The Insomnia-ing

When I was a toddler, I had a life-sized doll.

Her name was Mary Jane* and I loved her. In fact, I loved her so much and played with her so often that she ended up with only one arm and one leg.  I’m not sure if that’s because she was poorly made (likely in China out of lead-based plastic, broken glass and old creosote-soaked axe handles, as the year was 1970), or if this was just the result of my parents allowing us to play with our toys—we were decidedly not a “still in box, collect the whole set” kinda family.

Once Mary Jane became a one-legged, one-armed doll, she was relegated to the back of my bedroom closet, or as I now think of it: The Closet of (Evil &) Misfit Toys. One night as I slept the sleep of the just and the untroubled, Mary Jane lurched out of my closet and tried to kill me. Or at least I dreamt that she did, and when you’re a toddler that’s pretty much the same thing. I’m not sure what became of Mary Jane after that, but she was exiled by my parents and I returned to my normal nightmare-free childhood. Or what passes for normal when you’re me.

Until Raggedy Ann showed up.

This was, I think, in the 4^th grade. She was a Christmas present—brand new, life-sized, and my parents were so excited to give her to me. I remember feigning happiness upon opening the box and pulling out the doll because even though I didn't want to touch her,  I also didn’t want to hurt her feelings (or those of my parents)… but the reality was, I was scared of her. I was pretty sure that Mary Jane was going to use Raggedy Ann to kill me. I mean, that’s how these things work, people-- and I couldn’t fathom why my parents would place me in such obvious danger.

For years, that giant Raggedy Ann sat on a wicker chair in my pink little bedroom with the pretty little pink hand-me-down canopy bed. She smiled her garish smile and bided her time, waiting for me to drop my guard. Every night after my parents tucked me in and turned off the light, I’d lie awake in that canopy bed, my strawberry blonde ‘fro peeking out from under the covers, my chubby little fingers grasping sweatily at my pink bedspread, staring at Raggedy Ann, noticing how the light from the streetlamp reflected off her cold, black button eyes, and wondering when I’d see her move ALL ON HER OWN. I knew it was inevitable.

And then we moved. And I was allowed to redecorate my room. Raggedy Ann moved into the attic where I still occasionally thought of her, plotting my demise. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I’d imagine I could hear the attic door creaking open and the telescoping stairs sliding down into the hallway right outside my door. During my senior year in high school, I even had a nightmare in which she painted “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU ANDREA” in giant capital letters IN BLOOD on my wall and then she walked out of the house and drove off in my RX7. Just and untroubled, indeed.

Ever since then, I’ve been somewhat afraid of life-sized dolls. Somewhat, as in completely and totally. Any horror movie featuring them is guaranteed to flip me the fuck out. And my charming family has delighted in tormenting me with Raggedy Ann, who still lives in my parents’ house. When I return home to visit, Raggedy Ann pops up in the most unusual places: Often sitting on a chair in the guest room, occasionally rigged to swing out at me when I open a closet door, and once incongruously contemplating my murder from the toilet seat. 

Enter “The Conjuring.”  Enter Annabelle. Enter the supposedly true story of a haunting based on the experience of Ed & Lorraine Warren, featuring the world’s creepiest looking doll. Enter the realization that NO ONE TOLD ME THIS MOVIE HAD A LIFE-SIZED DOLL COMPONENT, YOU GUYS.

Say hello to Annabelle, as featured in "The Conjuring."
I was seriously afraid to even download this photo...thinking I was risking bad juju.

What a delightfully frightening movie! I gasped many times, may have shrieked a little, and once the hair on my arms and legs even stood up. But the thing is, I’m a grown-up now and I know that dolls can’t hurt me. I live 1200 miles away from Raggedy Ann, who clearly was no Annabelle.  And besides, I have no tie to this Annabelle. Subsequently, she should have no beef with me. Right? RIGHT?

So yesterday during lunch I got curious about Annabelle’s story and did a little research. Thank you, Interwebs!  You can imagine my delight when I came across a photo of the REAL Annabelle doll. The one that remains locked in a glass case in the Warren’s occult collection so that she can’t hurt anyone anymore. The one that allowed a demonic spirit to possess her, all the better to terrify her hapless owner.

