The Didgerifurbee...

You've probably gathered that jackassery tends to abound at Casa Didgeridoo. Yes, darlings, our life really is a wild and highly varied cartoon - one never knows what a day might bring. Didgeridoo Boy is highly creative and extremely hyper, and his life revolves around a series of games, antics, loud noises, and pranks.

Sometimes, Didge pops into what I call "Furbee Mode". For those unfamiliar with Furbees, they are furry (get it?) electronic toys that develop a vocabulary over time, and wind up spitting out some of the most random things imaginable. Last week, Didgeridoo Boy had an entire Furbee day; fueled by a frightening amount of caffeine and sugar, he spewed incohesive little bits of nonsense from the time he woke up until sleep finally got him. This round even saw him answering normal, everyday questions in Furbee speak, testing my patience to its frayed limits:

GKG: "What would you like for...."

Didge: "SCHNEEEEE?"

GKG: "What would you like for dinner?"

Didge: (whispering) "Schnee."

GKG: (glaring) "Might that mean that you would like a sandwich?"

Didge: (danced in a fashion bordering on lewd while flicking his tongue in and out of his mouth)

GKG: "I f*****g give up. I'm done, and I'm going to the grocery store. You can sit your schnee butt right the bloody hell here or you can come along."

Didge: "SCHNARRRRRRT!"

GKG: "DINNER! DINNER! F***ING DAMN DINNER! WHAT?" (I actually jumped while I said that.)

Didge: "Bootsch. Schnikendozzle. Schneet."

And so it went. Blessed Didge came along, resulting in a fine time at the grocery store. My brain has pulled a mercy killing on most of the specifics, but suffice to say he Furbee'd to and fro while I tried to keep my wits. One instance stuck with me: I asked if he needed snacks, and he got very serious, answering, "Hocksennz." in the most matter of fact manner I have ever seen him muster. He went back to English during the checkout process (thank the gods for that little smack of mercy), but the moment we got everything into the house he stood stock-still in the middle of the living room, fists clenched, and hollered, "SchneeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEE!". Then he did his Green Giant laugh and had another little dance.

"Schnee" became his word for the evening. He schnee'd his way through dinner, every single television channel change, each and every commercial, every time he stood up, and every time he sat down. He shouted it while he was in the bathroom, and performed an opera of it while showering. Once, he timed it with every single step he took up and down the hall. When I kissed him goodnight, he said it again, and instead of replying, "I love you, too" - - yep, "Schnee." He woke me up a couple of hours later just to say it again.

You might say I was a little schnee'd out by that point. He almost got to schnee right out into the yard to sleep.

Other than when we were at the grocery checkout, I think he prattled in Furbee for a solid thirteen hours. Being a somewhat literal person (Didge calls me "Annaseriously" as a pet name), I found dealing with his new language highly vexing. He's cute and adorable and immensely lovable and all those good things, but that nonsense pissed me right the hell off. But would you like to know what I found most trying?

I got to where I could understand him.