Over the summer, my friend Libbie had a yard sale, and I was more than
happy to give her my patronage - though given her generous nature, she
wouldn't let me pay for anything I picked up except for the glass of
lemonade I bought from her niece. So with my wallet scarcely depleted, I
ventured around the block, dropping my dimes and quarters for a Pooh
book here, a plush Meeko the raccoon there. I came home laden with bags
full of beautiful shmoo, none of which I know what to do with. But the
most glorious unnecessary purchase of all was something I snagged for a
dollar in a garage where one of the women running the sale bemoaned its
departure and another cheered heartily. My treasure? A Chicken Dance
Elmo.
Sometimes, I just have to release that inner
two-year-old. This is the same 26-year-old who gets a charge out of
randomly blowing the quacking whistle she procured on a trip to
Baltimore despite not actually riding on the amphibious tour bus for
which it was a souvenir. Maybe I have a strange obsession with
waterfowl, though I suspect it has more to do with an occasional
fondness for annoying noise, and Elmo singing the Chicken Dance song
certainly qualifies. I've loved the Chicken Dance all my life; it's
always the part of the skating party or dance or wedding reception I
most look forward to. But with Elmo's rather grating voice, which has
grown increasingly tiresome since the Tickle Me Elmo craze and the
brazen attempt by Elmo's World to take over Sesame Street, this is not a song you want to go on for several verses.
It doesn't help that although Elmo is dressed in a fuzzy chicken suit -
albeit of a canary-yellow shade - he appears to be confused as to which
animal he is representing. "Elmo wants to be a chicken! Elmo wants to
be a duck!" he cries out gleefully, while I scratch my head, wondering
what ducks have to do with anything and whether this might be a
surreptitious trick of my subconscious, trying to get me to sneak in a
couple toots on the duck whistle, which would clash so flagrantly with
Elmo's dulcet tones. But then I am distracted by Elmo's dancing, which
is reassuringly clunky; even I am more graceful than him, and am capable
of performing each of the steps of the chicken dance, not just the
wing-flapping and the awkward head-lolling between which he laughingly
alternates.
It took me a while to find the right way to get
Elmo in gear, but eventually I hit upon just the right spot on his left
big orange bird foot, and away he went, while a press on the right foot
yielded a surfeit of clucking. At the moment, he's been banished to the
basement, but one of these days I'll bring him up again. Maybe for
Halloween. He's in costume. And he's scary. And I'm scary, for bringing
this startling contraption into my house. How long will he stay? Until
his four AA batteries run out? Until Christmas rolls around and I think
of some charming child a little closer to the age range of Elmo's
intended audience, whose parent I don't particularly need to remain on
friendly terms with? Who could forgive me for such a gift?
No,
I think it's best I hang onto it myself, and bring it out only in times
of intolerable silence. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a
duck whistle...
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