Go Puzoodle Yourself
A bit of a catch up, Clubbing Cancer Style post in the works: One of my best costa rican friends, who used to live here and is now living in the US (traitor!!!) was visiting Israel and she brought a couple of awesome Puzoodles as gifts for my children during August. The evening I saw her she gave me the bag with the gifts. Then we went to have dinner and to club. YES! To club. I felt like Cinderella, but a better version of it because my shoes came back home intact. And that wasn’t 12am, it was 4am! Oh, boy. I haven’t been to a club since my pre-chemo party with friends (yeah, that happened).
Next morning I woke up feeling like crap to the realization that I was home with the kids. Another day of what the hell do we do today?
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even have the power to go back upstairs to take a shower. And then I remembered that my kids received gifts and that I had the perfect solution to keep them entertained in the living room while I half passed out on the couch for 10 minutes. Because really, I have no more faith than that in any toy anymore.
I ran to the car and got the bag with the gifts. I grabbed the scissors and helped them open the little yellow bags full of pieces. I was damn thrilled and moving fast: Let’s get all this stuff out, oh! The fun you guys are going to have while I drool watch from the couch.
But then it happened. I saw my kids puzzled.
Even though I was dying to get into my cool cozy couch, I got puzzled too and I started to look at the pieces. My 6 year old daughter got the turtle. It had several colors and therefore seemed easier. My 3 year old son got the llama, which made me kind of jiggle and mumble: LAMA kibalnu et ha shit ha’ze (? למה קיבלנו את השיט הזה) (why did we get this shit?)
Oh dear God, Puzoodles, what is that? I’ll tell you what it is: It’s an *Instagram-worthy* animal puzzle that becomes a platonic idea 40 minutes after you’re trying to fit the motherfucking 30 thousand pieces that look all the same and are all white. Matter of fact, I got a new curse: #GoPuzoodleYourself! I mean, look at my kids, they look terrified: even mom can’t put this shit together, lol.
I was losing my mind after an hour and warning the kids that if they mixed both animals’ pieces we would never be able to leave the house again. We continued to work. My girl is very amazing at assembling things. I was seriously hoping she could finish so that she could come and assist us with the damn llama. But at some point she started to cry because I wasn’t helping her at all and she wasn’t really getting it. I’ve never seen a worst quality photo printed into an instruction manual and pieces with numbers that make no fucking sense at all. So off I moved to help her while my boy came and tried to splash the llama pieces to the floor. I knew we needed to leave the house. At this point we ALL needed to get the hell out of here.
Out we went and at some point I came back only with my little man. My girl was out with her dad. He was napping and I confess that after I put him to bed I got back to the living room looking like Gargamel coming after a smurf. I sat down and I put them together on my own.
I thought the kids would get pissed and ask me to disassemble them and help them put them together (which I would have complied with…maybe), but they looked kind of relieved and played with them the rest of the afternoon. They are the only toys I handle with care in the house.
A note to the friend: V, thank you for the gorgeous gift and for making me giggle. Really all of this happened and it was a fun (and hilarious) experience. The embarrassing satisfaction I got from building these f*ckers was as pure as the beers we had on the beach. Love ya and miss ya, sister.