Move While You Still See Me

Weeks ago, Anya’s and Corinne’s mother opened a box at the store and couldn’t believe her eyes.

Nan: Look at these things! What’re they even for, anyway?
Tata: I…I don’t know. How many are there?
Nan: Two cases of these god-forsaken chickens!
Tata: Feathers? Sharp feet? What’s this wire do?
Nan: I don’t know. They look drunk.
Tata: I’ll take one home and present it to Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul.
Nan: My what?
Tata: If he likes it, we tell people the God-Forsaken Chickens are cat toys!

They’re not cat toys. Larry claimed the God-Forsaken Chicken, then sat with his back to this stupid thing. Within a day, he’d lost interest in it completely. I reported my findings to the committee.

Nan: My what?
Anya: Crap.
Tata: Let’s throw them away.

That was over a month ago. They’re collecting dust somewhere, but that’s not what I wanted to write about, no sirree, Bob! in recent years, I’ve noticed something women with credit cards do. It is bad, bad, bad for women, bad for the economy and bad for living rooms everywhere. Watch for these symptoms:

Brittany: Ashley! Look at this! Isn’t this cute?
Ashley: It’s cute!
Brittany: I don’t need it but I have to have it!
Ashley: I don’t know what it is but I have to have it!
Clerk: That’ll be $39.95.

Beware friction burns! Further, turn the cute object over and it invariably has a sticker that says it was made In China, Mexico, or Taiwan by the tiny hands of slave children. The cute object, in a home setting will elicit squeals from other Brittanys and Ashleys, but also Tiffanys and Madisons, so this blight afflicts a whole generation of women, not to mention crippling their financial lives. The cute object will do nothing but collect dust until the day its owner slaps her forehead, mutters, “What was I thinking?” and has a garage sale.

If you find yourself exhibiting these symptoms – if YOU pick up something and yodel, “It’s cute” in tones only dogs, Flipper and Ashleys can hear – put down the offending cute object and WALK AWAY. You don’t need that thing. No one needs that thing. Don’t buy that!

Now, I hate cute down to the soles of my combat boots. You may not realize this because I am completely adorable and tell you frequently you should adore me properly, but that has nothing to do with cute. I am not cute because cute is frivolous and without substance. Thus, you will be shocked – shocked! that this morning, Siobhan and I went positively spastic over this:

Wuzzah wuzzah boo boo boo.

In my own defense, I was able to form words shortly after I saw the second picture of the bottle-fed baby bunny, in which the tiny, tiny baby bunny looks slightly disgruntled. Perhaps he is armed. We don’t know. I liked the disgruntled bunny better – as an individual!

When we were growing up, we often brought home injured birds. Mom taught us how to nurse them and care for them and feed them with an eye dropper. If there was an injured or orphaned animal, my mother was mushing milk into bread. It wasn’t cute when the injured birdies healed up, flew off and Mom got all teary. Thinking of Mom as Snow White with birdies landing on her fingertips is cute but not cute – not like those God-Forsaken Chickens.

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