Posts Tagged matrioshka
A couple years ago, I posted about the creative failure that is the set of blank nesting dolls that has been sitting in the back the closet for over a decade. Then last year, when I had way too much to do and absolutely no free time to myself, I got a random bee in my bonnet. So I hauled my ass to Michael’s craft store and came home with $40 in cheap paint and brushes. Six or so months later, I have my own little monster family of hand-painted nesting dolls.
What is that you say? It’s a little odd for a 36-year-old man to paint himself some wooden dolls with which to play? Just wait until you find out that I named them and gave them all back-stories as well.
Milford’s just a working stiff. He’s got a wife and four kids to feed, after all. He hates his boss and he carries the lunch his wife makes him to work in a pail every day. Milford is just a nickname, though. It was secretly given to him by his seemingly unassuming wife, who lovingly refers to him as her M.I.L.F., where the “M” stands for “Monster” rather than the more-commonly-used “Mother.” His real name is actually Mumford. So he likes coming home to Ethyl.
Ethyl might look meek and slight in demeanor, but she rules the roost. Don’t mess with Ethyl. Also, she’s clearly a dynamo in the sack. She wears her kerchief as a homage to her Russian heritage.
Junior is either the waddling toddler of the family or the mentally-deranged uncle, depending on my mood. Either way, a lot of drool is involved, and the shenanigans always start when someone’s watchful eye is distracted long enough for him to sneak out the porch door and terrorize the neighborhood.
Missy is sixteen. She’s hot, but she knows it, so she’s also a bitch. Which is why she’s named Missy. All Missys are bitches, hot or not. She’s grounded right now, and her boyfriend is the boss’ son. He’s a buffoon but at least it irks good ol’ dad.
Ethyl’s mother is just visiting from Scottsdale. Milford can’t wait for her to leave, but Missy likes having her around, because she pays for fast food and takes Missy’s side on everything. Little does Missy know that there will be no trust fund for the kiddies, though. She’s left all her monies to some conservative church that hates abortion.
Pete’s a brat with a Justin Bieber haircut. No one pays him enough attention, what with that bitch Missy, her non-stop drama, and a baby in the house…
Ruff and Mee-Yow
Ruff and Mee-Yow are the family cat and dog. Their back-stories mostly consist of eating the local wildlife and pooping in weird places.
Sweet-Pea is the newborn baby. His back-story also happens to feature pooping in weird places, but he’s also the reason Nana has come to visit, which is the only reason Milford can tolerate that woman’s presence for more than five minutes at a time: at least he can get a solid 5 hours of sleep every night with her help, ferchrissakes.
Skull exists only because I don’t have the skill or dexterity to paint at such a small scale. But I imagine he makes a fun chew-toy for the dog and cat.
So now I can check that task off my list once and for all, and finally open my closet door without the looming judgement of a blank set of nesting dolls. Phew.
My favorite joke of the month, told to me by my buddy Ricko:
“I don’t really like those Russian nesting dolls. They’re just so into themselves.”
Okay, so maybe it’s not the funniest joke in the world, and kinda random to boot, but I like it.
I am fascinated by nesting dolls. I hesitate to say that I “love” them out of fear that people may take that sentiment a tad too seriously and I’ll get nothing but nesting dolls for every birthday, christmas, and anniversary until the day I die. (Likewise and for the record, I do not officially collect anything at all. So there are no easy-outs for gift-giving when it comes to danny. But I digress.)
Over ten years ago I bought a set of blank nesting dolls off the internet in the hopes of coming up with some really clever or funky idea for how to paint on them, but no idea ever came, and so now they just sit in the back of my closet like nested trophies of my creative failure.
So if anyone’s got any bright ideas, send them my way. But Michael Jackson has already been done: