Hippity Hoppity

As Easter quickly approaches, I am reminded of a very special day my family and friends spent at a local Egg Hunt last year. I meant to write about it at the time, but much like anyone who's experienced a traumatic event, I needed time to heal.

I'm ready to tell my story now.

It all started off innocently enough. "Come Join a Community Easter Egg Hunt!" the website read. "Fun for All Ages!" it said. My friends and I thought this would be a lovely way to spend a Saturday with our families, so we went.

There were approximately 50,000 people at this egg hunt. I guess that is our community; I don't know. But there were a lot of people there. And as for the "hunt" aspect, they had three squares of grass taped off with 300 eggs piled on each of them.

Can you find the eggs?

It didn't take a mathematician to see this would be a problem:

3 small squares of grass x 300 eggs  =    ANGRY EASTER MOB

                                            50,000 people

We managed to forget about the impending bloodbath for a while and enjoy ourselves, eating hot dogs and mingling in the spring weather. However, as the "hunt" approached, people started gathering around the taped-off squares with fire in their eyes. I found a spot outside the square marked "0-2 Year Olds" with my then-one-year-old son, ready to go.

And then Pastor Steve of the local Church got on the mic. This was it.

Wait, no, first he said a quick prayer -- fair enough.

But then it was time to go.

Oops, not yet. He wanted to know if anyone lost a cell phone.

Okay let's do this; the kids were starting to lose it.

Then he wanted to remind us about a raffle winner. Where was Betty Sherman? Had anyone seen Betty?

This guy would not get off the mic! Clearly Pastor Steve was not used to having such a captive audience. Meanwhile we were all jam-packed around these little squares, waiting. I saw one kid make a break for the eggs before being caught and pulled back, blowing his chance altogether. Another child burst into tears. One other barfed out of pure anticipation.

FINALLY the Pastor Steve said 'Go!' and we stepped into the arena. The only way to make this Easter Egg Hunt more like American Gladiators would be to have Blaze shooting tennis balls at us from a padded platform.

I held my child's small hand, trying to guide hime through the chaos, but every time he stooped to pick up an egg, a 40-year-old Latina woman picked it up first. I swear this Latina woman was following my one-year-old around. And she was aggressive.

Typically my Midwestern-Catholic upbringing prevents me from telling strangers how annoyed I am with them to their face, but eventually I did let out a passive-aggressive "REALLY?" to this woman. Could she not see the adorable blonde toddler gently attempting to pick up the eggs? Where was her 0-2 year old, anyway? Is she picking up eggs for herself??? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON AT THIS EASTER EGG HUNT?

It was all over in less than a minute. We got three eggs. I stumbled off the battle field with my son holding onto my leg, eyes wide with what he'd seen. We went to find my husband so that he could take my three-year-old through the same terrifying experience in the next taped-off square.

That's when I noticed that the 3-5 Year Old area was also empty. Their group had been released only moments after our group, and now the field was in a post-hunt state, with children laying on the ground holding onto their legs crying, others wandering around in a daze, having been separated from their parents in the melee. A small fire burned in one corner.

When I found my son, he was not happy. He hadn't been able to participate in the hunt because we had the only basket with us. I tried to tell him that he was better off without the Lord of the Flies experience, but he would not have it. He would not have any of it.

So, in a moment I am not totally proud of, I took the three eggs we had fought so hard for and threw them on the ground. I handed my older son the basket and told him in a not-very-Easterlike voice to pick them up. And he did it; he picked each one up and stopped crying. (The Latina woman tried to get there, but she was too slow.)

And guess what? Each egg was filled with one teeny-tiny, off-brand, rock-hard tootsie roll. Exactly the kind little kids can't eat.

And then it was all over. Parents dragged their children back to their cars in bewildered silence. My friends and I looked at each other, but there were no words to capture what we had all been through that day. The only one who had retained the power of speech was -- you guessed it -- Pastor Steve. He was back on the mic in no time. Had anyone seen Betty Sherman?



Happy Easter, All!

My Super-Serious Condition That I Have Now

Way back when I was an adolescent, I was sitting in the kitchen one day eating my breakfast before school. Next to me sat my sister, and across from us stood my mother, who never sits but instead cleans incessantly.

My sister and I were eating a typical breakfast of cereal. I don't know what kind. I'd say it was Life, or maybe Corn Pops. Not sure. Not the point.

Anyway, the reason this particular breakfast stands out to me over all the others is because of a little  incident that took place. You might call it an outburst. I don't know. Just shhh...

It was quiet in the kitchen that day, no one was really in the habit of friendly chit-chat in the morning. However, one sound did mange to cut through the silence: the sound of my sister eating.

