February 28, 2006
Adventures In Babysitting the Girl Child
Friday night, we had Boy Child and Girl Child over for a sleepover. 'Cause it's fun, and we're nuts, and they're hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that I had to write two posts to cover the hilarity. Today it's her turn, tomorrow is his turn.
Girl Child Following in Auntie's Footsteps
Billi called Friday evening to make sure the kids were okay and behaving and ate dinner and all that jazz. Then she had me put Girl Child on the phone, and Girl Child did what Billi always does when she gets on the phone -- went into the other room to get away from those damn, noisy kids.
I forgot about it for a while, figuring she had eventually hung up, and I'd find the phone the next time someone called. I noticed the bathroom door was closed and heard the sound of tinkling. Girl Child had some "mushy poop" issues earlier in the evening, so I knocked just to make sure she was okay.
A minute later, she emerged from the bathroom. Stuffed dog in one hand, phone in the other.
"Here," she said, handing the phone to me. "It's Mommy."
"Girl Child! Were you talking to Mommy while you were on the potty?"
"Yeah."
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Well, Billi and I laughed our asses off at that because we always pee while we're on the phone with each other. In fact, I'm kinda nuts about multi-tasking, so I often pee while on the phone. In fact, if you're reading this and you've talked to me on the phone, I've probably peed, and you didn't even know it.
Except for you, Matt. You're still too new. But your time is coming, mark my word.
When we were done laughing, something occurred to me. Dog in one hand, phone in the other... WHICH HAND DID SHE WIPE WITH?!?!
Girl Child as Theologian
Before bed Friday night, I read to the kids from one of my favorite books, Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends, "Ma and God."
* * * * *
God gave us fingers -- Ma says, "Used your fork."
God gave us voices -- Ma says, "Don't scream."
Ma says eat broccoli, cereal and carrots.
But God gave us tasteys for maple ice cream.
God gave us fingers -- Ma says, "Use your hanky."
God gave us puddles -- Ma says, "Don't splash."
Ma says, "Be quiet, your father is sleeping."
But God gave us garbage can covers to crash.
God gave us fingers -- Ma says, "Put your gloves on."
God gave us raindrops -- Ma says, "Don't get wet."
Ma says be careful, and don't get too near to
Those strange lovely dogs that God gave us to pet.
God gave us fingers -- Ma says, "Go wash 'em."
But God gave us coal bins and nice dirty bodies.
And I ain't too smart, but there's one thing for certain --
Either Ma's wrong or else God is.
* * * * *
Girl Child, who is five, considered this poem for a minute, and then said, "I think they're both right. Because God is the Lord. And Mom is the boss of all kids."
Good answer.
Posted at 01:07 PM | Comments (2)February 23, 2006
Okay, This Is Getting Ridiculous
This makes three times in as many years. Yes, I'm talking about Husband's latest trip to the E.R. (which is why I didn't post last Wednesday, or Friday).
Now, I thought that The Curse of Valentine's Day had been broken this year. But it turns out that, although we didn't recognize it at the time, Husband's symptoms started that evening at dinner, when he didn't finish his spaghetti. Husband loooooves spaghetti, so I thought that was weird. But since Husband so often displays weird behavior, I didn't think much of it.
The next morning, he woke up all cold and clammy with a headache and stomach ache. He's been working himself to death, so I figured it was just the flu and Mother Nature's way of forcing himself to spend a couple days in bed. (Ma Nature is a bitch that way. Not exactly the subtle type.)
I went to work; he stayed home.
About 9:00 on Wednesday, he called me -- winded -- and said my Dad was on his way to take him to the E.R.
He's like, "Yeah, I'm kinda worried. I've been pooping black. Since early this morning. I probably should have told you."
Um...
YA THINK?!?!
Still, I'm very proud of him going to the hospital of his own volition. So Dad took him to the E.R. (one of the many benefits of having retired parents in the same town).
Now, you know that I have the easiest job in the world and the coolest bosses in the world, and on any other day of the year, I could have just sauntered out the door, stopped for a McShake, run a few errands and dropped by the hospital. But nooOOOooo, not that day!