Check her out, in all her glory-- I assure you, she's even more terrifying than the one they used in the movie:

Note: Still in box

Seriously you guys, I’m never sleeping again, ever.

EVER.

*P.S. I did a Google Image search to find a photo of my particular Mary Jane doll and the results were so hair-raisingly creepy that I had to abandon the idea.

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley:

I get it. 

You're 20 years old and clearly desperate to prove that you're no longer a child. 

But what I think you'll learn over the next 25 years or so (and likely as the uncomfortable and unfortunate result of a series of poorly-conceived and sloppily-executed cries for attention like your performance on the VMA's last night) is that the best way to prove you are an adult is to make mature decisions about many, many things-- including how you behave in public.

Hey, I was 20 once (and thank God only once because I would not want to have to learn those lessons again). I made really poor decisions. I embarrassed myself frequently in public and even more frequently in private. So I get it Miley, I really do. I did all of those embarrassing things despite having advantages you couldn't dream of, like parents who realized I was a child (not a meal ticket or a brand) and who set appropriate boundaries and expectations on my behavior.

I even did those things in relative anonymity... and yet they haunt me still. Like many people my age I am mortified at some of the poor decisions I made, at how I casually hurt those around me, at how I humiliated myself-- even though there is little to no paper trail of those moments, unlike those you are very publicly creating.

At the time, I couldn't even fathom that the day would come when I'd think the way I do now... and yet here I am, pontificating on my blog about it from the comfort of and with the 20/20 hindsight of my Middle Age (ugh, cringe). And you know what? You'll be doing the same thing-- because that's how the maturation process works.

My advice: Take some time off. Rest your twerking muscles. Do some soul searching. Think about the type of person you'd like the 47-year old YOU to meet. Perhaps even purchase and wear some full-length pants.
Miley, there are so many things you can be: Be fun. Be talented. Be cool. 

Be well-traveled, well-read and well-educated. Be an interesting conversationalist. Be a good friend. Be quick to laugh and slow to anger. Be careful with other people's feelings. Be a philanthropist. Be exceptionally kind to animals and to those less powerful than you. Be outspoken and proud of who you are and all that you've accomplished. But for the love of all that you will EVER be, mostly be AWARE that the 47-year old you is not going to fondly remember the night where in a desperate attempt to prove to the world you are an adult you donned a flesh-colored bikini and simulated masturbation with a giant foam finger in front of millions of people... and in doing so, you proved to the world that you are, in fact, still a child.

Sincerely,
A woman who has been many things... some that she is even proud of

Life Moments: That One Time My Boobs Interviewed Willie Nelson

The Red-Headed Stranger. Also pictured: Willie Nelson

The year was 1990. And yes, that’s Willie Nelson crouching behind my right breast.

Jammin’ Jane (nee' Jane Trent) and Rockin’ Annie O (yours truly) were both interning at a Country & Western radio station in Houston called KIKK.  For those NOT from around those parts, KIKK was NOT supposed to be a not-so-subtle throwback/hint to a certain Klan of folks who are partial to wearing robes and hoods around a campfire… but instead, it was short for “Kicker,” which is what we Texans called the Cowboy-lovin’ folk at the time. Sure, it’s shorthand for “Shitkicker,” but that is, in fact, what happens when one spends a lot of time around barnyard animals. Said shit does indeed get kicked.  At least as far as I understand it. Which is to say, not far at all. There’s a dearth of both barnyard and barnyard animals in my life, although I’ve been trying to talk The Boy into getting a goat because I think they are super-cute. I guess what I'm trying to say is don't be offended by the radio station call letters, for the love of God.

Anyhoo.

Jammin' Jame and I were unofficially known around the station as the” KIKK News Kittens” and we weren’t yet liberated enough to understand that we shouldn’t find that moniker insulting to our journalistic integrity.  I’m not sure we even HAD journalistic integrity, although we did both pass a mandatory Communication Ethics course at the University of Houston. As I recall, the class included lectures I did my best to miss, a book I skimmed perfunctorily and a couple of tests I stayed up all night popping diet pills and drinking highly caffeinated hot tea cramming for. I seem to recall hearing something from my parents about not “applying” myself. Harrumph. 

