My little pony

It's fourth quarter, which means, according to everyone at my new job, that I will be working my ass off nonstop for four weeks. I will be chained to my desk and sick of my co-workers. I will eat only vending machine food and burritos from Burrito Kitchen, and I will end up with scurvy or rickets or one of those old fashioned diseases for the overworked and malnourished.

In preparation for my indentured servitude, I'm eating lots of limes and getting my Christmas shopping done early and online. God forbid this be The Year Mom Ruined Christmas. (Again.) I've been poring over the digital shelves at Amazon in search of the perfect gift. I even did a little reconnaissance work at Target yesterday while buying Tea's new big girl car seat. I didn't find any winning gifts, but I did see this:

Words fail.

Butterscotch Pony is here! I've heard that "this incredibly lifelike pony is a very special, once-in-a-lifetime friend." (Or if you're Gianni and Tea, "a special never-in-Mom's-lifetime, over-her-dead-body friend.")

It's life-sized! It eats plush carrots! It's the perfect gift for your kid if you have bought them absolutely fucking everything else in the world to fill the gaping hole in your morally bankrupt lives! It beckons to your children from the endcap at Target!

Oh my god.

Hey, you know what else is life-sized, eats carrots, and responds to your touch? A REAL PONY. If you're actually insane enough to buy your child a three-foot-tall overindulgence, go big or go home. Get the real thing.

I speak from experience because I actually HAD a pony when I was Tea's age. No lie. I did not know this until years later. Apparently, my dad had a friend who had a farm in Bloomfield (Bloomfield=Bloomington without the big-city sophistication.) He had a pony he was trying to unload on someone. My dad thought, hey! I have a three-year-old, you have a pony! It's perfect. That is how I became a proud miniature equestrienne with my own goddamn pony.

I only met the pony once. My dad took me out to see it and it tried to eat me. I'm no plush carrot but I guess I looked pretty tasty. And as suddenly as the pony had come into my life, it went away again.

I actually remember going out to a farm and seeing a pony and almost losing my foot to it. But I had no idea it was MY pony. Years later, in therapy, I couldn't even blame my parents for not getting me a pony. Because they DID. I feel gypped. But I do get to feel all superior because I had my own pony, motherfuckers, so it's not a total loss.

In 20 years, Tea can complain to her therapist that I didn't get her a Butterscotch Pony. Maybe she'll find one on eBay and buy it for herself to compensate. And she'll think, as she gently grooms it and it swishes its synthetic tail in response, that her life is now complete.

Nah.

All I'm sayin' is that if I see any pony-shaped boxes on my doorstep, they're going straight to the Butterscotch Glue Factory. Fur real.