That day, I had to type some endorsements for Chick Boss that needed to be emailed IMMEDIATELY!!! Oh, and also? Head Boss' daugthers' book report needed to be typed.
But seriously, he wasn't dying, he wasn't in any pain at that point, my Dad was there, he was being taken care of, the doctors weren't very worried. What's the point of going to the E.R. to watch him nap and listen to other people puke and moan and whatever?
My family has always had a very strict rule -- "Don't panic until it's time to panic." And I just didn't think it was time to panic. Of course, everyone at work thought I was a monster for not going to babysit him. And frankly, I didn't really like what I was wearing that day, so I left work about lunch time.
By the time I got there, the doctors had pretty much ascertained that it was a bleeding ulcer, and they were going to keep him overnight and do an endoscopy. Husband was a little nervous about the thought of a camera going down his throat into his stomach, but I've had it done, and it's a piece of cake.
Mmmmm, caaaaaaaaaaaake.... arghlrghlrghlrghl...
Yeah, that anesthetic is weird. It's not like sleeping, where you're semi-aware of falling asleep and waking up. It's like you blink, and you're staring at a different ceiling going, "What room is this? What time is it? Did you already do the endoscopy? Is PoPoZau even a real word?"
Anyhoo, Husband was in a holding pattern -- waiting for a bed, waiting for an endoscopy -- so he dismissed me. Seriously, he was like, "Well. You can go now. Nothing to see here. Move along."
All he wanted was a nap. Which was pretty much all I wanted, too. Oh, sure, I had big plans for the rest of my day.
1. Take down Christmas tree.
2. Grocery shopping.
3. Hang curtains in basement.
4. Alphabetize my Silkstone Barbie Fashions.
But in the end, it was just...
1. Masturbate.
2. Nap.
3. Watch "The Simpsons."
4. Call and check on Husband.
In that order. It's not that I don't care about my husband; it's just that there wasn't anything bloggable going on.
Tomorrow, I'll finish the story, which will include a topic I have never yet talked about on this blog. A person, actually. Someone I have always thought it was best not to blog about -- and I'm still right about that -- but it's just too nuts not to share, so I'm breakin' all the rules! And then? I'm going swimming right after lunch! Craziness tomorrow, chilluns! Tune in!
Posted at 01:57 PM | Comments (7)February 22, 2006
My Blog Is McLame
An email from Nicholle:
Shamrocks Shakes are at McD's for the seasonSuperSize Me, I'm Irish
* * * * *
Yesterday, an email from Daisy. Today, an email from Nicholle. What's wrong, Wenchie? Well, sometimes, I'm just boring, or have too much actual work to do. And sometimes, my friends are just funnier than I am.
All new material tomorrow, folks, I promise. Because Husband had a brief stint in the hospital AGAIN last week, and really -- what's funnier than that?
Posted at 01:03 PM | Comments (1)February 21, 2006
My Dog Can Type
My parents have a HUGE 90-year old house and a HUGE yard on a double lot, and they like dogs who follow the command "Other room!" So whenever we go outta town, that's where Daisy stays. One time, Daisy was there for a week, and she literally got tendonitis in her leg from all the exercise she got running around their immense property. That ought to tell you something about our lifestyle right there.
Now, when Billi and Older Sister and I were little and my folks went outta town or had a party that necessitated police involvement (not exaggerating!), we'd often stay with Mom's folks. My grandparents took us, my folks take Daisy -- it's the Circle of Life right here in my blog, folks.
And my Gramma would always have us write down what we did each day to give to Mom and Dad when they picked us up. Stuff like "Blew bubbles in the yard," or "Played kickball with Grampa," or "Played Crazy 8's." Oh my God. I just realized. Gramma J. was my first blogging influence. That's... surreal.
