Tuesday, October 11, 2005

It's the eyes...

Oh, man. Crying. Tryng to be really quiet about it, because I am not alone here in my shared office.

This is the problem with hanging out on the internet at work. Extremely funny things to read, no way to burst out laughing without giving it all away. I loved
Pamie's doll entry today. I can sympathise with doll-fear. I remember when Cabbage Patch Kids were the craze, when I was 10 or so. And then, shortly after the height of the craze, hearing the stories about them. The creepy stories. Why did people make these up? I have no clue.

I remember there was one story about how there was an old couple who couldn't have children. So, they 'adopted' a Cabbage Patch doll, and treated it like their own baby, complete with its own room, cradle and clothing. One night, the woman went into the room to find the doll floating a couple of feet above the cradle.

Another was the story that if you cracked open a Cabbage Patch doll's head, you would find a note inside saying "Mommy, why did you kill me?" And of course, everyone swore that their dolls moved about on their own, making their way from the dresser to the bed, hiding under the dust ruffle with their little glowing eyes and odd little sewn fingers clutching a scalpel, waiting for unsuspecting ankles.

Or something like that.

It all ended up leaving me with the determination to never be alone at night with my little 'Bernice Grace'. It was alright for her to be up on the highest shelf, across the room from the bed, only if she was turned away, with her face pressed against the wall, and pinned in there by my Victorian lady with the enormous skirts on one side, and by Oscar the grouch on the other (also facing the wall because of his bulbous eyes and vacant grin).

As soon as childhood things started to leave my room, Bernice was the first thing in a box. Somewhere in my parents house is a torn, black garbage bag with doll and animal limbs sticking out the holes, writhing in the middle of the night, slithering and rattling the bag, waiting for an unwitting arm to grope about in the darkness for a jar of beets.

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