...I just have no concept of blogtime. (Has it really been 10 days? Oops.) I wanted to clear that up.
First of all, Merry Christmas, people! Though we don’t celebrate the holiday (being Jewish and all), I absolutely adore this time of year. I love the parties, the music, the seasonal ice cream flavors (Peppermint Stick! *drool*), and how the sparkling lights have a way of distracting you from the feculent* hobo scratching his junk just inches from your person.
Truly, there is nothing like Christmastime in the city.
Another solid benefit of the holiday is the vacation time. J and I had the opportunity to spend time with our families…and subsequently take full advantage of the free babysitting to see two movies I have been DYING to see: Walk Hard and Juno. Walk Hard was definitely entertaining, but...did you ever build up a movie so much in your mind that ultimately, it can never meet your expectations? That was sort of the situation here. It was funny, mind you, especially given my white-hot hatred of musician biopics (which? Hi, I wrote this a year ago. Where’s my money, Walk Hard screenwriters?); it just wasn’t gut-bustingly hilarious.
I had read/heard a lot less about Juno, on the other hand, which I feel was absolutely the best film of the year. It was perfect, and while I definitely laughed, I also may have cried, just a teeny bit. I don’t want to build up anyone ELSE’s expectations, so I’ll just say that you should go see it. Now.
Upon returning to my parents’ house after Juno to find our son fast asleep, we decided to follow suit. Only I couldn’t sleep. You see, J and I were sharing our room with an unwanted guest; I had gone to put some things away in the closet, and came face-to-face with this:
I have a sort-of phobia of creepy dolls coming to life, which can be directly attributed to seeing the movie Child’s Play at a young age, and subsequently being SCARRED FOR LIFE. I may or may not have spent my formative years habitually placing my American Girls Samantha doll on the top shelf of my closet every night and closing the door just in case she came to life and wanted to kill me in my sleep. You know, because potentially bloodthirsty possessed Victorian dolls can’t figure out how to open closet doors. (I don't know, it all made sense when I was 8.)
I thought I'd since gotten over this admittedly irrational fear, but COME ON. I had no idea that my parents’ guest room was harboring what is unquestionably the world’s creepiest doll. Look into its eyes! LOOK INTO ITS EYES! It wants your very SOUUULLLLLL!!!
Aside from the fact that this thing is terror-inducing, it’s also confusing. I mean, what IS it?A girl? A mouse? Dennis Kucinich? I MUST KNOW. Additionally, I cannot for the life of me wrap my head around its outfit. Go on, scroll back up.
I'll wait. I'll sing to myself in the meantime.
"Life is a highwayyyyyy! I wanna ride it all night lonnnnnng..."
You're back? Good.
Finally, and perhaps scariest of all, I believe that at some point, the doll talked. I know this because it has one of those little battery boxes. Frightening to be sure, but will you please take a look at the back of the doll?
I know it’s only the battery box and I’m still tempted to call a bomb squad.
Now, I ask you: Is it my old fear talking, or is this in fact the creepiest doll ever?
* One of my all-time favorite SAT words.