August 2, 2018

no, no, no, not hats, you idiot

I was well into my Lunesta last night, standing in my nightgown while brushing my teeth, and suddenly I had this phenomenally great idea for a post, and then I remembered, "Oh shit, I have to order my special super-expensive bariatric vitamins because I'm almost out," and that bumped out of my brain the best idea for a blog post in the history of all blogging, because at that point in the Lunesta onset, there is exactly one memory slot.  I strained to recover the idea, retracing my thoughts leading right up to that moment (with considerable difficulty), and then what jumped into my brain was, "It was Hats!"


Jacques ... what the deep-fried fuck?  I mean it.  Hats?  I don't know anything about hats.  I don't even wear hats.  I have nothing to say about hats.  That's as random as splash-free bleach or cross-pollination or Grover Cleveland.

Then I remembered my idea, which wasn't awesome at all, but the Lunesta had made me think it was.  It's a damned shame I've never tried weed.  Jacques will probably offer me some soon.  I can't tell you which way I'll go with that.  I'm afraid I'd like it too much.

Anyway, the idea was neither hats nor weed.  It was the baby shower registry.

I was buying stuff online for a baby shower for somebody I don't even know and will never, ever meet.  Except that the registry on the web site has this goofy picture of them looking into a web cam in a way that gives them huge heads with tiny chins.  This gift is for the girlfriend of the son of one of P.J.'s niftier co-workers.

P.J. asked me to help with it because I'm the only person/canine/spider in the house with prior experience buying baby-oriented items.  We knew it might be triggering for me, but instead of being hit with a wave of sorrowful nostalgia, I went all baby-having expert and blasted their registry selections.  "What!?  You totally don't even need that.  What the hell is wrong with you?  That's going to end up in the back of a drawer.  You do not need that many of those.  And the baby will grow out of those while in utero.  They fit kittens.  Just skip right to the four-to-six-month onesies, Jesus, everybody knows that."  I was politely asked to go into another room to finish the gift-giving activities, but I refused to budge.

Most of what had already been purchased was complete bullshit.  It was at least three-quarters bibs.  I think they have been given one box of diapers, a changing pad, some child-proofing household stuff that they won't need for a year that will have gotten lost somewhere in a box in a closet by then, and bibs.  The obligatory "I Belong to Grandma" bibs and some giraffe and zoo-themed bibs and at least four hundred organic fair-trade cotton bibs, plus patterned ones and pink ones and neutral ones and big ones and small ones and one that has this nifty new way of hooking around on the side.

This child will begin its life sleeping on a blanket that consists of sewn-together bibs because that is all the family will own.  They'll be used as wash cloths, pot holders, seat covers, and bath mats.  Eventually the child will come to think the bib is the standard unit of currency in society.

I got burp cloths and towels instead.  Now, that shit will get used.  You have to know where your towel is.  And I hope to Christ the fruit-blessed couple gets covered in gift cards.

I did not buy the baby any hats.  Seriously, Jacques?  Did Walter put you up to this?

1 comment:

  1. Lille,
    You can be so damned funny! I howled with laughter at this one! Thanks for a great start to my morning! On with the day.