Let it be known that my husband and I drove three young children (then aged 6, 3.95, and 1.9) from the state of Maine to the state of Florida:
without sleeping anywhere overnight; and
without iPads or other handheld devices
WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT
YOU EVER DONE THAT
YOU EVER DRIVEN THAT FAR WITH LITTLE KIDS WITHOUT SOME TYPE OF SCREEN-BASED ENTERTAINMENT
NO MOVIES OR SHOWS OR YOUTUBE OR TIKTOK OR VIDEO GAMES OR
Can you believe our accomplishment!? In the year 2025!? A 24+ hour road trip with that many kids and no digital devices? I mean, no digital devices for them. We obviously had our iPhones and used them to entertain ourselves as needed because, you know, that whole “do as I say not as I do” thing.
We meant to bring an iPad for them. I was worried though because one kid was in the third row and the other two were in the middle row, but one was facing forwards and the other backwards. Realistically, one iPad was probably going to create more problems than it solved. How could they all watch something at the same time? But it was at my mom’s house, and I was supposed to pick it up when we dropped off the dog, and I forgot it. So we had three little kids strapped into car seats for over 24 hours, and they didn’t spend a single minute looking at an iPad or phone.
If you think I’m bragging—I AM! THAT’S NUTS! I’m so proud of them. Of us! I mean, they cried plenty. Mostly the littlest one. And the oldest one when we had the nerve to go through a Panda Express drive-thru at 7pm in Georgia (he hates strong smells and the sound of chewing) on the way home.
How did we do it? They had a lot of toys and they ate an insane amount of Dorito’s in the middle of the night and they asked me for things approximately every 14 seconds. Also what is Crayola Model Magic made out of? Cause we definitely destroyed the model magic rainforests of the world with how much model magic those kids blew through.
But we did it! We arrived in Daytona Beach approximately 26 hours after we had set out on our journey. We should have put them on the speedway and let them run a few hundred laps because they were maniacs for the next 4 hours after our arrival, but they did amazingly well all things considered. Damn I love my kids. They’re the best.
And there’s my story. We drove from Maine to Florida without iPads and it is one of my greatest accomplishments to date. The end!
If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that I’m a wheeler and a dealer. A dreamer and a schemer, folks. You got plans? How funny, me too! Let me figure out how to combine them, complicate them, and ultimately ruin the day for both of us.
For example, I bought a bed off Facebook Marketplace a few weeks ago. The seller lived in the next state over. He was originally going to deliver it to my house for a fee but then decided my profile looked too sketchy (I have no friends and no posts because it’s my mom’s fake account that she once used to get into political fights with strangers). I was like fair enough, I do look sketchy, would you meet halfway? He agreed (scheme #1) and we planned to meet up at a Walgreens between us. Why Walgreens? Because I had a bathing suit to mail back and Walgreens is a drop-off location (scheme #2).
The seller and I planned to meet up at 6:30pm, which you may recognize as prime time for dinner. If you’re like me, you may also recognize dinner as one of the devil’s most devious dealings. Is there any daily task more tedious, more exhausting, or more thankless than planning and preparing dinner?! No, is the answer. When we made plans to meet at 6:30, I decided my family should come along and we would get takeout on the way so Curtis and I didn’t have to cook or clean diddly (scheme #3).
We didn’t know where we would get dinner—remember: I’m a schemer, not a planner—but we drove past a pretty hopping seafood joint and I was like, bingo, that’s it. We didn’t decide on it until we’d already driven past it though, so we had to turn around. We ended up pulling into the next business to make a U-turn, and as luck would have it, it was yet another seafood joint. Again, bingo, they looked basically the same to us, so we just decided to eat there instead.
This place we ended up at was called Captain’s Clam Box*. You might be thinking “Hahaha oh damn, that poor restauranteur didn’t know what they was doing when they called their restaurant Captain’s CLAM BOX. Probably just wanted to sell some wholesome boxes of clams!” Except the restaurant also has a clam mascot named SQUIRT, and that dirty old restauranteur knew exactly what they were doing.
