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Saturday, March 27, 2010

Incubus Attack at the Mall

I read an article in Psychology Today magazine that described the sleep disorders "Sexomnia" and "Incubus Attack." Sexomnia is when you try to do it in your sleep and an Incubus Attack is when you hallucinate that a demon is sitting on your chest and preventing you from moving. For real-look it up. One guy realized he had sexomnia when he woke up with his hand under his niece's shirt one night and got taken off to jail. I can only imagine how many men would use the sexomnia excuse if this diagnosis was more widely known.
"Really, honey-I was sleeping when I put it up there. I have no idea how that happened."
Incubus Attack is just awesome on so many levels-number one being the word "Incubus' itself. In high school our nickname for this one really pale girl was "The Succubus" because her white skin contrasted in such a creepy way to her almost white-blue eyes that she looked like she could just open her mouth and suck out your soul. A succubus is a female incubus, so maybe at night she was sitting on people's chests and preventing them from breathing, like that old wives tale about cats sucking the breath out of babies to get at the milk smell in their mouths.(That is a myth, the number of cat related baby deaths in this country gets lower every year)

Despite being hung-over my husband Jeff and I decided that it would be a good idea to take our toddler to the mall today to buy her an Easter dress. We don't do much for Easter in my house since I made that pact with the devil a few years ago but my mother is taking her to a picnic and buying a real, new Easter dress that didn't come from a thrift store seemed like such a "real" Mom thing to do. I could have made her dress, but I am lazy, so we went to Macy's because Jeff has a credit card there and we had a coupon for 20% off.
I hate the mall. I immediately get this haunting, post apocalyptic feeling and imagine what it will look like after the super virus exterminates most humans, leaving a tiny population to dwell within the local mall, building fires out of sweaters from Abercrombie and Fitch, using coat hangers for weapons and battling it out in the food court-mad max style. The remake of Dawn of the Dead that came out a few years ago had all the people and zombies drawn to the mall, which only makes it worse for me. Since I saw Dawn of the dead I am really zombie-sensitive in the mall, tense, on the lookout for the modern speedy zombie that might run out of that pack of teenagers and rip out my throat.

So, hung-over, paranoid and tired, Jeff and I locate the little girls section of this disturbingly empty department store. While Ruby is picking out her dress I decide to find her some little white tights to wear under it. Tights=Easter, right? Right.

As I approach the counter the man that Macy's deemed an appropriate employee to staff the little girls underwear department turns to me and I stop in my tracks.
Grey faced, hunched over, a hundred and fifty years old, yellow teeth, he smiles the biggest, sweetest, creepiest grin he can make his skull form.
"may I help you?" he whispers at me.
Holy shit, I thought. It happened. There's zombies at the mall.
I back up a little, noting the location of my child and the nearest exits, and ask him where the tights are.
"whaaaa-?" he lisps.
"TIGHTS, YOU KNOW-" how do you explain the word tights?
"TIGHTS!" I repeat.
Just then Ruby walks over. I decide it is safe, he is moving so slow and shaky that he clearly doesn't have the "rage" or any of the new zombie viruses. He is more Night of the Living Dead- scary but it would take him an hour just to dig himself out of his own grave, then a couple more to cross the street. Ruby can take him, I think, if it comes to that.
"Mommy, why that man talk so quiet?" she asks loudly.
"I don't know, why don't you ask him." Curious myself, it would be rude of me-an adult- to ask him why he was whispering. But my child could do it-that was almost cute.
"Why you talk that way, Man?" she looks up at him. Jeff comes on the scene with a couple of pink dresses in either hand-his eyebrows raised, giving me the "What the fuck is that?" look.
The zombie leans closer to Ruby and whispers
"I almost got my head chopped off" he fake slices his neck with his finger, sliding it across his throat a couple of times real quick"- my vocal chords were severed and I lost my voice--"
I am in shock-but Jeff- the quick reacting parent who can always be counted on to whisk her out of traffic while I dreamily try to process the scene-grabs her by the shoulders, interrupting Macys Zombie.