Anyhoo, Husband and I went outta town for Valentine's last weekend, and Daisy, again, stayed with my folks. And Mom had Daisy keep a blog of what she did all weekend. This is the email I got from my dog:
Dear Mom and Daddy:I am having a great time and no one here has dared give me "people " food. I gobble up my own food and drink lots of water and Grandpa has taken me out at least 35 times since Friday. I think Grammy will suffer a kiniption soon. I have fun with him. I just dance around him and he, quick, takes me out. What a sucker!! Grandma is kind and gentle with me, but doesn't spoil me, Phooey.
I really didn't like taking those pills, and after a while, Grandpa stuck it in a tiny bit of liver sausage -- he tricked me!
I don't play much with my squeeky squirrel, but Grammy loves it. She's wondering if it escaped from Cartwrights'.Well, I shall now go down to Grandpa's secret hideout, a/k/a the basement, while Grammy tucks herself in.
They don't sing in choir tomorrow (Sun) but Gram will go to church and hear Kathie talk at the Adult Ed program and Grampy and I shall frolick around the house until she returns.
WOOF--WOOF-------BOW-----BOW. Daisy.
She and I are going to have a serious talk about grammar.
"No, no, Daisy! No run-on sentences! Where's your commas? Go get your commas! Good dog!"
Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (3)February 16, 2006
I Hate Jack
There comes a time in everyone's life when they must decide who they are and what they stand for. When they stand at a crossroads and must decide to take the easy way, or the right way. When they must differentiate themselves from the rest of the pack.
I am Pirate Wench, and I hate Jack.
Jack from "LOST," that is.
Even if you don't watch the show, you may have heard of him. He's supposed to be the "dashing-yet-troubled hero," but really, he's just a smug, arrogant, narrow-minded FUCKTARD who thinks he's King of Craphole Island, and who doesn't share any information about himself or anything he's seen on the island with anyone, and yet he expects everyone to trust him and can't believe it when people don't want him to help them RUN THEIR LIVES!
*pant* *pant*
Sorry. I just really hate him.
Have I mentioned that I hate him? Cuz I really do. I yell at the screen whenever I watch "LOST." Husband can't even watch it with me anymore.
He's like, "Why do you watch this? It just makes you angry!"
And he does have a point. So last week, I watched "Bones" instead. Okay, "Bones" isn't exactly critically-acclaimed television. It hasn't won any awards. But it doesn't make me angry, and it has David Boreanaz who, I think I've mentioned, resembles my hot chiropractor.
It was a difficult decision, but I stand by it, and I know my real friends will understand and eventually come to accept my new lifestyle.
So I was IMing with Billi and trying to figure out when I would go visit Boy Child and Girl Child next.
Billi: You could come next Thursday and I could tape Lost the night before. If it's a new one that is. I still haven't watched last night's yet.
PW: Um, I'm giving up LOST
PW: it makes me too aggravated. seriously, I can't watch it
PW: altho' I'll still read the recaps
PW: but it's on the same time as "Bones" and that doesn't make me yell at the screen
PW: I know, I'm a freak and I"ll be the only person in America who doesn' twatch it
PW: I hope we can still be friends
Billi: .......oh...........my...........gosh.........
PW: I know
PW: I'm sorry!
PW: I just... I HATE JACK SO MUCH
Billi: you're............killing............me.....
PW: and seriously, no one talks to each other.
PW: it's drama based on non-communication, and it makes me mental
Billi: knife.....in...........my.........heart....
PW: ok, now you're scaring me
PW: I"M SO SORRY!
Billi: ....can't...........breath......
PW: oh, stop it!
Billi: .....i......hate.........you.........,you......traitor.......!
PW: serioulsy, Husband gets so mad at me, "Quit yelling at Jack! He can't hear you! Why do you watch this?!"
Billi: I'm going to go cry now.
Billi: Stop with the excuses.
Billi: You suck.
PW: I know. I KNOW!
PW: I'll watch it when Bones is a rerun!
PW: I just can't take it! I hate half the poeple on it!
PW: I only like, like, three people!
PW: Hurley, Sun and Claire!
PW: oh, and Eko
Billi: And Kim?
PW: don't hate me
Billi: and Locke?