“Clam” and “box” are both slang for vagina, if you weren’t aware. You’re on your own if you don’t know why the name of this mascot is meaningful though. I ain’t explaining that.
I’m not one for pachinko themed restaurants, but we were already there and it was busy enough, so I figured the food would be fine. We placed our order, hold the clams, and took a seat to wait. Five minutes passed, then ten, and we realized I’d need to leave to meet the Facebook fella at Walgreens. I decided to take the van and leave my husband at the restaurant with the kids, except two of the three kids demanded to come with me, so I ended up leaving Curtis and the eldest child at the Clam Box (scheme #4).
We got to Walgreens and made the Facebook bed exchange. It took a while because I had to put the bed on the roof of my van and all that. Then of course I had to go into Walgreens to try to return my bathing suit, however I’m dumb and didn’t print the label. Mildly annoying. But you know what was more than mildly annoying? When we got back to my van and the DUMBASS WOULDN’T START.
I don’t mean to trash talk, but my van really is a dumbass. Mostly because the trunk—which is not automatic, even though the sliding doors are—only opens up, I don’t know, three feet. I don’t know the technical way to measure for this, but let’s figure my van has approximately -27 (that’s negative two seven) units of head clearance. Please, I beg you, try to open the back of my dumb stupid fucking van and not give yourself a concussion.
Back to Walgreens—my van wouldn’t start because the battery was dead for the second time in two days. Really should have calculated that small issue into my scheming. I flagged down the only other people in the parking lot and asked them to help. They were willing, so they pulled into the spot next to me and we hooked up the batteries.
My battery was dead dead and needed to be hooked up for several minutes before it would start again. So while the batteries were doing their thing, I made harmless small talk with the people who were helping me.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I would have been in trouble if you guys weren’t here! My husband’s stranded at a restaurant without a car right now. I dropped him off on the way here.”
“Oh man!” my rescuers said. “What restaurant is he at?”
“He’s eating out down at the Clam Box. You ever hear of it?”
A beat passed. “Um, yeah. Captain’s. We like it there.”
Turns out the locals don’t refer to it as THE CLAM BOX, just Captain’s. I was very embarrassed and ruined the evening for myself, my husband (he hates all schemes), and those fine strangers.
*The real restaurant is called someone else’s Clam Box, but I didn’t want this to show up if they had a Google alert set up or something.
Today we woke up and watched a couple hours of cartoons. We had pancakes and smoothies for breakfast and guacamole and chips for snack. Then Curtis dropped the older kids and me off at a birthday party while he took the baby to the grocery store. At the party, we ate pizza and cake and the kids played on a mermaid water slide. They had a blast! Curtis picked us up a few hours later. On the drive home, we stopped at the river so he could run a quick errand—reel in the rotting bear skull he’d dropped in at the beginning of the week. He forgot a bucket but fortunately we had a reusable grocery bag in the van, so he stuck the skull in there and threw it in the back. We made it about a quarter of a mile down the road before we had to pull over because the smell was so potent, so reminiscent of rotting flesh and fresh diarrhea, that we were all gagging and it was unsafe to drive any further. Curtis tied it on my roof instead. The skull made it home safely, thank goodness. Unfortunately, however, Curtis found that “most of its best teeth” had fallen out, so he only boiled it in his cauldron for a few minutes before abandoning the whole endeavor. The entire yard still smells like shit.
I’ve really been hyping up my colonoscopy to you guys. I’ve mentioned it twice already! Yet every time I go to write something about it, I struggle. You’d think that 24 hours of pooping chartreuse buttjuice and then paying a highly educated stranger thousands of dollars to fish a camera up my bunghole would make for a good story, but alas. Really ain’t too much to say about it.
Tale as old as time Poo that feels like pee Nowhere close to friends Then the doctor bends Camera in booty
Just a little pinch Then you’ll fall asleep WAIT I’M STILL AWAKE HEY DOC I’M STILL AWAKE Booty and the cheeks
Never just the same Ever a surprise Never as before And never just as pure At least I didn’t cry Oh Oh
I was going to stop there. Should I keep going? What else is there to do on a regular workday with kids at home??
