I am a smart person. Really. I know I get the occasional memory lapse, but I can conveniently blame that on my pregnancy (for now). I can solve a sudoku puzzle, work out a crossword, and have even figured out Rubik's Cube. Most of the time. So why do I feel like an idiot every time I have to transform those blasted Transformer toys?
We used to have such a happy, peaceful home. And then that fated Christmas morning arrived. If only I knew what kind of damage those toys would cause. Not to the children, but to me. Brandon opened the first Transformer set and asked that they be transformed. He wouldn't open anything else until I did it.
I asked Cliff for help, since he had played with them as a boy, but he smiled at me, leaned back in his chair, and said, "This is my revenge for you making me potty train the boy."
Okay, so he didn't say that. But he might as well. What he really said was, "Babe, you're going to have to learn, because I won't be home to do it for you." What a jerk.
I have finally mastered Bumblebee, the crane guy, sporty car Decepticon guy, and the helicopter. And I did it without the instructions, because Brandon doesn't believe in keeping helpful bits of direction. But Megatron. I hate Megatron. I never really thought I would ever hate a toy, but there is a pure loathing in my soul for that piece of demon spawn.
The thing I hate most about him is that it's only supposed to take 4 steps to transform him. And I can't do it. It's like my brain stops working in between steps 3 and 4. The final product is a tank that can only fire at its wheels, instead of firing its projectile missile somewhere into the carpet that I will later find when I step on it. And it looks pigeon toed. Which is not good when you are the leader of the Decepticons and feared by both your followers and enemies. Who wants to fear a pigeon toed robot? That's right, no one.
So I am a failure. Apparently I am not smart because a toy is besting me in the intelligence department, and because I can't perform a simple task for my son. My only option is to mumble under my breath, "Wait till your father gets home." Cliff's revenge is complete.
All I can do is hope and pray this next baby is a girl, because if it is, watch out, Cliff. You have no idea what you're in for in the girly pink department.
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How does it feel to be among the shallow end of IQ pool? You make me laugh. I so do not have the patience to put those dumb toys together as well. Poor Braedon, we got him an $80 bumble bee a couple of years ago for christmas and neither him or I have learned to transform the stupid thing. Only Alan, and that's with intructions, and a few cuss words here and there.
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