PW: well, Locke was all outta character last week
PW: who's kim?
Billi: And Sawyer???
Billi: Isn't that Sun's husband's name?
PW: and sawyer is, apparently, a shithead this week (I read the recap)
PW: yeah, Kim is okay
PW: oh, and Rose
Billi: But Sawyer is yummy.
PW: but seriously, I had to make a decision, and I chose the show that doesn't make me enraged.
Billi: You still suck.
PW: I ttoally do. but I'll read the recaps so I still know what's going on. cuz the recaps don't enrage me
PW: if they didn't move Bones to the same time, I woudlnt/ have this problem!
PW: and they'l probably cancel it anyway, cuz I like it
Billi: GET FREAKIN' TIVO!!!!
PW: YOUR HUSBAND HAS TO COME OVER AND HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!
PW: you have to come early to Husband's party
Billi: Okay, I just heard Boy Child repeat a Larryboy video....
Billi: He said, "Fly my bushy minions, FLY!"
PW: OH MY GOD!
PW: THAT'S SO AWESOME!
Billi: I'm going to go watch Lost now, since I'm not a traitor.
Billi: Good-bye, Judas!
Billi: Are you guys home tonight?
PW: I'm home after 7:30.
Billi: okay. Bye!
PW: bye!
I just know she's planning an intervention.
Posted at 03:23 PM | Comments (6)February 14, 2006
A Valentine's Day Poem
Barbies are red,
Balls are blue,
These babes are hittin' it,
But not with you.
February 13, 2006
Ganging Up On Me
In order to cure Daisy of her bloody-pee malady, she has to take 2-1/2 antibiotic pills a day. Now, we discovered -- the hard way -- that these pills upset her stomach. (I don't know what the hell she was eating, but it'll be a looooong, long time before I have scrambled eggs again.)
To prevent me from sympathy-puking, we break up her pills and give them to her every few hours.
Now Daisy, although we never exercise her, is remarkably strong. When the vet was trying to examine her bladder, our sweet, patient 71 lb. dog got the better of two grown men, ripped off her muzzle and nipped the vet's hand.
I guess she didn't want his hands in that area.
She exercised this same strength when I was trying to get a damn pill down her throat. Despite the fact that we coated them in cheese and/or peanut butter and/or liver sausage, she wouldn't open her mouth. You've been there -- you understand. You know that if I just handed her the food-coated pill, she'd suck off the food and spit out the pill.
So I devised quite an ingenius scheme, if I do say so myself. I took two chunks of liver sausage -- one had the pill in it, one did not. I threw the non-pill hunk at her, and, after discerning that there was no pill, she swallowed it all, convinced I was merely being generous and not trying to sneak any life-saving medications into her body.
When I threw the second hunk -- with the pill -- she was so blinded by trust that she scarfed it right down.
HA HA! I WON! I outsmarted my dog!
What? It's a valid accomplishment! She's really smart!
Billious with pride, I invited Husband to witness her next pill time. I was busy getting out the zip-lock back with the liver sausage and the spoon and prepping the hunks.
Husband picked up the pill, said, "Daisy! Treat!" Threw the pill in the air, and Daisy caught it and gulped it down.
I hate it when they do shit like that.
Posted at 01:10 PM | Comments (5)February 09, 2006
Eatery B
Wow, I guess we've been at this new office space for over two years now. Our old digs were harrrrrrrible. Beige and grey and off-white. Ack! And when the G.M. asked all of us peons what colors we'd like in the new office, we were like:
"Blue!"
"Mauve!"
"Sage green!"
"NO BEIGE!"
So what's the color theme of our new office? Tan and olive drab. I shit you not. It's like a cruel joke. And people wonder why I have a Hello Kitty! and a Barbie calendar in my cube. FOR THE COLOR, PEOPLE!
Anyhoo, on the bright side, we are walking distance from one of the country's BEST indoor malls, and thus, many fine eateries. There's one, in particular, that we have been frequenting every Friday at 11:30 because it's just right across the parking lot from us. And we're lazy.