Tale as old as time (ooh ooh) Poop so bright and loose Hemorrhoids and gas Shooting out my ass Leaving trails of juice
OK I’ll stop now. That is foul.
TALE AS OLD AS TIME POOP SO BRIGHT AND LOOSE BOOTY AND THE CHEEKS
I often forget that this shows up in some people’s email inboxes. You’re just going about your normal day when you hear a little ding and then suddenly THIS. I’m sorry.
Anyway, yes, I did somehow stay awake during the procedure despite the drugs. What a humbling experience, to lie down in a room with three other people and watch—on multiple screens!—as a camera approaches your own white, flaccid butt cheeks.
I didn’t mind though (I’m sure the fentanyl helped). I felt so light afterwards! In part because of the colonscopy prep—an entire bottle of Miralax and some liquid magnesium citrate will do that to anyone, I think—but also because I’d been stressing about bloody TP for years and I needed some reassurance that my bowels were cool. We’re just working with some hemorrhoids and fissures, y’all!
Health anxiety (née hypochondria) really is one of the dumbest mental illnesses around, ain’t it? They all suck, to be sure, but can you name another mental illness that can give you instant diarrhea because you remembered a raccoon *might have* brushed against your husband’s leg a year ago????
That’s right, y’all!! I once spiraled into diarrheal distress because I had an epiphany that the weird ass raccoon that was trying to break into Curtis’s grandfather’s memorial lunch walked too close to him and maybe gave him rabies.
Wait, what? You’re confused? What’s confusing about a weird ass raccoon crashing Curtis’s grandfather’s funeral? I don’t get it.
Just kidding. Let me explain. Two winters ago, we were at Curtis’s aunt’s house for a lunch after his grandfather’s funeral. We were all hanging out, enjoying our Maine Italian sandwiches—or as out-of-staters call them, “salads on hot dog buns”—when someone suddenly shouted, “THERE’S A RACCOON AT THE DOOR!” And um, yup, lo and behold there was a raccoon tap-tap-tappin’ away at the glass front door.
The thing about Curtis’s family is, they simply will not leave a raccoon to its own devices. Raccoon comes knocking on THEIR door? Oh hell yeah, they’re gonna go outside and see just what the fuck its problem is. So that’s what they did. They all sprinted outside in their Sunday best and started chasing down a goddamned raccoon.
And you know what its problem was? Well, folks, it was effed up. It for sure had rabies, plus several porcupine quills sticking out its butt. I’m not trying to make fun of the poor thing, it’s just, why mince words? It was totally effed up. Not in good shape, not long for this world.
Curtis and his family are people of the woods. When they see a clearly rabid, fatally injured raccoon trying to break down a front door, they’re gonna do what needs to be done—which is, of course, to euthanize it. A .22 rifle materialized out of thin air and they tried to put the raccoon out of its misery. And when I say “they,” I obviously mean “the men.” The gals and I were all inside, frantically dialing animal control and yelling at the dumbasses boys to get away from it.
Curtis in his natural habitat.
They didn’t listen. And in fact, the raccoon ran between Curtis’s legs at one point. Or maybe it just brushed against one of his legs. I’m not sure which, and I’m not even positive it actually made contact with his pants. Nevertheless, a year later, the puzzle pieces in my brain finally snapped together.
Rabid raccoon + Physical contact = Rabid man????
No, not rabid man. He did not have rabies. Does not have rabies, as far as I know. But tell that to a hypochondriac with access to the internet (“what is the incubation period for rabies?” “rabies symptoms” “can you get rabies even if you don’t get bitten?”).
Fortunately, after 24 hours of irrational stress and interrogations (“did it touch your pants? DID IT TOUCH YOUR PANTS? ANSWER ME, YES OR NO!!!!!!”), logic kicked in and I remembered Curtis wasn’t bitten, slobbered on, or scratched and couldn’t possibly have rabies.
So all’s well that end’s well. And as for the raccoon, one of Curtis’s cousins fired off a round at it. It stumbled, collapsed, then rolled over, GOT UP, and trudged off into the horizon, never to be seen again.
