Cowtown and the Creepiest. Doll. Ever.

Peek-a-boo, where are you?  Where are you hiding?  I'll find you...  Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo, where...are...you?

When I was a child, my grandparents took me to the Cowtown Rodeo on a few occasions.  It was a magical, mythical place that catered to every child's deepest desires, from funnel cakes to cowboy hats, dolls and dress-up clothes.  My eyes would go wide with excitement as I spotted the giant cowboy standing watch over the property from the side of the road like a sentinel.  (Think Toy Story's Woody on steroids.)  It was so very, very far away, and on those evenings that I was treated to the joys of Cowtown, I would invariably fall asleep in the car on the oh-so-long ride home.  In actuality, it was only about an hour away, and was a giant flea market - a mecca of kitsch.  But that's what childhood fantasies are made of right?  My most prized Cowtown find was a suede cowboy hat with silver rivets, but I'm sure I came home with plenty of other treasures - crap to my parents, I'm sure.  And while all the years have made my memory a bit fuzzy and I can't be positive, I don't think I ever actually saw the rodeo itself, the event that Cowtown is so famous for.  


Not Woody, not my photo...

  I have driven past Cowtown many times since then, but have never stopped to take a look.  From the outside it doesn't seem like much has changed, and I usually went by on days when it was closed.  Saturday, as Samantha and I drove to my father's house, I decided to make a pitstop.  Just because.  She was in a happy mood, and I had some time to spare.

The place is huge.  It just so happened that we found a parking spot right away, right next to a stall selling dolls.  And not just any dolls...dolls that talk and sing and look like her (okay, other than the freaky, vacant, brown eyes).  Instantly suckered  drawn in, Samantha wouldn't let go of one particularly sweet one (I liked another one, but it spoke Spanish, so I put her back - can I just say how suspicious I always am of the voiceboxes of cheap, foreign, mass-produced dolls?).  Cute clothes, double-braids and pink, pink, pink, and that. was. that.  $15 (and a new pair of sunglasses from another stall) later, and baby was ours (after listening very carefully to everything she had to say...).  And can I tell you how eternally grateful I am that the freaking thing has an off-switch?  Seriously.  Whoa.  On the rest of the ride to the farm all I heard was her sing-song-y voice chanting, "Peek-a-boo, I love you, I can't see you, where are you?  Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo, where...are...you?  I see you, do you see me?"  Okay, so the voice sounds innocent enough, but aren't the words reminiscent of a million different horror movies?  Peek-a-boo, I love you, where are you hiding, I'll find you!  (Omg, I'm in the freaking closet holding a knife, you crazy beeeyotch psycho-doll!)  And trust me, that's exactly where I will be if I so much as hear a peep out of that thing one night when I know full-well I've left the switch in the off position. 



Baby's clothes were off by the time we got to my dad's.  Me:  "Sammi, what are you doing?"  Sammi:  "Taking a clothes off!"  Me:  "Why?"  Sammi:  "Because...it's too hot!"  So it was, considering the poor thing was wearing a knit cap, a puffy vest, a turtleneck and boots.  What am I gonna say to that?