On this night, Jane was supposed to cover the grand opening of Willie Nelson’s brand-spankin’ new C&W bar in Northwest Houston. I’m fairly astounded that I can’t remember the name of it… must’ve been the diet pills and hot tea which led to this type of memory loss and a solid “C” average. I also can’t remember if we knew that we were going to meet Willie Nelson or not… what I CAN remember is thinking that my outfit was hot. H-O-T HOT, people.

For the uninitiated, I am wearing a leopard-print mock turtleneck paired with a black Lycra mini-skirt jumper thingie. What you CAN’T see is that in addition to drawing massive attention to my ridiculous breasts, this little beauty also had a peplum that virtually had an arrow pointing to the world’s most unfortunate hips—“Hey, when you’re finished gawking at the headlights, check out the mudflaps on this rig, Bubba!”  I paired all of this with slightly shiny jet black pantyhose and black, pointy-toed flats. If I recall correctly, the clothing was from Contempo Casuals and the shoes were from Mervyn’s.  I don’t think either of those clothing chains exist anymore and I think we can all agree that it’s for the best. It might have been this outfit that did them both in.

I don’t think we can go much further without discussing my hair, because really? I’m counting about 5 inches of air there on the top of my head and I can assure you it was intentional. If one were to go looking for my journalistic integrity, I'd suggest my hair would be a good place to start because God only knows what could be hidden up there. I think I was just attempting to be a normal-heighted person. Or I lost a bet. Or humidity. Or perhaps my mirror was broken that day. Regardless, whoever styled my hair in 1990 should be taken out to the woodshed and given a stern talking-to. 

You might also notice that I am standing on the wrong side of Willie (that sentence made me giggle). This is because I had not yet learned that I am only to be photographed either head-on or from the right side—and never, NEVER candidly. The Boy finds it amusing, but honestly just take one look at the jowls I have in this photo and tell me I’m wrong to demand to be photographed only from certain angles. You can’t do it because JOWLS. I once caught sight of my backside in one of your precious “candid” photos and I’m pretty sure that’s when I started seeing a therapist.

The lesson here is that despite my clear 1990 reliance on the “more is more” approach to styling, less really is more. And leopard print has never been the new black. And perhaps jeans and boots would have been more appropriate for the occasion, although clearly a hat was out of the question.

And photos like this FREAK ME OUT each time I look in my full-length mirror and kind of dig on my outfit and hair. Because YES, this look happened, and I'll be damned if I didn't think I looked GOOOOOOD.

Maverick

I love having houseguests. If you ever come to visit me, I will do my best to make you feel welcome, loved, and extremely well-fed.  I will get you exquisitely drunk, talk your ear off, make you guffaw, and provide you with cold bottled water and aspirin the next day. (If you’re an early riser, however, you’re on your own.)

I do all of this because I love having you here.  Unless you’re this guy.

Disclaimer: I am not the FREAK that lovingly took this photo. I have good sense, you guys.

Last fall we ordered a cord of wood (or whatever, I don’t know how one measures wood unless it’s with a ruler), and upon delivery it was unceremoniously dumped on the flat part of our property here at 7000 feet in the Colorado foothills. The Boy enjoyed all of the opportunities this presented for utilizing Cindy to haul small amounts of this wood up to the house and stack it on our front porch throughout the winter. Each time it needed to be replenished, he’d just fire Cindy up and do some hauling. Everyone wins.

In June we were having a group of friends over for dinner and I decided that the woodpile that remained down on the flat part (that is just what I call it, excuse my lack of imagination here but my brain is awfully preoccupied dreaming up scenarios where I can eat whatever I want and somehow be thin), well it just looked messy and I asked him, giggling, to make one final large firewood haul up the Driveway of Doom and onto our front porch. Getting to discuss wood and the woodpile makes me giggle. What can I say? I’m a teenaged boy.

He complied, which is one of the reasons I like him.