(At least by us. Hopefully animal control took care of it. I love animals too but shit, no one wants a rabid raccoon knocking at their door!)
—
A few footnotes—
This was supposed to be a blog about my colonoscopy. I really was just going to casually mention the raccoon incident with a line or two and continue on my merry way until I realized that youse might need a bit more backstory.
I also go through waves of crippling fear that our adopted shelter cat, who bites the shit out of us—and in fact just did so to me about 30 seconds ago—could have rabies (he is vaccinated!!! and displays no symptoms! still a little scared though tbh).
WordPress has an AI tool that helps writers improve their blog titles. I am, in the depths of my core, vehemently opposed to using AI. But I’m also curious and just wanted to see what garbage they’d suggest for this one. The first and last one suck but, well, Confronting Hypochondira: When Fear Leads to Diarrhea might just win a Pulitzer.
I logged in today because I want to blog more regularly. I know I’ve said that before but this time I’m really gonna try—I read some article about staving off Alzheimer’s and it said that people who have more analytic/complex jobs are better off. My job isn’t at all analytic and neither is this blog obviously HAHA but look, here I am talking about staving! That’s a hell of a word! You go, brain.
Anyway, I logged in and was greeted with this great big banner about making money off my blog. I write about throbbing hemorrhoids, saggin tiddies, regenerating pachinkos—imagine me asking someone to pay me for that??? Criminal.
Collect payments in exchange for details about your skin issues and inverted nips!!!!
In conclusion, I am not going to try to monetize this trash blog. However, I am going to bring you some more quality content. Potential forthcoming blog topics include:
A few weeks ago my brother-in-law, Matt, sent me a link to MrMoneyMustache.com. It’s a blog written by a “freaky financial magician who retired along with a lovely wife at ago 30.”
In his “Start here” post, Mr. Money Mustache (MMM) says if you can save 50-75% of your paychecks, then you’ll be able to retire real quick. The best way to cut costs, says he, is by not buying crap. Luxury and pampering, says he again, is for pansy ass bitches who drive when alls they really need is a bikecycle and some facial hair.
Well, I’ve got me a tricked-out bikecycle, a few black hag hairs on my chin/neck/upper lip, and I’ve read about six of the MrMoneyMustache.com posts. Plus, I saved 37% of my last paycheck — nearly 50 whole dollars! I figure I’m five years or less from retiring.
And, although I’m looking forward to my retirement, I’m not looking forward to giving up crap. I like crap. You should see the crap I’ve collected over the years! Mini skateboards! Snorkels! Studded boots! Bachelor’s degrees!
Beyond saving money, MMM teaches his readers how to solve problems. I’m proud to say that I’ve figured out a way to save money and keep my crap. You get other people to buy your crap. All it takes is:
Caring friends and family. These are the people who will buy you things.*
A healthy dose of not-giving-a-shiz. By not giving a shiz, you’re committing yourself to dressing poorly and being dirty. Then, the people who care about you will feel bad and/or be embarrassed to know you, and they’ll buy you things to make you less smelly/filthy/rat-like.
There is, however, a fine line between the salvageable and the hopeless, and you’ve got to walk it carefully. If you ever become hopelessly careless, people will give up on you and leave you to your armpit stains and dirt feet. For instance, I have an uncle who keeps a skunk for a pet. The skunk’s name is Francis, and he lives under my uncle’s front porch and eats his leftovers. The same uncle wears hats found on the side of the road and decorates them with feathers and Dunkin’ Donut straws. His name is Uncle Jellyfish.
Uncle Jellyfish don’t care, and nobody tryna make him.
How to barely care just enough:
Let your butt crack run wild. Have at least one to two inches of butt crack exposed at all times. If you’re in a setting where you can’t crack your crack, like school or work, wear very high underpants and bend over a lot. Exposed underpants is only one step up from butt cracking.
Keep your pits stanky fresh. If you’re lucky like me, then your pits stay ripe all the damn day long, deodorant or not. If deodorant actually works for you, then you’ll have to give it up. Work hard to leave yellow stains in your clothes. Go a week or two without shaving. Flail your arms. Dance like Tiffany.
