An Oscar Obsession

Neither my sister nor I, nor our parents for that matter, can remember exactly how and when Oscar came into our lives. We do know that he arrived along with Cookie Monster, and that's about the extent of it. I was probably about 4 or 5 years old, maybe younger, and K was 8 or 9. These early years with Oscar were rather uneventful. He most likely ended up attached to my wall with Velcro along with all of my other stuffed animals. I never did figure out where my mom came up with that one -- Velcroing toys to my wall. I do know it scared the crap out of me at night. I'd be curious to know if anyone else's mothers did that, so leave me a comment if they did.

Anyhow, back to Oscar. Our first real memory of him is of him sitting on one of our pink blankets trimmed with pink satin. Sitting on that blanket in the garage, waiting for someone to take him home. Yes, we tried to sell him off in a garage sale. Cookie went, but no one seemed to take any interest in Oscar, so he got packed up along with all the other "unsellables." Later, he got packed up and moved to Florida, where my dad had taken a new job. Once settled in Florida, our parents bought a mini-van in 1980s mauve. The outside was mostly gray, but let me tell you, the rest was full-on mauve. Mauve seats. Mauve trim. Mauve curtains. Mauve ties around the mauve curtains. We used that mini-van for all of our cross-country summer trips, and this is apparently when my sister and I realized that that mauve van needed a splash of something green.

Oscar went on every trip. He crossed state lines, waving to cars, waving to truckers, making the truckers wave back at him. The highlight for my sister and I was when we could use Oscar's nubby arms to signal to the truckers that we wanted them to honk, and they blew their horns. Some people would even use stuffed animals in their cars to wave back at Oscar. To us, he was like our own traveling interstate diplomat. Of course Oscar couldn't just wave; he had to talk. So a voice developed, which can sort of be described as when a foreigner with an extremely heavy accent tries to mimic a Southern drawl. Only even stranger. We made Oscar talk to our parents in his own unique voice, and they would try to copy it, but could never quite master the high pitch that she and I could achieve. But if they asked us to show Oscar to anyone else, or to share his voice, we were a couple of tight-lipped kids. How could they embarrass us like that?!?!

Over the years, Oscar's overuse showed. His body got torn, stuffing fell out, and only occasionally was he sewn back together. His eyes detached, and we discovered a small hole in the bottom of each where a finishing nail would fit perfectly. We stuck a nail about 4" in length into each of his eyes, and then drove them into the top of his head. We then discovered that this fix meant his eyes could now turn, and so he became cross-eyed. Later, his crossed eyes were hot glued into place. His torn mouth was replaced with black and red felt patches, and anywhere leaking stuffing was repaired. As we grew up, Oscar was never discarded along with the other toys. He was part of the family, and therefore just had to evolve. His vocabulary became coarser. He learned how to swear. He learned how to write emails in his particular brand of vernacular and spelling.

My sister (who we eventually decided was Oscar's alter ego) started having kids, and each of them has picked up the Oscar voice with perfect pitch. In Oscar, you can't tell one from the other. They're taught at birth. She also started collecting Oscars from the Internet, mostly through eBay. "Original Oscar," as we sometimes call him, now has a herd of little Oscars. Since we're now adults (believe it or not) and are married with our own lives, we have to "share" Oscar, which usually comes in the form of secretly depositing him at each other's or our dad's house. Oscar, and sometimes mini-Oscars, can be found later in your refrigerator, in the shower, or maybe in your underwear drawer. Trying to escape the Oscar hand-off sometimes involves Oscar getting flung from your car onto the street, or squealing tires as someone is trying to stash Oscar into your backseat. If the stashing is successful, it is usually followed by a taunting phone call from Oscar himself.

This pretty much brings us up-to-date on "the Oscar story" and this blog is hopefully just one continuation of it. It's a facet of the Oscar Obsession. We think there may be others out there who are just as obsessed, though there may not be others quite as strange ... or deranged ... as us.