It was my birthday recently. Mom and Dad sent me a box of presents, even though I've told them I'm too old for presents and to stop sending presents to my very tiny studio apartment which I share with one large adult male and one poorly behaved cat whose litter box takes up a third of the bathroom. I'm live-blogging the opening and initial exploration of the box, because what else is there to do on a Tuesday night?
Here's what I pulled out:
This is what I think every morning.
Rubber Change Purse
Camo style! That must have been Dad's excellent choice. And inside:
One Quarter, One Nickel, One Normal Penny, One Dirty Penny ($0.32)
I'm not sure what the message is here. I keep reminding my parents that it's my 29th birthday. I've been telling them for a while now. Like at least three years. Early onset dementia? In both parents at once??? Maybe.
This item is probably my favorite, meaning that this one makes me the most enraged. If you issue instructions to my mother, such as, "stop sending Ridiculous Socks," she is 90% likely to pretend it is opposite day. Ridiculous Socks is one of her go-to present-padders, which is an item you throw in with someone's gift to either 1) make it look bigger, or 2) incite them to send you hateful texts, such as:
--THANKS FOR THE RIDICULOUS SOCKS BECAUSE THE EIGHTY PAIRS OF SOCKS I ALREADY HAVE SEEMED A BIT MEAGER, STOCKPILE-WISE. IF THE ZOMBIES BANG DOWN THE DOOR, AT LEAST I CAN THROW RIDICULOUS SOCKS AT THEM.--
--STOP SENDING RIDICULOUS SOCKS, I SAID--
One of the reasons I have to kill Mom every time she sends Ridiculous Socks is that I know she knows better. I know this, because despite her bad habit of both purchasing and gifting Ridiculous Socks, she also makes sure to include a coordinating gift that you actually need and have requested in the past.
I go through footies fast. It is expensive, and unavoidable. My feet tend to transform into oozing lumps of decaying otter flesh whenever i put them into shoes (unless those shoes are flip flops. Then everything is fine). If I didn't wear footies, I would have to replace my shoes each time I wore them. Moving to New York has paradoxically alleviated the problem somewhat. I don't have a vehicle anymore, but I also work from home, which means I step outside of my apartment to throw trash away (flip flop time!), and that's sort of it. Sometimes Zookeeper B drags me out to fancy restaurants, though ("We're eating out tonight, Miss Havisham. Wash your hair"), and then I still really need my footies. I always prefer to wear a brand new pair, versus a washed-and-pilling pair, so I'm very happy these were in my box. Footies. Ridiculous Socks.
My first thought was "WTF?" Then, "Huh." Then, "What IS this?" Finally, "Maybe it's part of a larger theme." If that's the case, I'm a big, dumb idiot, because all I see is sixteen ounces of coconut oil, so I'm still mostly like "WTF?" I am fairly uneducated about coconut oil. I know it goes in a lot of vegan desserts. Maybe it's for a bath? I wonder if Mom ran out of things to stuff in the box and started unloading groceries into it. Which is fine and understandable. Maybe I'll just ship it back to her...so she can use it for whatever she bought it for before she noticed an empty spot in my birthday box. Is it for putting in my coffee??
These, I'm excited about. They're cute, for one thing. That stiletto is stamping out a cigarette! A revolver, X-RAY STYLE!!! I was looking forward to eating chicken wings off of these, but after conferring with ZB, we've decided they are not dishwasher safe. In fact, they probably aren't plates. We think now, upon further reflection, that they are decorative ceramic slabs. We'll have to glue them to the wall, though, because there is no hanging apparatus attached. Regardless, I'm very fond of these.
Finally, because we recycle in this house, the box was probably the most important gift of all:
Thank you, Parents, for my birthday box. If you could just explain the coconut oil, because I'm at my limit of rational reasoning about it. Happy Birthday to me!!