As soon as the wood was all neatly stacked on the front porch, our dogs went nuts. Well, Jax in particular, which I’m sure you find shocking cuz that is one chill dog. The other two were mildly interested.  But for WEEKS Jax pawed at that damn woodpile, tried to crawl under the deck directly beneath it, and was otherwise a giant pain in the keister each time we opened the front door.

We thought it odd, thought maybe chipmunks had been crawling all over it down on the grassy flat part, and just told ourselves that Jax would eventually get over his complete and total fascination with the wood pile (unlike his mama). Little did we know that my precious and gifted child was trying to warn us.

Good dog, Jax.

Because a few nights later, The Boy was out front with the dogs in the dark and he hollered “Hey honey, come look at this bug!” (This is where you ask yourself: Does he know her at all?) But he sounded so excited that I thought it must be some fabulously beautiful and heretofore unknown nocturnal unicorn butterfly, so I dutifully scooted outside to be amazed and enchanted.

The Boy was squatting over a large, brown, VW-sized cockroach-looking thing and to my horror, he reached down to stroke its back, making the monstrous thing HISS.

HISS. I cannot emphasize this enough, hence the underlined bold italics. If there were a giant, blinking neon arrow I could point at the word hiss, I assure you I would do so.

I ran screaming into the house, utterly distraught that someway, somehow, a Houston cockroach had made it across the span of 1200 miles and six years to find and terrorize me. I had the heebie-jeebies like a BOSS. The Boy did his best to try to convince me that it was just some sort of beetle he’d never seen before and not a cockroach at all.

But STILL. That motherfucker HISSED. And I blame that fucking woodpile. I decidedly side with Jax on this one.

A few nights later we were out front after dark and I saw something the size of a pterodactyl flying towards our porch light and realized it was that crapulently monstrous beetle. I once again ran screaming into the house, trying to think of bunny rabbits and teddy bears, trying to calm myself down with the rational thoughts of “it’s too cold for too long in Colorado for cockroaches to take hold” and “it’s too dry here for them.” And trying not to notice that because we don’t have A/C, the only thing keeping this prehistoric predator out of my house were some flimsy window screens.  I briefly considered the relative benefits of just turning this place into a sweat lodge. I mean, I’ve heard it’s a transcendental experience and you know how much I enjoy sweating! I settled for turning off all of the lights and hiding in the dark instead.

The next night, the dogs were out on the deck after dark and Gus scratched to come in. As I walked towards the sliding glass door, I noticed him looking down with what could only be horror and backing away from the door…but I didn’t realize until the DAMN THING WAS ALMOST IN THE HOUSE that it was that beetle again, doing its dead-level best to gain entry to my cockroach-free sanctuary. Seriously, my 85-pound DOG was afraid of this thing.

Again, cue screaming.

The Boy came running, thinking that a cougar or axe-murderer must be forcing his way into the house and was somewhat irritated and a little bemused that I was about to defib over this damn beetle. And believe me, by this time, I had decided that there was only ONE beetle and this was simply my third encounter with it. 

I began to think of him as a loner, as Maverick. Sans wingman. Somehow this made him less terrifying.

There was much discussion over how I literally laughed in the face of a bear that we encountered while hiking last year (well, I laughed at his rapidly retreating and adorably jiggling buttocks as he ran off) but I was reduced to literal terrified tears over a 3-inch beetle. This makes total sense to me, but The Boy says it’s “irrational.” To me, irrational is stroking a gigantic hissing cockroach-looking beetle. But vive la difference, mes amis.

And so here I am, trapped inside my house each night, with the overwhelmingly creepy sensation that Maverick is crawling on me. I seriously just now whipped off my shirt and bra and threw them in the washer because I was pretty certain Mav had somehow found his way INSIDE of my shirt. (Plus I just got a new washer and it's KICK ASS.) Now I think Mav might be in my hair where those giant hairy legs of his will get insanely stuck and I’ll claw at my head like that guy in that scene from “Poltergeist” who ripped his own face off.

Turns out Maverick is a wood-boring beetle. And I live in the woods, in a house made of wood, with a wooden deck, a wooden floor, and a plethora of wooden furniture. For the first time since moving to Colorado, I am praying for snow. Because seriously, I have always preferred The Ice Man to Maverick.

And I've decidedly lost that lovin' feeling.