Vampires, and Zombies, and Werewolves!  Oh My!

Last night Mr. Dingo and I watched 30 Days of Night.  I loved it.  I’m not really into the whole vampire thing, but these vampires scared the living crap outta me.  Stephen King Salem’s Lot and Bram Stoker‘s Dracula bored me.  Yawn.  Snooze.  The 30 Days of Night vampires?  Oh my holy hell, I had a kung fu death grip on Mr. Dingo throughout the entire movie.  People often ask me if I get nightmares from watching horror movies and reading horror fiction.  Actually, I don’t.  I scare myself enough in broad daylight.  No nightmares necessary. 

Mr. Dingo likes to remind me of the early morning hours about two years ago when he got a 4:30 am call from me.  I was wrapping up a week-long visit at my Mom’s house.  Mom had already left for her shift at the hospital when I got up to pack for my flight back to NYC.  My old bedroom had already been converted into Mom’s sewing room so I was sleeping downstairs in what we call the dungeon.  A dark, windowless room right next to the boiler room.  Yes, the Princess had been demoted.  Anyway, it had been years since I was alone in this house and the night/pre-dawn noises were eerie.  Every little noise made me jump and I just wanted to get the hell out.  Although the news lately had been filled with the unexplained surge in home invasions, I was not fearful of the living.  No, I was sure that the noises I was hearing were being made by… zombies.  Yes, zombies.  My rational mind knew that there was no such thing as zombies and that I was going to finish packing my bags and be back in New York in time to complain about rush hour traffic. My irrational mind, my sleep-deprived 4:30-in-the-morning mind, was having none of that.  So I did what any sane woman would do.  I called my boyfriend. 

Mr. Dingo answered the phone understandably alarmed at receiving a call so early.  Something had to be wrong, right?  Right.  I was about to be devoured by brainless, soulless creatures.  I swear, I was!  I could hear their footsteps on the stairs! 

Mr. Dingo:  Are you okay?

Dingo:  No.

Mr. Dingo:  What’s wrong?

Dingo:  Zombies.

Mr. Dingo:  What?  It sounded like you said “zombies.”

Dingo:  I did.  I think zombies might be trying to get into the house.  Did you hear that?  Oh my God, and I smell something funny, too.  Smells like… zombies.  Will you stay on the phone with me until I leave for the airport?  I’m almost ready.

And he did.  And the zombies did not get me.  We He likes to laugh about that every now and then.  In fact, we he laughed about it last night as we were watching 30 Days of Night.  The vampires were only scary on the screen.  Besides, I had nothing to fear from these vampires.  The mosquitoes have already sucked all the blood from my body.  In fact, I am an empty, bumpy shell just rattling around the apartment.

Anyway, as I was showering this morning I heard the door to the bathroom open.  Mr. Dingo had already left for work and Dingo Girl, well, she hears water running and she’s hiding under the bed.  Occasionally she’ll come into the bathroom when I’m in there but that’s usually only when I’ve snuck in there to eat a Snickers bar in peace.  My God, can’t a woman eat a freakin’ Snickers bar without having to share?  Does it matter that she bought it for Mr. Dingo and left it on his desk?  I say, if the Snickers bar goes uneaten for 15 minutes a day after I place it on his desk for him, he forfeits all rights to said candy bar.  I’m sure there’s a law about that somewhere.  And after all I’ve done for Dingo Girl, you’d think she’d have my back.  But nooooo, the bitch (because she really is one) wants the Snickers for herself, even though I’m the one who went through all the trouble and made up the law.  But I digress…

When I heard the door open, I knew it didn’t sound like Dingo Girl but I called to her anyway.  You know, using that stock horror movie voice that rises with uncertainty at the end of the sentence?  The voice that lets the audience know that the lone girl in the shower is very well aware that the intruder in the bathroom is not the Snickers seeking faithless faithful family dog but a VAMPIRE!!  Yes, when Dingo Girl did not answer — not even in Dingo-speak — and when I saw a large, dark shadow fall upon the shower curtain, I just knew I was about to be devoured.  My mind raced to all the things I had at my disposal to defend myself from the Undead. 

Shaving cream?  The fact that I use Kiss My Face shaving cream was reason enough to reject this notion.  No, stay away from my face, you harbinger of the apocalypse.  Besides, I don’t shave my face with this shaving cream.  It should be called, “Kiss My Legs.” Anyway, it did not seem like a good weapon against the undead if they were well-groomed.

Razor?  I’m a klutz.  My razor has a safety blade.  Unless he’s afraid of a close shave without all the nicks and gouges of a regular razor, I was outta luck.

Shampoo?  Conditioner?  My God, what was I going to do?!?  Can you moisturize a vampire away?  You know, dead, flaky skin and whatnot?

Realize please, that these thoughts took place in a matter of seconds.  Not enough time for Rational Dingo to kick in.  But just enough time for Mr. Dingo to throw back the shower curtain with a vampire roar.  And then laugh at my deer-in-the-headlights look.  And then slink away at my you-are-so-dead-look.  As soon as I could move and speak I gave him a piece of my mind.  He was all wide eyed innocence as he explained that he was not feeling well on the train so he came home.  Although we’ve done our best to eschew traditional gender roles, I’ve instituted a new law.  It’s on the books right under the Snickers Rule.  Whenever he comes in the door he must announce, “Honey, I’m home!” And bring me a Snickers.

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