Shopping traps… trips

I was at Rite Aid today and saw a pack of Garbage Pail Kids.  You know, those trading cards from the mid-1980′s featuring children modeled after Cabbage Patch Kids but given inappropriate names like Leaky Lindsey and Potty Scotty.  They are disgusting and rude.  And I was *this*close* to buying them.

For my daughter.

Ok, not for my daughter.

For me.

Apparently, the target demographic for the new collection of Garbage Pail Kids is 38 year old suburban moms who once had a monster collection of the trading cards and who now try to convince themselves that their kids are the ones who would really, really love the new collection of Garbage Pail Kids.

But my daughter would hate them.  And rightly so- they’re gross.  So I fought hard against my urges and left Itchy Richie and Slobby Robbie in the impulse buy section of the drug store.  I bought peanut butter M & Ms instead.

This is not the first I have pretended something was for my daughter when I really wanted to buy it for myself.  For example, Sea Monkeys.  All my childhood- all my LIFE, I wanted Sea Monkeys.  They were advertised in the back of comic books, amazing little kings and queens of the salty sea that you could take home.  Just add water and they come to life!  I wanted them soooo bad, but my parents would never get them for me.  So when I saw them at the toy store, I told my daughter she could have them.  She told me she didn’t want them.  I smiled to myself, knowing she really did.  But when we got them home, they were super boring.  And since she didn’t even want them, they were my responsibility.  I prayed they would have a short life span.  RIP super boring, unwanted Sea Monkeys.

Another example:  a rock-polishing tumbler thingy.  That was another thing I wanted with a passion when I was a kid.  I imagined collecting rocks and polishing them, then selling the gems for a massive profit.  But it turns out it takes about four days of tumbling in that mini-cement mixer-style contraption, and it is about as loud as an actual-sized cement mixer.  I know, because I bought it for my daughter.  Even though she said she didn’t want it.  So I stuck it in the garage because it was so noisy, until I just couldn’t take it anymore and shut the operation down.  My gem business was dead before it even began.  RIP stupid rock-polishing tumbler thingy.

And of course, there’s the Easy Bake Oven.  Did you know that the cakes you can bake with that little light bulb taste like dirt?  I know because I bought it for my daughter even though she said she didn’t want it.  It’s in the laundry room now, next to the rock-polishing tumbler thingy.  RIP Dirty Cake Oven.

Here is what I’ve learned:  my daughter has pretty good taste.  Except for the whole Seat Pet fiasco (do. not. buy. that.), she has a good sense of what toys will be fun.  Same for my parents.  All the stuff they refused to buy me turned out to kind of suck.  I should have trusted their judgment, because mine is apparently not good at all.

So I absolutely will not buy the new Garbage Pail Kids for my daughter.  No Adam Bomb, no Fryin’ Ryan, no Armpit Britt.  They are crass and tasteless and she would hate them.  No, I will not buy them for her.

Just don’t ask me what is in this bag with my peanut butter M & Ms.


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