This is one of Sally’s birthday presents. It is one of the Disney Fairies. They did NOT advertise the razor sharp plastic remnants she was still trapped in after 10 minutes of work to free her. That’s what we call a bonus. Here you go, Sally–oops, don’t cut through the screen door with it, sweetie!
In case you haven’t purchased, oh I don’t know, ANYTHING in the past decade, this is how many toys and other products are now packaged. As I tried to release poor Silvermist, Sally helpfully increased the tension by chanting “You can do it, Mommy! Get her out, get her out!”
Sally’s birthday was just a few days ago, and Mr. Embee and I are both fortunate we didn’t require stitches after opening all the plastic packaging. Seriously, you want to protect international borders? May I suggest encasing your nation in a plastic clamshell. I used to think I couldn’t get into them very easily because I’m not an engineer. But then I married an engineer and he’s no good at it either–though he isn’t as likely as I am to pitch the entire package against a wall. Last Christmas I bought the hubster a gadget that is supposed to cut right into clamshells, helping you to maintain a healthy blood pressure and thereby adding five years to your life. When I got to the check-out stand at Target I whipped out my health insurance card, sure that they’d cover this bit of preventative medicine.
Turns out the thing DOES cut through the plastic, but then you’re left trying to wedge your hand in between two transparent swords to reach your stupid wrench set or whatever. I could see my husband’s obituary: “He died unexpectedly when he accidentally slit his wrists while assembling Calico Critters products on Christmas morning.” So we don’t use it all that often.
Everyone has had to make their way through this garbage to get at the product they’ve purchased, but when you have a child salivating over you, DYING to play with their new dump truck (which is taped, twist-tied and vacuum packed as if we were transporting the Hope diamond) it’s . . . well, it’s just that much worse.
Luckily we have two months to let our cuticles heal before we have to break the Christmas toys out of their form-fitting pope mobiles. But this birthday served as a good reminder: I’m asking Santa for liquor in our stockings to take the edge off.