Today I’m dredging the depths of a previous blog for a Classic Madam Von Sassypants moment in time, titled The Epic of Giglamesh. Come along, shall we?…
In lieu of posting blogs that people are actually anticipating, I’m writing about my necklace.
Also known as: The Necklace that Almost Cursed Me.
Also known as: Dead Baby Locket.
I like finding neat things at second hand stores. More so, I like purchasing the neat things I find at second hand stores. The Dalles is home to the single greatest, as-yet-undiscovered-by-hipsters St. Vincent de Paul ever known to upright man. Lea can attest to this for me.
On a fine Saturday morning, when everything was at least 25% off, I happened upon a lovely golden locket, with swirling script detail and a nice, decent weight to it. $9? Done.
As the fine and upstanding employee of S V de P was ringing up my purchase, it only then occurred to me to look inside. With a simple click the locket opened, and there staring up at me with black, unfocused infant eyes was this… thing.
Obviously it’s a newborn baby. With a big ol’ birthmark on its forehead. And a freshly-squeezed-out-of-a-vagina skull. And saggy alien cheeks. And no neck.
Thusly my imagination began to wander. Who would donate a locket with such an old picture of a baby? Either the parent had little to no contact with their child, or the kid is dead. I’ve assumed the latter. They had to get away from the horrible memory of the baby perishing from Infant Scurvy or Uglyitis or The Plague or something. So it was tossed in a heap of never-used baby clothes and given to S V de P.
What to do with such a find? I have no images I feel truly warrant being carried around on my neck, so I don’t know what to replace it with. Using a knife to peel out the baby picture seems a little harsh, like the figurative abortion that never happened, so that option was out as well. As a result of my indecision, I’ve been walking around with the picture of a dead baby that I never knew around my neck.
At first it was a little creepy, especially since things kept going wrong. My computer died. My hot tub died. I was hit with a giant, unexpected and unaffordable bill. My favorite pair of shoes became stinky. It got to the point that if one more thing went wrong, I’d toss Dead Baby Locket into the Columbia and make peace with the heavens.
Luckily, nothing else happened. (and just for you, karma, that window of time where this could be a curse has closed, so don’t damn me for saying nothing bad happened!) To appease my deceased accessory, I named the dead baby Gilgamesh.
Since then he has enjoyed a life in my cleavage, truly the cradle of life, and being a conversation starter at bars. “Want to see my baby?” is the best pickup line ever. Follow it with a nonchalant “He’s dead,” and you’ll be knockin’ boots that night. Guar-an-teed. Ask Gilgamesh.