. Probably 5 minutes of that wasted time was due to AusTom's very significant design flaw--men don't listen to directions. Whether those directions come via a wife, a neighbor, a stranger, or a GPS, men quite simply are not programmed to listen to directions. It's a fact.

3. Even though she had no idea who or what was talking, the Toddler thought everything AusTom said warranted a, "Goodbye!" Every.single.time.

So, two minutes in the car went a little like this:

AusTom: Turn left in 100 yards.
Mr. Husband immediately turns left.
Toddler: Goodbye!
AusTom: Turn around at the next opportunity.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Mr. Husband: What did it say?
Me: It said to turn around.
AusTom: Turn right in 500 yards.
Mr. Husband immediately turns left.
Toddler: Goodbye!
AusTom: Turn right in 200 yards.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Mr. Husband drives past turn.
Me (cause I'm an IDIOT): You missed your turn.
Mr. Husband: Where?
AusTom: Turn left in 50 feet.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Mr. Husband: I didn't miss my turn.
AusTom: Turn left in 10 feet.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Me: Yes, you did.
AusTom: Turn around at next opportunity.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Me: See, you missed your turn.
AusTom: Turn right in 300 yards.
Toddler: Goodbye!

If you follow AusTom's directions, you'll find the remnants from when my head exploded all over Pittsburgh.

Goodbye!