They have good BBQ pulled pork, and lots of TVs, and crack-whore waitresses in retro-harvest-wheat polo shirts. It's a decent place, and I guess we became "regulars," even though' no one recognized us even one our ONE BILLIONTH VISIT!
Oft-heard phrases at Eatery A:
"Have you been here before?"
"Oh, good, then you know about our BBQ sauces?"
"Did you want to start with some of our famous cornbread?"
"Can I start you off with a couple of margaritas?"
"Are you under any time constraints for lunch?"
"Be sure to save room for our fresh cinnamon donuts!"
Seriously, I could work there ane not need any training. Not that I'm sure anyone gets any training there. Oh! You may remember this post about our favorite employee, Danny, whom we're pretty sure was killed and served to us. His biceps alone could feed our entire office.
Anyhoo, a couple months ago, another restaurant went up right across the street from Eatery A, with a very similar name -- Eatery B. I wondered why someone would put a restaurant of a specific genre right by one of the same genre. Seems like bad planning, ya know?
But Nicholle and I got brave and tried it last week, and OH MY GOD EATERY A SUCKS ASS COMPARED TO THIS PLACE!
The nachos are an anal-retentive's dream. Each nacho has four BIG chunks of chicken on it and it covered edge-to-edge with cheese. We're talkin' individually handmade nachos here, folks! With all the accoutrements on the side, so one can assemble them exactly to one's specifications.
Clearly, I'm a picky, picky eater. Seriously, I'm a nightmare. I don't like mushrooms, cilantro, bananas, jalapeños, olives, onions of any kind, asparagus, yogurt, raisins, peppers of any color, pork, potatoes. In any given restaurant, I can find about, oh, two or three things I would even consider eating.
But on the menu of Eatery B? I found, like, a dozen things I would eat with a smile on my face and a song in my heart! And that's not even including the dessert page!
The floors are hardwood, the walls are stone and not covered in that Bennigan's-esque "whimsical" random crap. There are gently crackling fires instead of ESPN. There's natural light. The napkins are like Viva paper towels instead of gas station toilet paper.
And the wait staff! All 20-25 year old attractive, nubile females dressed tastefully in all black. The managers? Male and gay -- just the way I like 'em!
Nicholle and I go there, and it's like we're at Disneyworld. It's like when Dorothy and her friends finally make it out of the haunted forest and see the Emerald City for the first time! It's like when Elwood is picking up Jake from Joliet Prison, and the doors open, and the light is silhouetting Jake as he walks to the car!
We cooed and whimpered and fawned throughout the entire meal. We are so Eatery B's bitches!
And then. After lunch, on the way out. I had to use the bathroom. Because God forbid my acorn-sized bladder should let me cross a parking lot AND a street after finishing off 16 oz. of Diet Coke.
I walked into the bathroom, took one look around, and went back to get Nicholle, who was standing by the hostess desk.
"Nicholle! You have to see this bathroom!"
The manager and hostess at the desk gave us funny looks.
Nicholle explained, "You don't understand how much we love this place more than Eatery A!"
The bathroom is like a religious experience. First of all, TEN STALLS, ladies!!! When was the last time you were at a restaurant with ten stalls?
And the decor? I would move in! Slate tiles in dark earth-tones. Twenty feet of mirrors. Stalls with actual walls between them and not just flimsy partitions. Stall doors of varnished wood with real doorknobs. And best of all -- the auto-flushing toilets flush at the perfect time!
Yeah, Eatery A can kiss my big, white, winter-dry butt.
Posted at 01:52 PM | Comments (3)February 08, 2006
I'm Going To Hell and Taking Lola With Me
If Tragedy + Time = Comedy, then I feel that enough time has passed for me to write about this. I mean, it's been -- what -- a few weeks since Lola's father-in-law bought the farm? Plenty.
So this one time, I went to hang out with Lola for a whole day because she lives way-the-fuck-far-away from me, so really, what's the point of driving out there for only a couple of hours? At the time, she and her hubby were just starting the long, horrific process of her father-in-law's demise, and she needed some support Wenchie-style. So, we went to Target.
