My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

The Wax Man Cometh

So last week I picked up Dusty a little early from preschool so we could go by the art museum on the way home. Dusty loves the museum. We arrived at 4:30pm knowing very well that they closed at 5pm. In fact, as soon as we walked in, we were reminded of this by the Guard By the Door Who Must Search All Purses. Thanks, I can read.

We went through a few exhibits without any real goal in mind and the guards (for some reason they’ve got one posted every five steps) were getting antsy. Each one we passed – and we passed a lot of them; we were gravely out-numbered – reminded us of the impending closing time. Suddenly, Dusty wanted to see the wax man. So, we had a mission. The wax man is a wax sculpture of a construction worker who is so life-like, I’m surprised the guards weren’t asking him to beat it as well.

As we headed down the main corridor, a very ancient guard nearly ran Dusty down in his haste to converse with another museum employee. The employee, a middle-aged woman, said, “Well, hello, Frank. You nearly ran over that little girl!” He did not appear to hear her and kept moving toward her like an automaton. I got Dusty out of the way just before she became Flat Dusty. I caught the woman’s eye and thanked her silently for noticing us. And saying something to the old guy, even if he was deaf as a post(modern). And we continued on to the pop art section.

So, it’s ten ‘til five and we’re racing now, trying to find the wax man within the catacombs before closing time. One impertinent guard suddenly says over my shoulder, “Ma’am, we’re closing! Ma’am?” Over and over. God, shut up! I know!

I looked at my watch which read five minutes to five. “It’s five minutes to five.” “That’s when we close.” “Well, actually, what I’ve been told, ad nauseum, is that you close at five. Which it is not. We want to see one thing and then we’re gone.”

Then, Holy Jeebus, we found the wax man, with hundreds of guards trailing in our wake, ready to bodily thrust us through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. We took a breath, and then strolled out of the museum so that we weren’t attacked and burned for keeping them from leaving on time. God forbid. It’s not like they do anything but stand around all day and gossip.

On our way home, Dusty says, “I just saw a man who probably didn’t have a neck!” She was quiet for a moment, pondering this strange sight, and then asks, “How would he swallow?” “Well, I’m sure he just had one of those really fat necks that just looks like part of his head. I’m sure he can swallow just fine.” “Oh,” she said, visibly relieved.

Then, on Saturday, I arrived home from the grocery store and realized I’d forgotten to buy the spaghetti sauce for the in-law spinach lasagna. Kind of a key ingredient. I blank out like that sometimes and cross things off my list that my hand says I’ve put in the cart and my stupid brain just goes along with it without getting further confirmation from my intellect, which I apparently forget to bring with me.

So, I convinced Dusty to go with me to a place called Montpelier Food Store down the road. This place is situated at a crossroads and is a long, scary cinderblock building that I’ve never been in before. Mainly because it looks scary. Well, dog my cats! While I was expecting dusty convenience store food and rednecks behind the counter surrounded by tobacco and NASCAR advertising, I found a nice little mini-grocery store with a very pleasant Korean man behind the check-out. The counter had a 10-inch long conveyor belt. Ah, diversity! I don’t know if he owns the place or is simply an employee but I’ll be back.

I bought a bag of M&Ms to split between me, my husband and Dusty (livin’ large!) and let Dusty pick the variety. She chose the crispy kind. She doesn’t often get candy and was quite excited to try a new and different version of M&Ms. Her verdict?

“It’s like M&Ms cereal!” Which is high praise, I guess. My first thought was: ick.

Then, “I need a wipe! I need a wipe! My hands are all M&M-ery!”


4:03 p.m. ::
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