Hi Darling Ones,
Today is my nephew Cade’s nineteenth birthday and it has left me shaken and sad. I’m doing my best not to fill the Tibble-shaped hole in my heart and life with tears. I’m not totally succeeding.
I recently read Liz Phair’s memoir Horror Stories, which I did not totally love. However, she had this great line about being adopted, “It was also a snapshot of a fleeting moment of wholeness, before I carried in my heart this broken piece of glass which I’ve been careful not to disturb lest it cut me.”
That’s how I feel about The Tibbles & Sister #3, they are a broken piece of glass in my heart and I try not to touch it because the cuts hurt too much. Instead of dwelling in the loss and anger, I’m gonna tell you about Mayor McCheese.
I have an extensive, shamefully extensive, Funko Pop collection. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before. I have a lot of them. Much like the number of men I’ve had sex with, I refuse to count and present a total because I will inadvertently forget one and that will bum me out.
Sister #2 has way more than I do (Funkos, not men). For awhile it was a competition the Tibbles loved, but, well, you know how that ends. . .
One of my resolutions this year was to spend less money on plastic junk, these fucking Funkos in particular. I think I have gotten two more since that resolution (Zeus and the Morton Salt Girl). I know there’s a pre-ordered original She-Ra arriving any day. I spent a little time contemplating whether or not I needed the Willie Nelson Funko that’s coming out tomorrow. Is it a problem, probably?
And the most problematic part of this problem? It’s how very much my heart desires all the advertising icon Funkos. What is wrong with my heart and my brain? Why do I want this branded capitalistic garbage in my house? Why? WHY?
I suppose I can take a little comfort in the fact that my brain and heart have always been broken in this very specific way. I didn’t realize it until this summer when I was pining for a Mayor McCheese Funko Pop and I asked my nephew Maxwell what was wrong with me.
“You always like that stuff,” he said.
“Nuhuh,” I said.
“Isn’t that Cheeseasaurus Rex penny bank from like the 90s?” He pointed up at the loft where in fact, the Cheeseasaurus Rex from the 90s stood on the ledge next to a bobble head of the Trix Rabbit.
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah.”
Then he commiserated with me because his brain is broken in the same weird way. He has a few of the ad icon pops too and covets a few more. Then I told him how I had to save up actual, factual proofs of purchase from Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and send them in to get the Cheeseasaurus Rex and I couldn’t just buy it. He was appropriately impressed that I did that.
This is why I got Mayor McCheese for Christmas, and now I’m a fat woman with a cheeseburgerman on her coffee table. And as if that weren’t bad enough about nine times a day for no reason at all, I say to the mayor, “Who’s gonna save us now, Cheeseburgerman?” I’m not entirely sure who the us is and what we’re gonna be saved from, or why the Mayor would know the answer. It’s just one of the infinity number of dumb things I say out loud on a daily basis lest my voice entirely disappear.
That’s all I got today. I’m gonna go make a multi-dish dinner I don’t feel like eating to keep my mind off my troubles.