Whoo-hoooooooo! Our BIG! NIGHT! OUT! Truly we are teh coolness, Lola and I. Lola has a new house requiring much fun accessorizing, and I just can't get outta that damn store under $100 (it's like the non-Scandihoovian IKEA), so we had quite the cart-full by the time we were done looking at pre-framed "art" and holiday placemats and $9.44 reject DVDs.
I paid first and was at front of the cart (the prow, I guess); Lola paid second and was at the handle. So she was leaning over the cart and tossing all her things onto the conveyor belt, and I noticed that she missed a couple very small items in the corner, like some eyeshadow and a pack of gum.
But I also noticed that the fifteen year old check-out girl didn't notice the very small items in the corner. Taylor was too busy chatting up the cart-fetcher to pay much attention to anything else. (Not to be confused with the fart-catcher, of course.)
Now, normally, I'm not a thief. I only steal hearts. (Hee!) But I knew how much it would freak-out Lola, so I pretended not to notice the very small items in the corner.
Lola checked out, and Taylor put her bags on top of the very small items in the corner. In the parking lot, Lola was putting her bags in her car, so I gasped and pointed in the cart.
"Lola, you shoplifted!"
"WHAT?! Oh my God! Should I go back and pay for them?"
I was laughing too hard to answer. I snagged another soul for you, O Dark Lord, Father of Lies!
A few days later, I received the following email from Lola.
"You will be amused to know that my sister-in-law and I shoplifted a bag of Skittles from Target, which we found just as I was telling her about my last shoplifting experience. Apparently, I'm dealing with this time of extraordinary family crisis by resorting to crime."
Next time we hang out, I'll tell her the speed limit is 35 while we're in a 25 mph zone! MWAH HA HAAAAAAAAA!
[Please send all hate mail to stealingiswrong@analmail.com.]
Posted at 12:44 PM | Comments (2)February 07, 2006
Superbowl XL Recap*
[* For the sake of me not dying of boredom, this Superbowl XL recap will not actually contain any information about Superbowl XL.]
We only have one t.v. Well, we have two t.v.s, but the one is on a splitter so Husband can watch t.v. in his office, but we can't watch two different channels at once. No, we are not Amish. It's just a personal lifestyle choice that everyone has to make for themselves.
Now, since I'm not a raging harpie, I conceded that our one t.v. would be tuned into the Superbowl XL and all pre- and post-game commentary. I also conceded that I would not give him a "Honey Do" list, start a fight or ask to tune in to Lifetime during the halftime show. See? I can be nice!
Instead, I went over to Nicholle's, whose husband was watching the game at a friend's house. We ate Chili Cheese Dip (cream cheese, chili, shredded cheddar, microwave, chips), and then her sister-in-law, Julia, came over bearing Spinach Artichoke Dip, but I think the name is a little misleading. It was more like Garlic Cream Cheese To Mask The Spinach Artichoke Dip. Pure. Awesome.
My contribution to the evening was dessert -- Chocolate Marble Gooey Butter Cake. In other words, the Edible Orgasm. Nothing tops off two cream-cheese-based dips like a cream-cheese-based dessert. Two sticks of butter, my friends. That's right -- TWO.
Every other channel that Superbowl XL was not on was wisely playing chick movies. We watched -- I'm embarassed to admit -- "The Breakfast Club," "Clueless" and "She's All That." But only because we couldn't find any channel playing "Heathers."
And during commercials, do you know what we turned to? Do you? Cuz you'll never guess. Go on -- guess! It's only the best, most awesome show ever to air in the history of television!
PUPPY BOWL II!!!
I just can't... there aren't words to describe the sheer brilliance of this show. It's puppies, on a little football field, playing. Just playing. With each other, with toys, with imaginary friends. It was FABULOUS! We watched in utter silence.
Can you imagine the pitch?
Idea Guy: So I've got this idea for a show. It's a bunch of puppies in a room.
