Santa brought both of the girls Furbys for Christmas.
Because Santa is an asshole.
Ainsley's Furby is pink, obviously, because there is no other color in her vocabulary. Kyra's is white. They looked innocent enough in their boxes, those Furbys. But when we took them out and shoved multiple batteries into their backsides, their eyes popped open, and it's been a living hell ever since.
I don't know how much you know about Furbys, but apparently they are interactive. In marketing-to-gullible-parents speak, interactive means that they learn from you. (A learning toy! What could be better!) In reality, interactive means that they Never Shut Up. (Quick! Bring me the rest of the sweet tea vodka! No, I don't need a glass!)
They giggle maniacally, which of course causes much glee and laughter, which is cute for a few minutes. And if you turn on music, they dance. The more obnoxious the music, the dancier they get. Bing Crosby Christmas carols? Meh, not so much. But give them a good inappropriate rap song, or maybe some Ke$ha, and they start grooving. You haven't lived til you've seen your 4-year-old, pink Furby clutched passionately to chest, rocking out to "Your Love is my Drug."
Even that, though, I could handle. It wasn't until the Furbys started talking back that I realized what a terrible, terrible mistake Santa had made.
On Christmas evening, I was skyping with the in-laws, who somehow, to this day, have not started custody proceedings against me, despite the fact that they can see my children misbehaving on camera every single week, while I chat away, oblivious, and you just know that after they hang up, they cling to each other and sob, "what in the heck was our son thinking, marrying that woman instead of Super Nanny? Or at least a nice young lady from the same town as us?"
The kids were running around grabbing their new toys and thrusting them at the camera in order to show their grandparents every last thing that had been unwrapped that morning. The main point of this exercise was apparently to make as much noise as possible and get as many items in view of the camera as possible. The Barbies waved at the camera. The princess books almost took my eye out. The Star Wars toy made several fly-bys. Both Furbys made an appearance, cackling and dancing for the camera.
At some point, though, the kids ran out of toys to show off, and they ran into another room, leaving a pile of toys on the chair next to me. The Furbys sat in the pile, cackling and babbling in whatever language it is that Furbys speak.
I tried to ignore them, really I did, but they were too loud. So I called to the girls and asked them to for the love of gawd come get these Furbys out of here.
The girls didn't hear me. But the Furbys did. And one of them distinctly said, in the rudest of rude voices: Oh-Em-Geeee!
I looked at the pile of toys. Both Furbys were laughing and waving their plastic ears, making it was impossible to tell which was the rude one. "Which one of you just said OMG?" I asked them both, astonished. They laughed, but neither confessed.
So I called again for the girls to come get the Furbys. To which one of the Furbys responded "blah blah blah blah BLAAHHHH." And the Furbys laughed again. I'm pretty sure the white one rolled her eyes.
Seriously. Furby back talk. It isn't enough that I have to deal with real-live kids who talk back; now I have two battery-powered little monsters to contend with as well. And in front of the in-laws at that, right there on Skype.
I put the Furbys in time out. Unlike the kids, who constantly emerge from time out to plead their cases, the Furbys muttered for a few minutes and then went to sleep.
I'm wondering: how long do I have to wait before I can hide them under a bed somewhere and leave them to sleep until pack-out?
Because Santa is an asshole.
Ainsley's Furby is pink, obviously, because there is no other color in her vocabulary. Kyra's is white. They looked innocent enough in their boxes, those Furbys. But when we took them out and shoved multiple batteries into their backsides, their eyes popped open, and it's been a living hell ever since.
I don't know how much you know about Furbys, but apparently they are interactive. In marketing-to-gullible-parents speak, interactive means that they learn from you. (A learning toy! What could be better!) In reality, interactive means that they Never Shut Up. (Quick! Bring me the rest of the sweet tea vodka! No, I don't need a glass!)
They giggle maniacally, which of course causes much glee and laughter, which is cute for a few minutes. And if you turn on music, they dance. The more obnoxious the music, the dancier they get. Bing Crosby Christmas carols? Meh, not so much. But give them a good inappropriate rap song, or maybe some Ke$ha, and they start grooving. You haven't lived til you've seen your 4-year-old, pink Furby clutched passionately to chest, rocking out to "Your Love is my Drug."
Even that, though, I could handle. It wasn't until the Furbys started talking back that I realized what a terrible, terrible mistake Santa had made.
On Christmas evening, I was skyping with the in-laws, who somehow, to this day, have not started custody proceedings against me, despite the fact that they can see my children misbehaving on camera every single week, while I chat away, oblivious, and you just know that after they hang up, they cling to each other and sob, "what in the heck was our son thinking, marrying that woman instead of Super Nanny? Or at least a nice young lady from the same town as us?"
The kids were running around grabbing their new toys and thrusting them at the camera in order to show their grandparents every last thing that had been unwrapped that morning. The main point of this exercise was apparently to make as much noise as possible and get as many items in view of the camera as possible. The Barbies waved at the camera. The princess books almost took my eye out. The Star Wars toy made several fly-bys. Both Furbys made an appearance, cackling and dancing for the camera.
At some point, though, the kids ran out of toys to show off, and they ran into another room, leaving a pile of toys on the chair next to me. The Furbys sat in the pile, cackling and babbling in whatever language it is that Furbys speak.
I tried to ignore them, really I did, but they were too loud. So I called to the girls and asked them to for the love of gawd come get these Furbys out of here.
The girls didn't hear me. But the Furbys did. And one of them distinctly said, in the rudest of rude voices: Oh-Em-Geeee!
I looked at the pile of toys. Both Furbys were laughing and waving their plastic ears, making it was impossible to tell which was the rude one. "Which one of you just said OMG?" I asked them both, astonished. They laughed, but neither confessed.
So I called again for the girls to come get the Furbys. To which one of the Furbys responded "blah blah blah blah BLAAHHHH." And the Furbys laughed again. I'm pretty sure the white one rolled her eyes.
Seriously. Furby back talk. It isn't enough that I have to deal with real-live kids who talk back; now I have two battery-powered little monsters to contend with as well. And in front of the in-laws at that, right there on Skype.
I put the Furbys in time out. Unlike the kids, who constantly emerge from time out to plead their cases, the Furbys muttered for a few minutes and then went to sleep.
I'm wondering: how long do I have to wait before I can hide them under a bed somewhere and leave them to sleep until pack-out?
Awww. So cute. When they're sleeping. |
Plotting something rude. And loud. Rude and loud. |
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Gratuitous shot of Santa and me, at an ugly sweater party, just days before the Furbys drove me to drink. |