Somewhere, sandwiched between a Floam and Moon Sand commercial this morning, I half glanced at the television.

Barbie.

Huh, she seems dressed somewhat normal. Still super big tits, but whatever. Clicking on yahoo, No, no cookies until after lunch. Stop kicking your brother. Click. Click.

And a dog.

Cute doggie. He has a bowl of food and everything. I should really take Peanut’s socks off, it’s getting hot. Sure, Count, you can have more milk, I’m coming. Is Barbie holding a metal detector? Wait. she’s picking up litter, nooooooo!

OH MY GOD, did that dog just SHIT? Turds just shot out of Barbie’s dog’s ass. This is a joke, right? Do I have on the right channel, what are we watching???

Did Barbie just pick up the shit with a pooper scooper? She did. What the hell am I watching? Is this real, hang on honey, I’m coming to get you milk. I just need to see if this commercial is real.

It is.

My mother camped out to get me a Cabbage Patch Kid. As the story goes, the zit-faced Toys R Us employee wheeled the boxes into the store from the back, and a frenzy ensued in the wee hours of a December morning in the suburbs of Detroit.

My uncle, allegedly, tore many out of the boxes out of many hands and threw them to my mother and aunt. They quickly inspected the cabbage babies (being racist idiots, my uncle didn’t want any “black” cabbage patch at his house) and they left the store with three of the prized dolls. One for my older cousin, one for my younger cousin, and one for me.

Her name was Corinne Antoniette and I loved her until about Valentine’s Day. She ended up with many other stuffed animals and dolls in the corner of my room. Dusty. Ragged. And I didn’t think of her again until my mother had the nerve to sell her at a garage sale many, many, many years later. In fact, I had a hissy fit. I may have been in my very late teens, but I was super pissed she sold my Cabbage Patch.

With all of this in mind, I am feeling an involuntary twitch. A tick, of sorts. I’ve seen the vague commercials. The mysterious ads.

I need the Elmo TMX for Princess Peanut.

It’s genetic. I have no control. When I casually mentioned the whole Tickle Me Elmo 10^th Anniversary thing to the Kaiser, he gave me that “don’t be one of those moms” look with a “just don’t get one” comment thrown in for good measure. He is, of course, right. And I could go on and on about how much love the Peanut has for Elmo-she humps him for chrstsake. But it still wouldn’t justify standing in the cold at 4am outside of a Toys R Us, wrestling with idiots.

…which is why I just preordered on Amazon. Click. Click. Click.

It’s genetic. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.