The Wiggles + Violent Death = I Probably Need Therapy

I don't usually think of myself as a particularly creative person. I mean, I'm clearly batshit crazy, but that's more attributable to the effects of a childhood spent with a mother who never wore anything but panties and a t-shirt around the house, even when my friends came over for the first time and hadn't had time to emotionally prepare and/or invest in brain bleach, and a father whose answer to every question was "Very nice, dear" than it is to any above-average amount of right brain activity. However, I do have a rather active imagination, particularly as it pertains to dreaming up scenarios in which I, or someone I love, might die a violent and disturbing death. And in that context? I can be extraordinarily inventive.

For example, I do remember a particular day, driving down the freeway with Oscar, who was at the wheel. I was blankly staring out the window, until I noticed the tires of the car next to us. I don't know if it was the angle of my view or a genuine issue with the wheels, but the hubcaps appeared to be shaking. I stared at it for quite a while, until Oscar looked over at me and asked the most dangerous of all questions husbands can ask their wives: "What are you thinking over there?" In my mind, I chuckled, and then I asked Oscar if he really wanted to know. He did, so this is what I told him:

Well, I was looking at the way the hubcap seems to be shaking on the car next to us. And I was wondering what would happen if it came flying off, and if it came flying off right at us. And I was wondering if I'd have enough time to notice it and react. And if I did react by, say, ducking, I was thinking how awful it would be if it decapitated you. And if it did decapitate you, I was wondering if the car would crash immediately or if I'd have time to crawl over and take the wheel in time to prevent the accident from getting any worse. And then I was thinking that even if I had time, I don't know if I'd be able to do that, because I'd probably have your decapitated head in my lap and I'd be so devastated that I couldn't move. And even if I wasn't completely devastated from having your decapitated head in your lap, I was thinking I certainly wouldn't have it in me to try and work around your headless body to get control of the car. So I'd probably end up in an even worse accident. And I'd probably either die then, from the impact of the accident, or I'd die of grief, because who gets over having their husband's decapitated head in her lap? Not me, I'll tell you that much.

There was a brief silence before Oscar shook his head and laughed, either from disbelief that he had somehow married a woman with no basic comprehension of physics, or from discomfort after realizing for the first time that I might have the makings of a serial killer.

So you see, my mind takes me to weird places, particularly when left to its own devices. Of course, not all of these violent musings start out being quite so elaborate. Tonight, for example, it started out small. We were driving somewhere when Turtle requested that we turn on his Wiggles cd. But of course, simply turning it on was not enough. Mommy had to start doing all of the hand motions that go along with all of the Wiggles' songs. So as I'm be-bopping along to "Hot Potato," it occurs to me that I must look ridiculous to anybody who might happen to see me as I'm passing by. And then I had another thought. So I turned to Oscar.

"You know, I wonder how many moms get gunned down by gangs because they think those moms are flashing gang signs, when in fact, they are just singing along to the Wiggles with their kids?"

Yeah. I know. But this is how my mind works. In fact, if I'd given that thought any room to develop instead of sharing it with Oscar immediately, it would have turned into a Lifetime Movie meets "Saw" in my mind. And as disturbing as that thought is, I have to admit that it does take a certain amount of creativity to make those two genres work together. So despite my humble belief that I am no more creative than the average person, I guess I do have some peculiar talents. Granted, I wish I didn't share them with the likes of Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson, but beggars can't be choosers, right?