A perfect place for Aunt Patti’s gifts

I love my sister, Patti, dearly. Growing up, she and I had more fun than a barrel of drunk monkeys. Together we cut teeth, ruined Barbie’s hair-do and maxed out our pretend credit cards at one imaginary white sale after another.

She’s still quite the bargain shopper today and therein lies the problem. She purchases presents of wretchedness for our boys at each and every turn. Her toys are ruthless, most are disgusting and some were created to cause terror in the hearts of parents worldwide.

I’m sure she must do her shopping at an outlet mall next door to purgatory, in a large store that sports the name Unthinkable Toys Are Us. Where else could one purchase a snare drum set complete with amplifiers for under $20?

Some may think me unappreciative of her generosity. These are obviously people who never saw their children open up the Stink Blaster set in its entirety on Christmas Day.

Over the past several years Patti’s gifts have caused us to suffer a great deal. There was the Sand Art Extravaganza of ’97, the 5-gallon bucket of Play-Doh in 1998 and the plastic Cockroach-Eating Iguana that Huey received for his birthday in 1999.

I thought she’d outdone herself with the alien that gave birth to a beetle via C-section in 2000, but not so. She topped that one giving them the granddaddy of all presents: the dreaded Chemistry Set of 2001.

There’s nothing like one of those bad boys to introduce your little dears to the wild world of experimentation with polymers acids and bases. Not to mention the fun they can have with spontaneous combustion.

Christmas of 2004 proved to be a creative gift-giving year for Patti. Although I’m sure its creators thought it was ingenious, my beloved spouse and I will forever remember Hair Brained Monsters as the Chia Pet from hell.

Patti has purchased our boys bugs that come to life and reproduce after midnight. She gave them Toxic Terry’s Terrestrial Junk Yard and enough jars of Ooze and Gooze to make me want to sink down deep into the sofa with a bucket of ice and a bottle of booze.

To be quite honest, I’d like it better if Patti were to stop buying gifts for the boys altogether. I often say, “It’s the thought that counts. You needn’t go to all the trouble to shop and wrap and such.”

But she doesn’t listen. Patti lives for the moments when she can pop up at a party with a sinister smile and a gift bag known as “Aunt Patti’s Whammy.”

Since we just moved into a new house, Patti and Frank stopped by for a tour the other night.

“This is the living room,” I said with a smile. “This is the bathroom and of course, this is the pride of all men and their kind, the furnace closet.”

Following the customary “oohs” and “ahhs,” Patti asked with curiosity, “Say, kid, what’s that room down there with the door shut?”

I thought she’d never ask.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed when I opened the oversized closet hidden deep within the bowels of the basement. “What sort of room is this and what on earth is that smell?”

“This,” I said with a smile, “is one of the finest features of our new home. It’s the heart and soul of the house.”

“It looks like someone set a bomb off in the middle of a noxious sand pile,” said Frank, as he plugged his nose.

“It does indeed,” I replied with an ironclad demeanor. “You see, this the room where the kids get to use your gifts. It’s unfinished, it’s raw and with the right colors and a water supply, it could double as a bomb shelter. We’ve soundproofed the walls, provided a separate exhaust system, and put a Disgusting Toy Detector device here at the door to assure ourselves that your gifts can never leave the area.”

“You seem as though you don’t really like my gifts,” Patti said with feigned surprise.

“Like them?” I replied. “We’re still trying to recover from them.”

“Frank, I think we’ll have to put some serious effort into our gifts from now on.”

She can’t scare me. I survived the Odious Odie’s Oleanders Greenhouse, and the Ant Hill Indulgence that little Charlie enjoyed on his last birthday.

Then again I’d better check. The room may not withstand Easy Earl’s Earthquake Simulation System that will be new on the market this fall. That one really has me shaking in my boots.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.