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Sparkle (1)
The toys are trying to kill me. I’m pretty sure I’ve discovered the source of all the mysterious bruises that keep appearing on my legs. Also, I may have a broken toe.
I was sitting alone on my couch this evening, minding my own business, quietly typing away on a brilliant blog post for you. Only the living room lights were still on -- the rest of the house was dark. I thought it would just be a quiet night to sit back, write, and enjoy a nice glass of the Pinot Noir Aunt Stephanie provided as a distraction for gifting the muppets two Power Wheels. ("Do not try to drive over your brother!")
I heard a slight buzzing noise behind me. I turned, slowly, as the rattling grew louder. This is the start to one of those horror movies I refuse to watch because they give me bad dreams. Yet, just like those poor saps (“Let’s investigate the wailing in the darkened basement of this abandoned house with the illuminating power of a candle on our side.”), I began edging toward the bookcase housing some of the toys presently threatening to take over the living room. Dear god, I was going to be on the 10 p.m. news…
“I’M CHUCK. AND I’M A DUMP TRUCK!” announced a vibrant voice. I jumped approximately 7 feet back.
Chuck revved and rumbled and hurled himself out of the bookcase cube. “KEEP IT COMIN’!” he yelled at me, shaking his groove thang like no tomorrow. (Wise, considering I had instantly made the snap decision that Chuck would likely not live to see the aforementioned tomorrow.)
I lurched/lunged toward the toys, displacing a horde of angry Duplo Legos -- which demonstrated their anger by flinging their remaining friends at my shins. I saw flashing lights, momentarily thinking a yellow Lego had landed a head shot. But no.
“I’m Paul. I’m a Police Car. We’re heading to the crime scene!” small blue and white car sang frenetically as it whizzed past me on the carpet. Paul was very determined. He must be friends with Chuck. I won’t lie, the Minority Report aspect of the scene playing out before me was not lost on my psyche.
I triumphantly snatched Chuck up from his mocking revelry dance and thrust his switch into the “Off” position. Take that you little plastic piece of rubble I thought, and kicked a few toys aside as I aimed to head back to my seat on the couch.
“Look out ladies, Mater’s fit to get funky!” taunted a Cars Tow Mater toy truck buried somewhere within the rubble.
Oh hell. I began pawing through the pile because, let’s face it, this was not going to be a children’s version of Toy Story should we continue down this path.
Ding! Ding! “This is your CAPTAIN. Welcome aboard!” cried an airplane shape sorter. “Can you find the BLUE triangle?”
No, as a matter of fact, I cannot, I yelled at the smiling aviator googley-eyes. I have not seen the blasted blue triangle in weeks -- it may be under the couch or have met an untimely demise as the black dog’s afternoon snack. (With a sick perversion overwhelming me, I found myself hoping for the latter.)
“Spin spin a letter!” / “You are a VERY useful engine.” And a plethora of other dinging songs came to life together. THE TOYS ARE RISING UP AGAINST ME!
Where. Is. My. Wine. Or perhaps I should stay far far away from that glass…Either way.
“I’m stirring and stirring my pot!” moaned the crockpot. “Ohhhhhh, the nutrients…So healthy!” (I’m pretty sure this thing was having a sexual experience.)
I fled to the bathroom for sanctuary. (It was the closest room with a door, ok?)
“1 little, 2 little, 3 little fishies…” sang the bathtub.
Mother of the floating rubber duckies! I was in a horror movie. I’d just locked myself in a room with MORE toys -- angry wet ones residing in the tub. A Nemo-like clown fish continued it’s song, asking me to play along. “Where is the red octopus? Can you find the RED octo..” "glurrgle glurrggle"
That’s right. I tried to drown a plastic fish. Don’t judge me.
I marched myself back into the living room and collapsed on the love seat. Right onto the baby laptop.
“Push, a letter button,” it instructed.
I hit the power button. With. Authority.
“Push a LETTER button,” it demanded. “That’s not a letter!”