"Whoa, now-okay! That's enough of that!" he says, pushing her in the direction of the toy display.
I just stand there some more, staring at the scar on his neck. Finally I ask him how he almost got decapitated.

"Car accident," he says."I spent 18 months in the hospital."

In the hospital MORGUE? Before you decided to get back up, sew your head back on and get a job selling tiny dresses to plump, delicious live baby girls?-I think, and we get the fuck out of the mall.

What marketing genius in charge of scheduling put that guy in the kids section? I can see some idiot middle manager in a dimly lit back room, smoking and filling out this week's schedule.
"Hmmmm, where should I put Richard? Maybe-electronics? hardware? No, I'll put the dead guy in the children's section. That makes sense." Expecting what? That he is going to be good for sales? That parents want the excitement of a Thriller video while their daughter is trying on white, patent leather shoes?
If I wake up with that guy Incubus -Attacking me instead of my usual midnight Sexomnia I am going to sue Macy's for emotional trauma. Maybe then I can finally get written up in Psychology Today.

Sugar Weasel


Last night we enjoyed the Holy Grail of babysitting-the Overnight. Ruby stayed at my mother's house, we stayed out until three with our friends John and Donna, drinking wine at a bar called the Gingerman. Jmart, the most cheerful guy I know, sat at the end of our table playing scrabble on his phone and missing his wife, who was home with a bad allergy attack.Jeff and I act like wild animals when we have "The Overnight" drinking too much, staying out too late, completely forgetting that we are parents at all.
Jeff mentioned that he ran into a man named Sugar Weasel at a bar last week. Donna perked up.
"Sugar Weasel? I have his card!" she dug around in her purse until she found it and passed it around.
Sugar Weasel is a "clown escort" from Austin whose card features him lounging fully nude, in full makeup, with his flaccid penis on full display.His site (www.sugarweasel.com also http://sugarweasel.blogspot.com/) makes it clear that he is not a prostitute, per say, but "anything else that may or may not occur is a matter of personal choice between consenting adults of legal age."
Jmart looked closely at Sugar Weasel's card.
"UGH! You guys! He has clown makeup on his ball sack!"
"No way," I said."Give me that."
I looked, he did have white clown makeup on his junk. Classy touch.
"I get the business model," said John,"I get the male escort thing-but he loses me when it comes to the clown stuff."
"Clowns are creepy, man." said Jmart.
"He was creepy," said jeff."And kind of a dick."
We all looked down at the card. That sounds about right, I thought.
But I am now fascinated with this clown escort and I want to order him for someones birthday party. Better yet-order him to show up and strip at someones bachelor party. Or baby shower. Funeral? I don't care-I just have to do it.
"Baby!" I yelled to Jeff."Get Sugar Weasel to come dance for my birthday!"
"Sure, sweetie," he nodded. Then I heard him telling Jim that he could "just say yes to whatever she says and tommorow she will forget she wants it, like a toddler.Last week it was North Korea, this week its Sugar Weasel."
"I AM GOING TO TAKE SUGAR WEASEL TO NORTH KOREA!" I yelled. At this point, Donna was so drunk her eyes were closing and she fell off the bench. I caught her, at the last minute, because no one likes to see a grown woman pass out in a bar.

(Actually, I would have liked to see this very much, but I am trying to repair our relationship-which has been somewhat strained since I snuck into her house and stole my jacket back, finding it in her closet and hiding it under my dress
"I lost your jacket!" she said.
"Bitch. Find it." I told her.
Then she saw me wearing it, and almost slapped me. It is jacket worth fighting over, maybe even dying for.I brought it last night, in case it got cold, I looked over and suddenly she was wearing it again. We almost came to blows-that awkward I'm joking but not really tension when you are trying to be cool but really it's dead serious. I had to pull it off her body, but it wasn't that hard. She was wasted.)

We all stumbled home to doze the light, fitful sleep of the very drunk, visions of sugar weasels dancing in our heads.