TV Exec: Uh-huh...
Idea Guy: No, that's it. Just puppies playing in a room. And we film it.
TV Exec: I love it! I'll give you three hours!
People, they had a camera in the bottom of the water dish so you could see their little tongues when they drank. BOWL-CAM! I am dying of cuteness!
And the halftime show? KITTENS! Of course!
And? And? You can buy it on DVD for hours and hours of wiggly-tail entertainment!
Dear Christ, my ovaries are about to explode just thinking about it.
Posted at 08:43 AM | Comments (9)February 03, 2006
There Are Worse Things Than Being At Work
Yesterday, Daisy peed over 400 times. Half of those were in my house, which now smells like a bus terminal.
Yes, she has some sort of bladder infection, but we won't know what kind until the urine work-up comes back IN A WEEK. By which time, I'm hoping the antibiotics make the work-up obsolete because I don't want to wake up to any more bloody-pee minefields on my kitchen floor.
And here's another image for ya, a mental image this time. Me, running around outside after a dog, trying to get the doggie-bedpan under her when she squats. [Insert "Turkey in the Straw" music here.]
Posted at 01:24 PM | Comments (2)February 02, 2006
Helen
Gather 'round, boys and girls. Today, I'm going to tell you the story of Helen.
In March of 1996, I married my Future Ex-Husband (FEH for short). As yet unaware of the crippling poverty his drinking would soon bring us, I happily agreed to and planned a 10-day trip to the Smokey Mountains for our honeymoon.
We rented a secluded log cabin in the hills, with a fireplace and outdoor jacuzzi -- very romantic. March isn't exactly tourist season in that area, so lots of places were closed until April. Also, the county we were in was dry. As in NO BOOZE. So we had to get creative with what we did to fill our time. Me -- I slept twelve hours a day.
Not very creative, but much needed, after the anxiety of planning a wedding. Other creative activities included petting cows on the side of the road, visiting a quilt shop on the top of a mountain, and counting how many refridgerators and/or recliners we saw on front porches.
Much of the time, we just drove around. Mountains are a big, fuckin' deal when you live on the flatest surface of the planet. It's like, when God was making Earth, he dropped it, and it landed Illinois-side-down.
Anyhoo, one day while I was sleeping in, FEH got really freakin' bored and went off exploring on his own. Which is fine, since it made the cabin quieter, and he wasn't poking me in the back with FEH Jr.
He was back by the time I woke up, and he had a present for me. Gleeeee! Love prezzies! It was a beautiful antique doll in her original dress and shoes! Not mint condition -- she had a few cracks around one eye -- but that's how he was able to afford her.
Now, at that point, I was still years away from the massive Barbie army I have now. However, I had (and still have) several dolls that were my mother's, which I've always displayed lovingly, including two Storybook dolls and a very old Raggedy Ann. So an antique doll was a very sweet and thoughtful gift.
I hated that thing from the moment I saw it.
I looked at her face and thought, "I really don't want this doll."
I told myself that I was being an idiot; it was just the cracks around her eye that made her look a little off. I was just being stupid and superficial, and I should be able to look past that to the beautiful and heartwarming gift that she was. I hugged FEH and thanked him profusely.
He asked me what I was going to name her, and I decided on Helen, which was the name of the 106-year old lady on top of the mountain, from whom we had bought a GORGEOUS quilt, sewed entirely by her 106-year old hands.
So we went about our day. And, as so often happens, day was followed by night, which induced a feeling of sleepiness (even though I'd only been up for 12 hours). We went up to our bedroom, and there was Helen, standing on the dresser.
Now, granted, I'm a weird bird. We currently have three Gene dolls, a plush moose, and half a dozen carved folk-art Santas in our bedroom. When I was a teen-ager, I had countless Tiger Beat posters on my walls and a stuffed animal collection. And you all know about the 100+ Barbies that presently fill three IKEA shelves floor to ceiling.
Point is, I've never had any trouble sleeping with beady, soulless eyes staring at me.
Until Helen.