I don't know if it was because I was overtired, or if I was having a bad week or something, but everything about the process of my sister's cereal-eating was so disgusting that day I couldn't take it. The click of the spoon against the teeth, the slightest slurp of the milk as it went in her mouth, the gross semi-soggy crunch of the Corn Pops (or Life?)  as she mashed them into mush. Ughhh. Even now, I can't stand to think of it.

Eventually I lost it. OH MY GOD STOP CLICKING YOUR SPOON IT IS SO DISGUSTING! Or something like that. Something mature and reasonable.

Both my mom and sister stopped dead in their tracks, shocked by my sudden rage, and then gave me the "you-are-the-rudest-teenager-and-we-are-ashamed-to-be-related-to-you" look -- something I was not unfamiliar with in those days.

At the time I just continued to be rude, indignant that they didn't hear how gross those noises were. But now I realize, thanks to  this article, that the way my sister was eating her cereal that day was not actually gross. She was probably eating in a very normal, polite way. In fact, most people whose disgusting mouth noises have driven me over the edge have probably not been doing anything gross or weird with their mouths. It's me. It's my ears. I have misophonia.

This is a shock to me, of course. Misophonia is a thing? Really? Well, probably not, but still. I might have a condition, y'all. A straight-up condition. And the condition is not me using the phrase "y'all," despite being by all accounts not-Southern. It's that my ears and brain are in a toxic relationship called misophonia.

Is it possible that all of those kissing scenes in movies are actually not horrifying to listen to?

Is it possible that my husband's gum chewing is not the worst sound that's ever crossed my ear holes?

Is it possible that my anger was not righteous, but unfounded?

My husband chewing gum.

Eh, not sure.

10 Things That Only People Who Saw A Mouse While Eating Their Cereal This Morning Will Understand

1. That mouse was just straight-up in your house.

2. That mouse seriously just walked across your floor like it owned the place.

3. That mouse did not even look scared when you screamed, so it will attack you if threatened.

4. That mouse probably crawled over your face last night when you were sleeping.

5. That mouse is definitely pregnant.

6. That mouse's poop is probably all over your house, and you will never find it all, so you may as well just move right now.

7. No one will ever buy your mouse-poop-ridden house.

8. You will never buy your children Rice Crispies again because that crap dries on the floor like some sort of supersonic superglue which is definitely why this godforsaken mouse is in your stupid disgusting house.

9. You will sleep at your mom's house tonight and forever.

10. You will murder that mouse . . . that is, you will make your husband murder that mouse.

Horror Weds Hilarity and a Beautiful Child Is Born

Halloween is just around the corner.

Generally speaking, I like Halloween. I like seeing little kids in costumes, walking around with no idea how hilariously adorable they look. Is there anything better than a two-year-old walking around, holding his parent's hand, dressed up as Batman? Is there?

There is not.

But when it comes to scary things, like being scared, and scaring other people -- I am a strong "no thank you."

Some people love being scary, and feeling scared, and the sound of their hearts beating to the rhythm of the pee seeping into their pants -- but not me. I loathe being scared. I get angry when people try to scare me. If you pop out at me and yell "Gotcha!"--  my first instinct will be to never speak to you again. (My second instinct is to cry.)

The only way for me to tolerate something scary is if it is mixed with my favorite thing: comedy. Comedy and horror are wonderful together. For example, the "Scream" movies with Neve Campbell -- those were pretty good. Because even though I was scared, I was laughing as much as I was urinating. Sometimes I wasn't sure if the urine was induced by the fear or the laughter, and that's a great sign.

Another hilarious scary movie was "Cabin in the Woods" in 2012. That movie was incredibly funny, but also a little scary, and in the end, I -- the scardiest-scaredy-cat in all of Scaresville -- was fine. Success.

And now, I am very excited to announce that I have found a book that, despite being in many ways a horror story, was the funniest book I've read in a long time. I loved it.

That is a picture of the amazing book to which I refer.

It is also a picture of my sock!

All Animals Versus All Humans is a delightful mix of grisly death and hilarious satire. (Yes, such a mix exists!) I really liked it. I laughed a lot when I read it. It was very dark, and weird, and smart. Just like me -- minus the dark part. And the smart part.

Anyway, go buy this book on Amazon, and prepare to be horrified -- in a good way.

Link here.

Scaring today's generation.

It's almost Halloween, and you know what that means: time to argue three about when is and isn't an appropriate time to wear one's costume! For all you three-year-olds reading this, here is a list for your reference (p.s. congratulations on knowing how to read!):

Appropriate times for wearing your costume:
1. Costume parties
2. Halloween
3. Dress-up time

Inappropriate times for wearing your costume:
1. While eating spaghetti
2. To bed
3. On the potty
4. Picture day

I hope this helps.

In addition to fighting over wardrobe, Halloween is also a great time to scare your children instead of love them. Unfortunately, our children seem strangely impervious to fear. My three-year-old has watched "Nightmare Before Christmas" like three times now and he loves it. [Have you seen that movie? It's terrifying.] The one-year-old just laughs when you sneak up on him and yell "Boo!" Or "Gotcha!" in a demon voice -- and both of them think monsters are great (thanks a lot, Sesame Street).

