Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Open Letter to My Cabbage Patch Twins

Dear Cabbage Patch Twins,

I'm sorry to call you that, but I've forgotten your names. The birth certificates you came with have long ago been lost amidst the flotsam and jetsam of my childhood bedroom. You're still pretty cute, even though I see you only once a year. There you are in the same place I left you, the same place you've been sitting since the mid-80's. 

I have to say you sort of give me the creeps. That vacant stare in your wide, painted-on brown eyes. You, the boy, with that one front tooth hanging out over your lower lip. Why are you both looking at me like that? Seriously you could be in The Shining, you're that creepy. I'm half expecting you to apparate in the hallway of my parents' apartment building chanting REDRUM REDRUM REDRUM over and over again.

I remember how much I wanted you. How much I begged for you for my birthday, Hanukkah, Christmas--anything. Then by the time you finally showed up, I was sort of over you. Ironically, this became a theme for me later in life, in some of my romantic relationships. How could I have known then that you would set the Freudian stage of my psyche so profoundly--you, two plastic and cloth fad twin dolls?

I also think I maybe used one of your shoes for an ashtray once.

What are you still doing here? Maybe part of me is saving you for my (non-plastic and cloth) kids. Except my daughter is into Harry Potter and doesn't seem to know you exist; and my son's only three interests are balls (athletic and anatomical); projectiles; and ketchup--in that order. 

So there's not much hope for a renewed interest in you, I'm afraid.

Remember when I used to line you up with the other Cabbage Patch Kids on my bed and teach school, and make you play the recorder, and then whip you with a rag when you failed to toot out Hot Cross Buns in tune? Then I felt bad and let you watch The Breakfast Club with me on VHS. Judd Nelson was totally hot for five minutes. 

Man, those were the days.

I sort of want to throw you down the incinerator chute, because the level of nostalgia you're invoking in me is painful and counterproductive to my overall mental health. But that seems mean. 

So I'll let you live another year.


One Hot Mess

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