So, while I was home for the holidays, I got to witness the evolving transformation of my childhood bedroom into my dad’s “Man Wing.” The two bedrooms my sisters and I had when we were kids are now my dad’s bedroom and his office respectively, and he is hell-bent on FILLING them with dead animal heads:
I mean, I love me some taxidermy, but this room terrifies children every time my parents have people over. I think little-kid fascination with Dead Animal Heads is limited to maybe one or two, because they just see them as bizarre, bodiless stuffed animals they can pet. But any more than two…and the phenomenon I like to call The Bambi Realization sets in. When you get SEVEN DEAD DEER in a room, there’s too much reality all of the sudden, and you start to think about the dude who STALKED AND KILLED all these beasts.
And that dude….that dude would be my dad. He’s not the gun-toting, NRA-loving maniac you might associate with a room full of taxidermied deer. He’s the dude who bumbles Valentine’s Day gifts for my mom.
And this is where we get to the part where this whole thing explains a lot… because the surface-normal-with-a-wide-weird-streak thing has to be genetic. I have a big deadlines weekend looming, with lots of writing goals, and so I am bribing myself in order to power through all the stuff I need to accomplish. And what, pray tell, am I bribing myself with?
A disarticulated skeleton.
Because I’m going to mount the individual bones in shadow boxes and decorate my house with them. And I am not even kidding.