I couldn't sleep with her watching me, anymore than I could tolerate Chuckie, the clown from "Poltergeist," or *shudder* one of those damned sock monkeys.
Helen had those weighted eyes that close when you lay the doll down, so that's exactly what I did. And I babbled something like, "Helen has to go to bed, too." Hoping that FEH would find it adorably charming and not delusionally paranoid.
We laid in bed, and FEH goes, "You laid her down because you don't want her looking at you."
Pause. "Yeah."
"You don't like her, do you?"
Pause. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm going to wake-up in the middle of the night to find her cold, dead eyes glittering in the dark, and every time I look at her, she's going to be a little closer to me, until finally she's on the bed with a knife at my throat."
"Wenchie, you have dolls and stuffed animals all over our room at home."
"I know. But this one's evil."
FEH thought about that for a moment. He knew I believe in ghosts and aliens and paranormal shit, but he also knew that I'd never claimed to have witnessed any of these things, nor did I ever hope to.
"You wanna take her back in the morning?" he asked.
"Can we?"
"Sure."
"I'm really sorry. She's a gorgeous doll! She's just... possessed or something. I don't know. I just don't want her near me."
"You want me to put her in the car?"
"In the trunk. It's harder for her to escape."
Uh-huh, we actually had that conversation. About an inanimate object.
The next morning, as promised, we drove to the antique store where FEH had bought the doll. The old guy at the counter explained that he sold on consignment, and while he couldn't give us our money back for the doll, we could buy something from the same seller.
I ended up with a beautiful antique doll bed, which I still have to this day because it isn't possessed by the souls of the children it killed. We got the bed packed up and were all set to leave when the old guy told us that that was the third time that doll had been returned.
"One time, from outta state, and they didn't even ask for their money back."
Well, I about crapped my pants. He and I just looked at each other for a moment. He knew that damn thing was haunted! And he sold it anyway! Well, I couldn't exactly blame him for wanting to get rid of it.
Was he messing with us? It's possible. If he was, he had the best damn poker face in the world. But it's certainly possible. Still, I felt vindicated -- I wasn't the only person to hate that doll! I'm not crazy!
When I attend doll shows now, it's not without some apprehension. I'm not afraid of all dolls. I'm just afraid that Helen will turn up on one of those shelves, seeking revenge for the night she spent in a cold, dark car trunk in the middle of March. Like the cold, dark grave she belongs in!
I can't include a photo of Helen because I didn't take any. If I had, I'm sure they either wouldn't have developed, or there'd be other shit in the photos, like floating, shadowy figures standing right next to her even though there was no one else in the room.
I am not going to be able to sleep tonight.
Posted at 01:22 PM | Comments (3)February 01, 2006
Retarded Fortune Cookie
Last night, Heather and I had carry-out Chinese food and pondered the question: Does anyone really eat Chinese food from the carton -- with chopsticks -- besides in the movies?
It's these Mysteries of the Universe that Heather and I tackle when we get together. During the hair-brushing, before we try on nightgowns and model them for each other.
We ate our Beef Lo Mein from plates with forks like we were nearly human, while we watched, "Riding the Bus with My Sister," starring Rosie O'Donnell as Beth, the lovable retard with a heart of gold and a lesson to teach us all; and Andie MacDowell as Rachel, her cold, resentful, career-driven sister who is eventually won over by Beth's retarded charm.
If you have not seen this movie, I urge you to send me your address so I can pass it along and share the joy. You'll never be the same after the Rosie/Andie tickle-scene.
And we laughed and laughed and laughed. Apparently, Rosie thinks that retards sound like Pee-Wee Herman. Henh-Henh!
[Disclaimer: Heather and I are virtuous, empathetic people who would never make fun of retards; we were making fun of fat-ass bull-dyke Rosie O'Donnell, who was playing a retard.]
Anyhoo, the worthwhile point of this whole thing is what my fortune cookie said:
Your best plan is not to be your self.
SWEAR. TO. GOD.
Which means I probably shouldn't have written this post.
Meh. Oh well.
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (7)