My mother sent Michael a yodelling pickle. That's right, a yodelling pickle...
What is a yodelling pickle, you ask? Quite simply, a plastic pickle that stands on end, and when you push its button, it yodels. No cutesy cartoon face. No accompanying movement. Just a collection of high-pitched alpine trills from a stiff faux-vegetable. Yodel-Ay-Eee-Ooo.
And unlike the Santa who gyrates to Jingle Bell Rock, this mass-produced gewgaw is perfect for absolutely NO occasion.
What's peculiar, besides the gift itself, is the sender. My mother is not one for spontaneity, nor is she particularly fond of gag gifts. Sal is a logically-minded, no nonsense kinda gal, and a yodelling pickle would be the last thing I'd expect her to send my husband, via UPS. Especially when it's my birthday next week!! What's in store for me? A rapping kiwi?
The other, perhaps noticeably, odd thing...odd and uncomfortable...is that the damn thing looks like a green dildo. Now, I don't get into Michael's and my bedroom habits in this blog, but green, bumpy, yodelling (and somewhat petite) dildos are not our thing...especially when sent by MY MOTHER!
On a morning, when I washed out the roasting pan...again, put away the raspberry preserves...again, stripped away the pee pee sheets from the mattress...again, forgot the kids were out of toothpaste...again*, I must say, this novelty brought a little ray of sunshine into my otherwise monotonous mommy life.
It's just so damn curious. I prefer not to call my mother and ask for clarification. There's something delicious about its incongruity. Even the kids love playing with this kooky thing. (Although it's disturbing watching them fight over a phallus.)
I'd go on and on, but I have to drive Maxie to school.
*Note to self: remember to buy Crest.