Wear your parents’ old clothes. Go through the old bureaus in your house. Dig through them until you find your parents’ old T-shirts. When you find them, try them on to make sure they’re baggy and have bleach stains and mouse holes.
Walk hard. Actually, no. Don’t walk hard. Stomp hard. Stomp like a mothereffer.
And there you go. That’s all it takes.
Case study:
Since age 11, my butt crack has never not been showing and my pits have never not been sweating.
Two of my four favorite T-shirts are my mom’s from the ‘70s. My other two favorites are my dad’s from the same decade. I’ve worn them to Fourth of July parties, Thanksgiving, Christmas, dates, and dinners with long lost friends. I would have worn them to Disney World, too, except the one time I tried my sister yelled at me.
I also stomp hard. I don’t do it on purpose, I’m just enormous and extremely sensitive to gravity. I also have Haglund’s deformity, which means I have cowboy spurs built into my heel bones. Shoes hurt, so I often have to walk funny to compensate for the pain. As a result, I go through shoes quickly.
Pedicurists love me
What’s so special about that? You see butt cracks, stinkpits, old T-shirts, and busted shoes everyday. However, when you combine them together and throw in a pinch of family love, what was everyday becomes eXtRaOrDiNaRy.
Other than my dad, no one in my family can look at me without making a comment about how poorly dressed and/or smelly I am. Take, for instance, these comments made by my mom. The first is from October 8, 2012, the second from September 11, 2013.
And you know what my mom did after she made those comments?
She offered me her phone, too. I ain’t ask for it.
Every pair of shoes I own were given to me from people who pitied my footwear. Same thang goes for my work clothes.
I get upgraded.
(Those hoop earrings are bracelets taped to my ears.)
(AND YEAH IT’S A COLD SORE, SO?)
*If you don’t have caring friends and family, then I’m sorry. That’s sad and you deserve them.** Maybe I can be a caring friend. I can’t buy you things, because I’m trying to retire, but we can go for bike rides and talk over free coffee and tic tac containers of toenails.
**I don’t actually know if you deserve them or not, I’m just assuming that you do. If you’re evil and mean, then you don’t deserve them. No wonder you don’t have caring friends or family! Quit being so terrible!
I locked my keys in my car for the first time last week. I got my Vibe gently used from Enterprise the car renters back in oh-five. When they handed over the first set of keys I snatched em from them real quick — never even bothered to ask for a second set. Never bothered to make a second set neither. Dat’s a mistake.
Last week when I realized I locked my keys in my car I called AAA. Within 25 minutes a teeny tiny triple-A-battery of a man had popped lock n dropped it (the car key) into my hand. Dude shoved a little wedge in the door crack, stuck a rubber pouch in the resulting gap, pumped it up, snaked a hella long rubber coated metal stick in the new, bigger gap, and unlocked my car. I was impressed and would’ve tipped him but 1) I ain’t had no money; 2) I was still bitter about the time one of his AAA colleagues guilted me into tipping him.
A year and a half ago
I went out in Portland. I spent the night dranking dranks, spit drooling, walking down cobblestone streets while rapping Snoop Dogg songs with a truck driving stranger, and eating chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. Needless to say, I did not spend the night driving myself home. Instead, I changed into a T-shirt I had in my car and spent the night in the guestroom at my friends’, Katie and Tyler’s, crib.
Even though I’ve been friends with Katie since college orientation and I once saw Tyler naked, I’m uncomfortable about being awake in their house while they’re still asleep.
Every time I sleep over their house I wake up at 5:30, poop a couple of times, mooch some gummy bear vitamins, clean their sink, write a stupid note on a piece of cardboard, and steal one of their books. On this particular morning I stole Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I read it until about 8:00 am, at which point I decided I’d hung out alone in their house long enough. I left.
On the ride home I got a flat tire. I thought “Oooh, today ain’t yo day,” pulled over, and dialed up AAA. They told me they’d be there within half an hour, but to keep my phone on in case they needed directions. My phone had less than 10% battery life and, having never learned my lesson about keeping a car charger, I had to save its life by not using it. Instead, I whipped out Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and got to reading.
