03-04-2009, 09:41 PM
"You'll keep the house clean?" Assurances. "And do the laundry?" Of course. "And remember: garbage pickup is Wednesday mornings." Oops. "It'd be nice if you vacuumed." On my list. "You know what would be ever so nice? If you polished my cutlery." Puzzlement. "You know, my swords! The antiques, because they're starting to show some rust. They'll lose value if we don't take care of them. You'll see what I mean in July when I take them to the Antique Road Show in San Jose." Will do.
Slopping Meyer lemon chicken and rice onto a plate (it grows ever soupier, and greener, seeming to breed in the fridge, never running out), I feel a growing unease. Lady Cranefly's India trip is nearing its terminus. In my peripheral vision I cannot help noting a floor littered with newspapers, oil paint tubes like giant slugs leaving vivid color trails, dirty clothes strewn about. The sink is stacked high with foul-smelling dishes. Things are approaching a precipitous point. Drastic action will soon be called for.
In the middle of dinner the doorbell rings. It's the UPS lady. She stands there with a handcart. Propped next to the door is a big box. I am suddenly very excited. I had all but given up hope. Though the UPS lady is usually very chatty, today she doesn't say a word. She just hands me the form to sign. I glance aside at the box. Printed on it in big bold letters is, "Fragile -- Sex Doll."
"It's for my wife," I say.
Wrestling the box indoors, I lower it to the living room floor. Despite my excitement, I'm also apprehensive, hesitant to open it. I've been burned before. Blow-up dolls can be so painfully disappointing. You base your purchase on the gorgeous face and figure on the box, then you open it up and ... oh my.
Despite the "oh my," you proceed. You've paid for it, you can't take it back; you might as well take it for a spin. But it's just not happening. You're trying to kickstart a moody motorcycle. You keep kicking, and kicking, and all you get is that flaccid sputter. So you raid your wife's jewelry box. You accessorize. You add earrings -- clip-ons, mind you, or you'll be doing repairs. And keep a bicycle repair kit nearby regardless because patches are inevitable. You give her a nice necklace, an expensive bracelet-- You'd add a ring or two, but all she's got are stub-fins like some prehistoric amphibian. Now you try again, focusing on the accessories. You avoid the vapid face, the bloated torso, the floppy limbs. You focus on the fishnet stockings you added in a last-ditch effort...
And it just isn't happening.
Traumatized by the whole affair, you swear you'll never go there again. To purge the nightmare from your memory, you perform a ritual cleansing in the middle of the night. You chant, meditate, burn incense, you bow three times to the eight directions, make offerings of tea and whisky, poke pins in strange origami creatures created by your cat. Then you inflate the blow-up doll with helium and release it to the heavens. As it ascends beyond the point of Ms. Moire, you want to believe it is fading. But deep down you know it's still with you, you're scarred for life, and you'll never go there again.
Except you do.
Kneeling next to the box, I glide a finger along its edge. These days you can do better than a blow-up. Much better. Those Japanese, you gotta hand it to them. They are innovators extraordinaire. They've got dolls that talk, that waddle, that swim. They've got dolls that pinch your cheek, wink at you, and show dimples when they smile. Dolls with skin that gets goose-bumps, is warm to the touch, covered with downy hair (and thatches where appropriate). Those that move, move well. Those that don't, beckon in the most inviting ways. The variety is so intoxicating that making a choice can be difficult. Still, after six months of careful research and evaluation -- in preparation for Lady Cranefly's absence -- I knew the one I'd get.
I didn't buy it in our miserable economy. Like I said, I don't buy anything now. I placed the order before things went south, arranged for it to be delivered later. Besides, it only cost 138,000 yen. That sounds like a lot, but in US dollars it's only $1,453. Of course, the auxiliary modules can add up. That's where they get you. Volition ($750), voice ($900), personality ($1100). I had to get those three. And with three you get a fourth free -- Kink, normally $650.
The manufacturer is Tokyo Oh My. Every doll they make is unique. That sounds gimmicky, but it sucked me in. Unique dolls with unique names, no two the same. In the end it was the name that decided me. Atom Bomb. I mean, how ironic is that? An American ordering a fully articulated automaton doll from Japan named Atom Bomb? It seemed funny when I placed the order, but afterwards I started to worry. I couldn't sleep. I kept imagining her crossing the ocean, then traveling by truck, maybe even driving the truck herself, getting ever closer, clutching my invoice to her mushroom breasts, cooing, "Oh, Cranefly, you American boy, you get number one treatment from Atom Bomb, big time."
Now she's here, inches away, inside this box. All I have to do is open it.
Fudge, our small Persian, creeps cautiously forward to sniff a corner.
Still I hesitate. Am I feeling guilty? Doesn't this smack of infidelity? No. I'm expanding my skill set. I work in the high-tech sector: software programming and technical writing. It's vital that I stay up-to-date on all the latest developments, the newest gadgets. I'm unemployed, looking for work, competing against countless others in similar circumstance, as well as the best and brightest of the new generation.
I have a responsibility to expose myself to this new technology. I owe it to Lady Cranefly.