What's a mother to do? How can I strike terror into the hearts of my most beloved babies this Halloween?

Well don't worry, that question is rhetorical because I already came up with a great solution. I hereby present my new line of terrifying costumes for mothers of small children. These out-of-the-box looks are guaranteed to make your little pumpkin cry for daddy!

TERRIFYING COSTUMES FOR MOTHERS OF SMALL CHILDREN

 

Enjoy!

Betty Crocker

--> My son is turning three next week, which is a big deal. He is very excited about his party and that means the pressure is ON. How many of you remember your third birthday party and the many details your mother included to make it perfect? All of you? That’s what I thought.

Mostly what concerns me about his birthday party is the cake. I have decided, against all logic, that I am going to be a mom who bakes her children’s birthday cakes from scratch each year. I just decided that, and I’m not sure why. I think Pinterest may have something to do with it.

I have this vision of me in a cute apron, mixing the batter, humming a calm, happy tune. This is how I want my son to remember me: the cute, perfect mom.

 Picture from HERE.

However it usually ends up with me alone in the kitchen at 11PM swearing like a sailor. 

Maybe to you, making a cake is no big deal, but baking in general stresses me out. I never have the right ingredients, I don’t remember to soften the butter, and inevitably I spill too much of something into the batter and wonder forever what it would have tasted like had I not done that.

I blame this culinary handicap on my mother. She is a self-proclaimed terrible cook, and raised me to believe that cooking is both difficult and unnatural. She is famous for bizarre kitchen mishaps, like cooking frozen pizzas upside-down in the oven, or forgetting to put sugar in chocolate-chip cookies. When these things happen, she always laughs and says “See? This is why I don’t cook!”

But despite this anti-cooking background, I really want to be a person who cooks. I visit this blog every day and make big plans. It’s my own little rebellion. I’m like the republican Alex P. Keaton to his hippie parents, Elyse and Steven Keaton. What would we do, Baby, without us? Sha-na-na-naaaaaaa. 

What prevents me from going Betty-Crocker all over this joint (my house) is a deeply-embedded lack of confidence. I am always certain that whatever I am making will not turn out, and this doubt causes me to make silly mistakes, and while I am lamenting those mistakes I make more mistakes, and then the swearing begins. 

When I am bake-swearing, it is often about these topics:

1) Sifting. Why? Can’t I just stir the stuff together with a fork? Do I really need to go buy and wash a sifter every time flour and salt need to mix together?

2) Room-temperature butter. I see why room-temperature butter is ideal, but I never remember to take the butter out of my freezer in time. To do that, I would have to know about the baking hours in advance. That is just not a practical expectation. So I end up trying to “soften it” in the microwave, or on the windowsill, or on the stove while the oven preheats. Spoiler alert: that doesn’t work and sometimes you end up with butter all over your leather couch.

3) Time expectations. Recipes like to predict how long it will take you to make the food. They divide the time into “prep time” and “cooking time.” These estimates are grossly inaccurate. Who makes these predictions? Whatever the predicted time commitment, I end up doubling it, and my oven just sits there preheating for hours wasting valuable energy-bill money.

4) Paddle attachment. My kitchen is small. Counter and cupboard space are at a premium and are usually being used by things like sippy cups and almost (but not completely) empty boxes of cereal. So excuuuuuuuuse me for not owning a standing mixer, EVERY BAKING RECIPE EVER. I don’t have a paddle attachment to gently mix your precious ingredients and you can stop making me feel inadequate about it.

Sometimes I think the food can sense my incompetence. It knows I don't know what I’m doing, so it acts up. It's just like students in a class with a substitute teacher. "She has no idea what ‘julienning’ is, you guys! Quick, while she looks it up on Google let's all burn to the bottom of the pan! Hahahahaha!” 

It’s just a theory.

Clearly I've had several kitchen disasters, but occasionally I am successful and make something delicious. When this happens, I am so amazed with myself that I drive my loved ones crazy saying things like, "This is pretty good, huh?" and  "I made this. From scratch.” and “Did you know you could make salad dressing? I didn't." and "Wow. I can't believe I made this. Like, it was just a bunch of random ingredients and now it's THIS!"

By the time the meal is done, no one will make eye contact with me.

But guys, I am NOT going to give up on my dreams. This birthday cake is going to HAPPEN. It’s going to be GOOD. I am confident and that is why I am using a lot of CAPITAL LETTERS. One day my children will tell their friends "My mom is a good cook. She always makes us delicious birthday cakes from scratch that never have hard chunks of brown sugar in them.”

Mark my words.

