Entry #57

Entry #57

Sunday, April 15

9:30 a.m. I just saw the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen in my life. It was so big, I actually directed it back outside—no capturing necessary. Seems I could’ve trained this thing, or lassoed it and taken it for a stroll. Odd how bugs of this size take on the look of prehistoric creatures.

“I don’t like Texas bugs,” muttered Noah, who tried to pick up what he thought was a dead cockroach the other day with a piece of toilet paper, only to have it scurry across the room. I ended up finding this creature, a far smaller version of the one I encountered this morning, on its back, a pretty clear indication that this time around, it was actually deceased and ready for pick-up.

It’s April 15 today, a date traditionally associated with taxes. This makes me wonder: if Tax Day falls on a Sunday, does this mean that accountants have one extra day to file? According to Wikipedia, “when April 15 falls on a weekend, Emancipation day, or any other holiday, tax returns are instead due on the the following business day.” This year, they’re due on Tuesday. I imagine that accountants are thanking their lucky stars for the two extra work days. Seems every minute counts when you’re busy crunching numbers.

4:30 p.m. We just returned from Houston, where the kids went to their final art class and I had the opportunity to see “Come Fly Away,” a Twyla Tharp-choreographed dance performance set to Frank Sinatra music. Not only did I gain a greater appreciation for The Chairman of the Board (a.k.a. Ol’ Blue Eyes), we were also treated to some truly spectacular live music and dancing. The ensemble danced for 80 minutes straight without a break. I kept wondering, “How do they remember all the routines?” I can’t remember the most basic driving directions without getting lost, let alone a dance sequence. I was completely in awe of these beautiful, effortless dancers.

On the way home we passed a truck that said, “A flush beats a full house.” It was an advertisement for Christopher’s Plumbing.

Monday, April 16

11:00 a.m. I just returned from meeting a friend for coffee, a lovely Scottish woman who’s the mom of a friend of Aidan’s from school. She shared her adventure to The Doll Hospital in Old Town Spring, which struck me as both hilarious and spooky, mainly because the shop’s owner (a.k.a., “the doll doctor”) seems to regard her dolls/patients as living, breathing creatures.

My friend and her mother were visiting this shop, not for a repair, but to purchase a doll for her daughter as a special present. After making their purchase (which they immediately felt obligated to do after being “introduced” to various dolls on a first-name basis), the doll was wrapped for giving, though the face was left uncovered “so she could breathe.” My friend’s mother was instructed to cradle the doll like a real baby, and did so until they left.

While I have yet to visit the The Doll Hospital, I did check out their web site. I even listened to a couple of videos, complete with chilling introductory background music and a virtual tour by the orange-haired owner/doll doctor.

“’Peer through the dim lights, past the gaudy stacks of feathers and pearls, diamonds and ribbons, and one thing is very clear: This is one weird operating room. Ann Pizzolato, owner of The Doll Hospital, repairs a doll at her shop in Spring, Texas. It’s almost indecent, really. The patients—balding, dirty and glassy-eyed—sprawl naked in plastic tubs. ‘Sorry honey,’ the doctor mutters, inspecting her pliers. ‘Didn’t mean to whap your legs. Who wants to be next?’ She operates without anesthesia, alone in a chilly ward in a converted Texas cottage in the Houston suburb. But her patients don’t complain...They emerge from the recovery room starched in spanking new finery, coiffed and painted and ready to be adored.” —Associated Press

The thought of visiting a place like this strikes me as something from The Twilight Zone, reminiscent of the episode where the mannequins come alive on Floor 13 of a department store. I could never look at my mom’s porcelain dolls in fear of them blinking in my general direction, let alone an entire store of them.

Truth be told, I was always more drawn toward stuffed animals than dolls as a kid, though I remember a few that captured my interest. In second grade, I received a doll called Baby Grow-A-Tooth in a school holiday exchange. Shortly after receiving her, however, my older sister shoved a Good n’ Plenty in her mouth, which somehow caused the doll’s head to fall off. I couldn’t get the doll’s head to stay on, which led us conclude that eating candy is not only bad for your teeth, it’s also bad for doll’s heads.

My younger sister had a doll whose pony tail could grow if you pressed her belly button (seems “growing” was a dominant theme of dolls from the 1970s—female dolls, that is—I don’t imagine male dolls with growing body parts were sold at the local toy store). We thought pressing a belly button to make a doll’s hair grow was fascinating, that is, until my sister pressed it once too much, or pulled it too hard, and her pony tail would no longer retreat into her head. Instead, she now had a large bald spot—a hole even—which rendered her more frightening than fun.

Somehow I don’t think I’ll be visiting the Doll Hospital anytime soon, though it might be entertaining. I wouldn’t want to go alone, though, especially at night.