I learned incredibly quickly that this book was about extremely sad things. Namely 9/11, World War II bombings, and lost loved ones. It had me tearing up in no time.
Coincidentally I was also tearing it up — “it” being my car seats. My farts were straight storming. Come to think of it, I don’t know if my eyes were watering because the book was sad or my car was just so stanked up. Either way, when the big, black, muscley AAA man arrived, he was welcomed by a very emotional girl in a very smelly car.
He looked surprised that I was reading a book. I was like, “Bitch you ain’t no nerd? I coulda sworn you was.” He told me he wasn’t, and that he mostly only liked fixing flat tires and shopping. Then he got to work.
When he opened the trunk to get out the donut tire, I could tell by the face he made that he was thinking “WHAT THAT SMELL LIKE?”
Ten minutes later, after he’d finished replacing the flat, I could tell he was still thinking “WHAT THAT SMELL LIKE?”
Self conscious from all his questioning, I looked down. Suddenly everything made sense. He wanted to know what that smell like because the black T-shirt I was wearing — the one I’d drunkenly pulled out of my car and slept in the night before — had “WHAT THAT SMELL LIKE?” written in huge white letters.
I had to ask my dad to take this picture. It was embarrassing.
I gave the dude $10 – five for the farts, five for the decency of not answering what that smelled like.
I ran cross country throughout high school. I was one of the best on the team, so coach had me practicing two-a-days, running up to seven or eight miles per session. With that much training, it doesn’t take long before toenails start falling off.
JK I’M MESSIN’ — that ain’t how it happened at all. Of course I didn’t lose my toenail because I was running too hard! The only thing I was known for on my cross country team was complaining and my famous Allie jog — a gait that, thanks to bad posture and a disproportionately long torso, made it look like I was jogging when I was really just walking. I don’t think I ever even sweat during cross country practice, let alone ran hard enough to lose a toenail. Come on, son.
It was because of cross country that I lost a toenail, though. Sophomore year my friend Sarah, a cross country teammate who also hated running, invited me over after practice to go swimming in her pool. Since my hatred for running is only trumped by my love for frolicking in bodies of water, I accepted her invitation.
Sarah was going to ride the after school bus to my house and then her mom would pick us up from there. Her mom was already there by the time we got off the bus, so I had to run inside and throw my bathing suit on real quick. Since I also had to go to the bathroom, I decided the best use of my time would be to change and pee simultaneously.
Clothes changing on the toilet is difficult in the best circumstances, but it becomes especially difficult when you’re in a rush to squeeze into your tankini (the two piece bathing suit for modest, blubbery young girls). Add a set of poorly maintained toenails into the mix and what was once difficult becomes dangerous.
In my haste to change into my tankini while on the toilet, my big toenail got caught while I was yanking up my bottoms and torn most of the way off. That toe got to’ up from the flo’ up.
As a side note, I never ended up going swimming in Sarah’s pool on account of the blood and the freshly torn flesh.
2. Save that toenail.
Losing that toenail turned out to be an incredible gift. Not only did it get me out of cross country practice for a couple of days, but since it only got ripped off three quarters of the way, the rotting skin that still clung to the nail did wonders for my social life. The smell of human decomposition both masked my B.O. and attracted lots of flies everywhere I went. In fact, in the middle of class I once had three flies land on my festering toe all at once. I’d never been so popular in all my life!
Those flies did good work, too. It only took a couple of days before they ate the remaining flesh and the toenail finally fell clean off.
Approximately 1/16th of nail had pink polish on it. Not wanting to lose a symbol of my femininity, I put the toenail someplace safe. I opted for an empty tic tac container I had in my backpack.
3. Pretend your toenail is a tic tac.
When shaken inside a tic tac container, a toenail sounds remarkably like a tic tac. Before class, I’d often take the tic tac container out of my bag, give it a little shake, and offer it to friends. Ten times out of ten, the people I offered it to would accept. I never really gave it to them — I’d just laugh, show them that the tic tac was a toenail, and be on my way.