Boogedy Boogedy Boo

Does anyone remember the original Disney movie "Mr. Boogedy"? You probably do because it was on TV about 27 years ago.

I don't remember a lot of what I watched on TV in 1986, (Muppet Babies, Jem: She's Truly Outrageous, Adventures of the Gummi Bears, etc.) but I could never forget "Mr. Boogedy." It was supposed to be some kind of kid-friendly Boogeyman story (if that sounds like a stupid idea to you then you are right), and was completely terrifying. I ran an image search and almost wet my pants on the spot:

That guy sure looks kid-friendly! Way to go, Disney! I was going to post the plot summary from Wikipedia, but just reading it made me too scared and I had to stop. When I saw this movie, I didn't sleep for a week. I had to use the guest room so my mom could sleep with me and my screams wouldn't wake up my sister.

This intolerance of scary movies has continued. Sometimes I like to think I can watch them "ironically," like I'm on Mystery Science Theater 3000, but at the end of the day, it's a lie.  Case in point, I was watching TV with friends when "Saw 3" came on. I tried to protest, but they decided it would be "funny" to watch it, because it is so "stupid" and "fake." Ha ha ha, yeah, sure. I'm cool guys. I'm peeing my pants from laughter, not fear! Ha ha. This is so funny!

Admittedly, it was kind of amusing at first. We had some good riffs going on, about how it must have looked when Saw was getting his murder-house all ready: singing to himself, shopping at the Home Depot, working on his little clues ("Does this look like Satan to you? I'm trying to draw Satan, just for this thing I'm doing, and I can't get the nose right ..."). We were laughing, it was fun, and then I went to get ready for bed.

The minute I closed the door to brush my teeth, I saw Saw in the mirror about to murder me. No, really, he was there. I had to go get my husband so he would stand in the bathroom with me. Weirdly, he was annoyed. Oddly, he didn't find my damsel-in-distress act darling and adorable. Not-cool-ly, he told me to stop being a baby and let him go to bed. Big strong man-defender INDEED.

The real point of this post is to tell you never to see "Mr. Boogedy." Take it from me. Also, never see any of the Chucky/Child's Play movies. I saw one scene from one, approximately fifteen years ago, and it basically ruined my life.

Arachnophobia

Have you ever said you hated something, only to hear someone climb up on their very high horse and tell you: “Hate is a very strong word; you shouldn’t say hate."? Have you? Don't you hate that? Me too. Because there are things I hate, strong word or not.

Things I hate (thank you for asking):

1)when people roll their eyes at me

2) nuts in brownies

3) President Lydon B. Johnson

4) bugs in my house

That's it. I'm not a monster. 

For today, I'd like to focus on the bugs. I understand that insects play an important role in our ecosystem, yada yada yada, and I can appreciate that. However, bugs do not do not play an important role in my house.  You might say “What about how spiders? They catch and kill other bugs. Hm? Did you ever think of that? Well did you?” YES I DID THINK OF THAT but again if there weren’t bugs in my house then I wouldn’t need the spiders to make gross webs full of tiny exoskeletons that I need to vacuum up. So I am still right.

Last night I found ants in my basement. Like, many ants. Teeny, tiny ants crawling all over a teeny, tiny crumb of some food that my son probably carried down with him in the teeny, tiny waistband of his 2T sweatpants. Words cannot explain how horrifying I find large amounts of insects all gathered in one place. And because I always tell my students that poetry is a great way to express our feelings when regular language won’t do, here is a poem about the ants in my basement:

Bile slowly rises in my throat

I envision armies of them crawling over my skin

While I sleep

Where I eat

Watching me in the shower

Someone please god help me

Burn this place to the ground

Just call me Emily Dickinson. As you can see, my hatred/fear of bugs in (or near) my home is a serious emotional issue. The earliest nightmares I can remember from childhood involve bugs and rodents. [One famous nightmare I had involved me waking up in the middle of the night and screaming “Chucky Cheese is biting my bottom!” True story.]

This fear stuck with me as I grew. In fact, I have a little quirk called “night terrors” where I wake up and a spider, centipede, or a snake is right above my head. I completely lose my mind, jump up, turn on the light, and by then I am usually awake enough to slowly realize it wasn’t real.  Once I actually broke my toe when I stubbed it running from my bed to the light switch. [Add toe-stubbing to the list of things I hate.] Later, when people would ask why I was limping ... I don’t know, I just felt kind of silly explaining that I did it running from a dream-spider.

Thankfully I now have a lamp next to the bed, and a husband to turn it on for me when I shake him awake crying about a spider on my face. (Just add this to one of the many reasons you wish you were married to a cool, normal person like me.) And as for the title of this post: no, I have never seen the 1990 film "Arachnophobia", and no, that has not prevented it from giving me nightmares.

But seriously, everyone, what am I going to do about these ants in my basement? We'll have to move.

I also hate moving.