As both a testament to how old I am, and how old I think I am, I now have to write about the Squeaky Nun.
Approximately six years ago — six! already! — I flew from Corpus Crappy to Boston to visit my friend, Sarah. While there, at a toy shop, I stumbled upon her:
I picked her up, and she squeaked. Loudly. I was delighted: It was THE perfect gag souvenir for my then-boyfriend, now-husband.
Since purchasing her, she has mostly just sat on shelves, watching us, guarding over our Jesus pencil toppers.
But, in the process of moving from NYC to Mexico – a very Catholic nation, I might add – the nun has been squeaked quite a bit.
When the movers were here, one of them lifted her out of the box, and accidentally squeaked her. At first, I think he was scared. Then, he couldn’t get enough. Squeak. Giggle. Squeak. Giggle. I think it was therapeutic for him, to make her squeak, over and over. I’m glad I could help.
And, just now, it happened again. The maid is here, cleaning. And she picked up Squeaky Nun to dust beneath her holiness, thinking it was a harmless miniature nun, but, no, she squeaked! I heard a little gasp. I hope she didn’t make a secret sign of the cross, asking for protection from me. If I spoke better Spanish, I’d ask her if she thought it was funny, or offensive. I constantly worry about these things. I really do.
Now, because we have the extra room, I have created a special place for our toys, above the toilet in our second bathroom. Squeaky Nun gets a prominent place, far from the jaws of the dog. Although, for the purpose of this post, I did let him have a little fun with her today: