When I was in sixth grade, I had a friend named Rachel. Rachel’s mom was a doll fanatic, so Rachel’s bedroom was full of dolls. Like this
Even though Rachel had trouble sleeping at night because hundreds of frozen porcelain faces were staring at her, her mother wouldn’t let her get rid of the dolls. When I slept over, we’d lie in bed and beg the dolls not to kill us in our sleep. If we were feeling particularly brazen we’d huck rolls of toilet paper at them and hope they’d fall behind the dresser. If they didn’t, we’d really freak out because the maimed doll would be staring up at us from the floor like this
And we all know that pissed off dolls can slide across the floor and under the bed and attack you as soon as you close your eyes.
Well, no, poor me. Rachel is now living a happy doll-free existence while I work with…
The Doll Family.
Mr. Doll works in the office next to mine. He has pale, transparent white skin and watery blue eyes. His lips are always a little pink. When our paths cross and he looks at me, I flashback to Rachel’s room and see this
Mrs. Doll is a stay-at-home mom to their two children. She visits all the time. She has long, shiny blonde hair and those same freaky eyes. Like this, without the, um, hat or pearl choker
She has a habit of standing in front of their kids, who are eerily quiet, and freezing you mid-step with her doll eye mindmeld. When she finally steps aside so you can greet the children, they stare up at you, like this
I have to refrain from covering my eyes and screeching “No God noooooooooooooo!” I know no one wants her children to elicit that reaction. But one day, so help me, I know it’s going to slip out.
Lately Mrs. Doll has been all, “Don’t you have a two-year-old son? Would you like to do a playdate?”
Inside I’m all I don’t know if I can spend more than two minutes looking at your creepy doll face and scary doll kids what if they eat Junior. Outwardly, I’m all “Suuuuuuuuure. Of cooooooooooourse. Let’s do thaaaaaaaaaaat.” Big nods. Big steps backward.
When I told Chuck about it, he told me I was being ridiculous.
Who me? Ridiculous?
I’ll tell you what: If we do schedule a playdate, I’m bringing my toilet paper.
Happy Fourth of July! May it be filled with fireworks, wieners and quality beer.
And no dolls.
Unless you're into that kind of thing.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.