That Baby Gives Me the Creeps.

When I first heard about Toy Story, oh, fifteen years ago, I thought it'd be dumb.  And then one night I was babysitting one of my two-hundred thousand cousins, and we popped it into the ol' VCR, and I was hooked.  And why wouldn't I be?  It was funny, and endearing, and appealed to my baby sister, to me, to my grandparents.  What's not to love?

And then Toy Story 2 came out while I was in college, and my friends and I--including tough Becky--went to see it at our school's cheap movie theater.  It was fun, cute, and oh-my-god-so-sad when this part came on.



I've always been a big sissy when it comes to sentimental stuff like this (I completely lost it during the episode of Boy Meets World when Corey and Topanga got married, and I can't get through a cotton commercial without some lip quivers), so I sat there, true to form, sobbing like a little baby.  But then I looked over at tough "I'm-an-athlete-who-has-no-human-emotion-other-than-rage" Becky and saw her whole body shaking while she wept about Jessie's misfortune (Jessie's owner, Emily, put her in the donation bin).  Years later, I'll still call up Becky and just start singing the song (that I've memorized because I downloaded it), just to see if I can get her to cry.  I know, I know, I'm the greatest friend that has ever been.

I loved Toy Story 2 so much, and wanted so much to share it, that I bought a Cowgirl Jessie doll for Chloe that year (when she was 3 1/2) and took her to see the movie.  (She was much better behaved during this film than she had been when we took her to see Prince of Egypt when she was a couple of years younger [what the hell were we thinking?], shortly after I'd taught her the phrase "sexy man."  My adorable little [not at all bratty] sister yelled through most of that movie, "Moses is a sexy man!")

I texted that adorable little darling the other day (that adorable darling will be going to high school next year--EEK!) to ask her if she still had her Cowgirl Jessie doll.  "No, I got rid of that a long time ago," she texted back.  DID SHE UNDERSTAND THE MOVIE BUT AT ALL?

My sister's heartlessness aside, you can only imagine how excited I was when, month and months ago, we saw the trailer for Toy Story 3.  So many great characters, so many fun memories, so many tears in store.  Andy's going to college?  WTF?

So Matt and Collin and I went to see it today, strategically deciding to go to the 11:40 show that was not in 3D, thinking that this way we would have the fewest number of kids in the theater.  Foiled.  Foiled because we neglected to think about the fact that we would end up in the theater with a smaller number of children, perhaps, but that they would be the smaller children, the children who wouldn't give a rat's ass about 3D.  Fantastic.  I mean, I guess it could have been worse, and what were we to expect when going to see a movie aimed at small children?  But, seriously, would it be so hard to set aside a child-free theater for Toy Story 3 viewers?  Yeah, I heard it, too.  That was a stupid and selfish idea.  Fine.

The movie, by the way, is wonderful.  It's perfection, like I knew that it would be, even if it does have what I believe is the creepiest character ever to grace the screen: Big Baby.

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That droopy eye is the stuff that nightmares are made of.

A shoe search only reveals creepy baby dolls.

This month's issue of Real Simple features this photo of these shoes, and I cannot stop thinking about them. I want these to be the shoes that provide the evil teacher click, click, click as I walk around my classroom next school year. I even had a dream that I found them and wore them to school.

I've been looking all over the interwebs and the inside of the magazine to see who makes the shoes and where I might be able to buy them. (Truth be told, they're probably far too expensive and uncomfortable to make my shoe dream come true, but I WANT them. My desire for these shoes is a perfect example of a need vs. a want, and I'm not sure I'd have a husband anymore if I spent a small fortune on shoes I'd never wear.)

Refusing to listen to common sense, I continue to search for the designer of these shoes. I googled the photographer's name, Burcu Avsar, but it was a bit of a dead end. Only a bit, though, because I came across a really interesting project of hers where she photographs old toys. Avsar's beautiful explanation of the project will do little to keep me from having bad dreams about this creepfest below, probably because of my history with baby dolls.

Wow, are baby dolls creepy!

Back in college, my roommates and I would throw huge Halloween parties. My roommate Paxton would begin decorating the house about a month in advance. The decorations were always fantastic, and Paxton was definitely a details kind of guy. He constructed a tree from branches that he'd dragged home, he carved intricate details in pumpkins, he found beer pong ping pong balls that looked like eyeballs. The decorations were just incredible, but our least expensive decorations ended up being the scariest.

Paxton and I went to a thrift store and spent about $3 on old gross baby dolls. We took them home, tore them apart, threw on some fake blood, duct tape, and thumbtacks. Then we hung the dolls and doll limbs and doll heads from the ceiling.

Of all of the frightening decorations--even the fog machine in the grate that would hiss every few minutes and look amazing--those creepy babies were the most memorable. I can't look at Avsar's gorgeous pictures of old toys without having vivid memories of the baby doll whose mouth was duct taped, who later became our Christmas tree topper. That same baby doll did come to life and murder one of our roommates, which may further explain why I find baby dolls a bit on the scary side.

Oh, and if you can find out where I can find those pretty pretty turquoise shoes you win in life.