The only time I actually dumped the toenail into a person’s hand was with my acquaintance/friend Curtis. I asked if he wanted a tic tac, he said yes and stuck out his hand, and I filled his palm with my torn, mangled toenail. The laughs we had!
Today is my sister Chris’s birthday. She’s good at giving gifts.
Members of my family often tell me that I’m gross. From my T-shirts to toenails, armpits to hag hairs, they like to point out that I am, essentially, a walking trash can. It doesn’t bother me because it’s true; I kind of am a walking trash can, and I’m cool widdit.
My go-to outfit.
The nice thing about Chris, though, is that while she certainly teases me about my stained, hole-ridden outfits, she actually tries to help me look a little less disgusting. Whereas other siblings and siblings-in-law give me books full of awkward pet family photos or instructions on understanding rap lyrics (gifts that are still very much appreciated!), Chris gives very practical gifts. Come holidays, I can count on Chris to give me a pair of casual sneakers, some T-shirts, a couple cardigans, etc.
In return, I’d like to give her something equally practical — a blog about her favorite hobby: Scaring people.
One. Chris holds a pretty fancy title at a pretty fancy college in Pennsylvania. Like all good first-born children, Chris is a boss. I don’t know how many, but she got some peeps working under her.
During work one day, one of these peeps — a woman in her 60s, I’d guess — left her desk to go to the bathroom. Chris, realizing it was a perfect opportunity, decided to scare her. My then-31-year-old, mother-of-a-toddler, professional sister went into her employee’s office and crawled under her desk. She waited there several minutes, crouched under a desk, until her employee returned and sat down. Then she scared the 60-year-old shiz out of that 60-year-old.
Two. Chris and her husband, Matt, took me on a dope ass trip when I was studying abroad in Spain. They came during my spring break and took me to Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Austria, and Liechtenstein (I told you – she good at giving gifts. So’s Matt).
When we went to Austria, we walked up a big ole hill in order to get to a big ole castle. During the descent from the castle, I got separated from Matt and Chris. I was looking for them when I passed an elderly babushka* lady wearing rags, carrying a basket, and muttering to the cat that was following behind her.
After we passed each other, I could tell that the babushka lady had not only stopped walking, but had also turned around to watch me. I associate every European country with Dracula, witches, and gypsies (rightly so), so I immediately thought she was cursing me. Seriously. I honest-to-goodness believed this lady was putting the hex on me. After a few more steps, I learned that she was actually just waiting for a good show. Chris and Matt were hiding behind a stone wall (in order to jump out and scare me) and lady was hoping to get in on it.
Three. My family and I spent Thanksgiving 2010 at our cousins’ house in Down East Maine. My parents and other two sisters came up for the day but Chris, Matt, our cousin Petey, and I decided to spend the night up there. Our cousins’ neighbors were out of town and had said we could stay at their house.
Down East Maine is a lovely place, but there’s really not much around. The house where we were staying was down a long dirt road and surrounded by nothing except trees.
A whole heckuva lot of trees.
At one point my cousin Petey mentioned how it’d be an awesome setting for a scary movie — an ideal place for a serial killer to sneak in your house and murder you bad. Chris and Matt, of course, drew inspiration from that.
Petey and I called it a night earlier than anyone else. We headed out to our isolated cabin in the woods, pulled out the sleeper sofa, put Moulin Rouge on the TV, and fell asleep immediately. Shortly thereafter we were woken up.
It’s hard to articulate how horrifying it is to be awakened in the middle of the night and in the middle of the woods by people breaking into your house wearing hoodies and shaking milk jugs full of chains. Imagine honestly believing that you’re going to be murdered in the most painful way possible. That’s what it was like.
I didn’t know I was capable of screaming as loudly as I screamed that night. It was a full-on, bout-to-be-disemboweled, terror scream — far louder than anything I’ve ever heard in a horror movie. And it was all thanks to my sweet scary sister and her husband.
Happy birthday, Chris — love you!
*I also love using the word “Babushka”, apparently.
classygallie 