Fudge has stopped sniffing the box and now hunkers down, extends her neck and coughs. Soon she produces a giant hairball. Like all her recent produce, it has an unusual shape and texture about it -- like origami. This one is a masterful depiction of fate. I carefully lift it from the floor and set it on the bookshelf along with the others. Then I open the box.
Slopping Meyer lemon chicken and rice onto a plate (it grows ever soupier, and greener, seeming to breed in the fridge, never running out), I feel a growing unease. Lady Cranefly's India trip is nearing its terminus. In my peripheral vision I cannot help noting a floor littered with newspapers, oil paint tubes like giant slugs leaving vivid color trails, dirty clothes strewn about. The sink is stacked high with foul-smelling dishes. Things are approaching a precipitous point. Drastic action will soon be called for.
In the middle of dinner the doorbell rings. It's the UPS lady. She stands there with a handcart. Propped next to the door is a big box. I am suddenly very excited. I had all but given up hope. Though the UPS lady is usually very chatty, today she doesn't say a word. She just hands me the form to sign. I glance aside at the box. Printed on it in big bold letters is, "Fragile -- Sex Doll."
"It's for my wife," I say.
Wrestling the box indoors, I lower it to the living room floor. Despite my excitement, I'm also apprehensive, hesitant to open it. I've been burned before. Blow-up dolls can be so painfully disappointing. You base your purchase on the gorgeous face and figure on the box, then you open it up and ... oh my.
Despite the "oh my," you proceed. You've paid for it, you can't take it back; you might as well take it for a spin. But it's just not happening. You're trying to kickstart a moody motorcycle. You keep kicking, and kicking, and all you get is that flaccid sputter. So you raid your wife's jewelry box. You accessorize. You add earrings -- clip-ons, mind you, or you'll be doing repairs. And keep a bicycle repair kit nearby regardless because patches are inevitable. You give her a nice necklace, an expensive bracelet-- You'd add a ring or two, but all she's got are stub-fins like some prehistoric amphibian. Now you try again, focusing on the accessories. You avoid the vapid face, the bloated torso, the floppy limbs. You focus on the fishnet stockings you added in a last-ditch effort...
And it just isn't happening.
Traumatized by the whole affair, you swear you'll never go there again. To purge the nightmare from your memory, you perform a ritual cleansing in the middle of the night. You chant, meditate, burn incense, you bow three times to the eight directions, make offerings of tea and whisky, poke pins in strange origami creatures created by your cat. Then you inflate the blow-up doll with helium and release it to the heavens. As it ascends beyond the point of Ms. Moire, you want to believe it is fading. But deep down you know it's still with you, you're scarred for life, and you'll never go there again.
Except you do.
Kneeling next to the box, I glide a finger along its edge. These days you can do better than a blow-up. Much better. Those Japanese, you gotta hand it to them. They are innovators extraordinaire. They've got dolls that talk, that waddle, that swim. They've got dolls that pinch your cheek, wink at you, and show dimples when they smile. Dolls with skin that gets goose-bumps, is warm to the touch, covered with downy hair (and thatches where appropriate). Those that move, move well. Those that don't, beckon in the most inviting ways. The variety is so intoxicating that making a choice can be difficult. Still, after six months of careful research and evaluation -- in preparation for Lady Cranefly's absence -- I knew the one I'd get.
I didn't buy it in our miserable economy. Like I said, I don't buy anything now. I placed the order before things went south, arranged for it to be delivered later. Besides, it only cost 138,000 yen. That sounds like a lot, but in US dollars it's only $1,453. Of course, the auxiliary modules can add up. That's where they get you. Volition ($750), voice ($900), personality ($1100). I had to get those three. And with three you get a fourth free -- Kink, normally $650.
The manufacturer is Tokyo Oh My. Every doll they make is unique. That sounds gimmicky, but it sucked me in. Unique dolls with unique names, no two the same. In the end it was the name that decided me. Atom Bomb. I mean, how ironic is that? An American ordering a fully articulated automaton doll from Japan named Atom Bomb? It seemed funny when I placed the order, but afterwards I started to worry. I couldn't sleep. I kept imagining her crossing the ocean, then traveling by truck, maybe even driving the truck herself, getting ever closer, clutching my invoice to her mushroom breasts, cooing, "Oh, Cranefly, you American boy, you get number one treatment from Atom Bomb, big time."
Now she's here, inches away, inside this box. All I have to do is open it.
Fudge, our small Persian, creeps cautiously forward to sniff a corner.
Still I hesitate. Am I feeling guilty? Doesn't this smack of infidelity? No. I'm expanding my skill set. I work in the high-tech sector: software programming and technical writing. It's vital that I stay up-to-date on all the latest developments, the newest gadgets. I'm unemployed, looking for work, competing against countless others in similar circumstance, as well as the best and brightest of the new generation.
I have a responsibility to expose myself to this new technology. I owe it to Lady Cranefly.
Fudge has stopped sniffing the box and now hunkers down, extends her neck and coughs. Soon she produces a giant hairball. Like all her recent produce, it has an unusual shape and texture about it -- like origami. This one is a masterful depiction of fate. I carefully lift it from the floor and set it on the bookshelf along with the others. Then I open the box.
I'm nobody's pony.
