Scaredy Cat

I am not at all ashamed to admit my fears.

I am afraid of many things, too. Several of which, I’m sure I’ve mentioned before – mascots, water I can’t see the bottom of, giant spiders, clowns (who isn’t), height-challenged monsters carrying axes or bats who will chase me around trying to kill me. Man, I really have some issues.

Of course, the biggest fear I have is one that many of you have, although many people are reluctant to admit it, lest they be perceived as childish. But I am not ashamed to admit it. I will stand here atop my soap box and loudly proclaim it. I, MINDY KINNAMAN, AM AFRAID OF THE DARK.

I mean, come on, it’s where the height-challenged monsters with axes and bats hide. And the giant spiders. Well, according to the internet, the giant spiders also live in Australia.

Shudder.

Now, I’m not so afraid of the dark that I need to sleep with the lights on or have a night light. Seriously, I wear a sleep mask to bed, in addition to sleeping with a pillow lying atop my face (ironically, I need it to be incredibly dark if I am to sleep comfortably). I just don’t like to be up and moving around when there is no light.

For instance, as a child, after watching the movie Troll, which haunts me to this day, I was terrified that this weird Sonny Bono-esque troll would come out of the woods behind my house and try to kill me if I ever had to walk outside at night (hence my fear of height-challenged monsters with axes and bats).

Or the time in high school, while at a friend’s bonfire, when someone got that insane idea to play hide and seek in the darkened woods. I clutched on to a friend for dear life and made everyone swear not to abandon me. I would have curled up into a pee-soaked ball of Mindy and cried myself to death had they left me behind.

And then there was this past Friday night.

Sigh.

It was bad.

I had gone to the bathroom. Jeff had been in the living room playing around with Nevaeh, who was agitated because the neighbor’s cat dared walk into our yard, which was her territory (not that Nevaeh had ever been in our yard). What I didn’t know was that, when Jeff was done, he turned out the light and then headed back into the den to finish watching “The Dead Files,” which we had been watching together.

When I finished in the bathroom, I turned off the light, then opened the door to head back out to the living room with Jeff and Nevaeh. When I opened the door, it was pitch black between the darkness of the bathroom and the darkness of the hallway, thanks to Jeff having turned off the living room light (the den is on the far side of the house, so no light had made it up to where I was). My brain only thought, “BLACK! WHY IS IT BLACK? OH MY GOD! IT’S BLACK! THE POWER IS OUT! THERE ARE MONSTERS! I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!!!”

I screamed, “IT’S DARK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” then slammed the door shut.

Yeah, I slammed the door, retreating away from the dark into a darkened room. I get the lack of logic there. My brain didn’t. It just wanted to run away from the dark and hide. Into the dark.

Poor Jeff. He didn’t know what the heck was going on. One second everything was quiet, and the next his girlfriend was cowering in the bathroom, sobbing about the dark. Even after I explained it, he still didn’t get it.

And honestly, neither do I.

Go me.

April Fools Day? More like April Fears Day!

If you know anything about me, you know that I am not a fan of April Fools Day. It makes no sense, really, as I love playing pranks. Note, I said playing, not having them played on me. Because that is why I am not a fan of April Fools Day. I blame it on three things: my mom, my sister and retribution.

It all starts on March 31, 2008. At the time, I was living with my mom in a small, suburban house. April Fools Day was only hours away, and I was struggling to come up with a prank that would show my prank-loving mom that I could hold court with her. So I called the one person I knew who could out-prank anyone, my sister Brandy, the Queen of Pranks. 

This is the same Brandy from “Why’s Everybody Always Picking On Me?” She spends a major portion of her days scheming up ways she can scare the bejeebus out of people. Her pranks are legendary. Just ask anyone who ever had to crawl under her house with her to check on the pipes. When they nearly crapped their pants after hearing the guttural gargle from The Grudge, Brandy would just cackle with delight. So, she was the perfect person with whom I could scheme.

Together, we came up with three pranks to pull on my mom. The first was cheesy. I left a message for Mom stating that she needed to call a Mr. Lion. The number, when dialed, would call The Kansas City Zoo. 

Yeah, go ahead and groan. Like I said, it was cheesy. And sadly, she never got to this prank, because my other two pranks came together first.

The second prank seems harmless, but in a way, it was pretty smart. I rearranged a few letters on my mom’s computer keyboard. See, Mom is a hunter and pecker, meaning that she hasn’t memorized where the computer keys are. She searches out the letter she needs, then stabs away at it, slowly typing in whatever she needed. 

In this case, I swapped the letter S for T, the letter E for H, and the letter X for E. Yeah, S-E-X for T-H-E. In the wee hours of the morning, when she got home from working overnight, Mom tried to log into her computer. She never made it.

Annoyed that she couldn’t log on to her computer, Mom decided to call it a night. Before heading off to bed, she made one last stop. And that was the site of prank number three.

See, Brandy had come up with this idea that sounded hilarious at the time. Had I thought it through, I probably would be okay with April Fools. Mom would have played a small prank on me, but I would have laughed it off. But I didn’t, so she didn’t.

No, Brandy suggested that I coat the seat of the toilet in Icy Hot.

God, I can’t ever write those words without shuddering in terror. I may have some nightmares tonight.

I laughed. It would be funnier and less messy than plastic wrap over the toilet seat.

Or so I thought.

See, my mom went to the bathroom somewhere around 5 a.m. Being tired, she didn’t turn the lights on. She just sat down.

On the ring of fire.

You see, Icy Hot on regular skin burns. Icy Hot on your nether regions feels like the fiery flames of hell have been unleashed, along with the flames of a million suns, on your most sensitive of areas. 

Or so I’m told.

When I woke up, Mom was already asleep. But not for long. When I went to work, Mom decided that she, too, would call upon the Queen of Pranks. And Brandy, being the diabolical genius that she is, made no mention of the fact that she was in on the joke. Instead, she gave my mom an idea that haunts me to this day.

I was working at The Kansas City Star at the time. Right around lunch, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered it anyway.

Trust me, I regret doing that.

A female voice on the other end explained that she was with a debt collection agency. My father had signed up for a cell phone through Verizon and ran up several thousands of dollars. And my name was also on the bill, even though I hadn’t spoken to my dad in about 10 years at the time (it’s a habit my dad was known for – he ruined both of my brothers’ credit before they were even old enough to ruin their own). If I didn’t pay the bill, the woman explained, I would be sued. The woman made it very clear that it didn’t matter whether or not my dad had forged my name (again, something he was known for), I would pay that debt back.

Now, as you know, I’m a bit of a goody goody. The idea of being sued scared the ever-loving crap out of me. The idea that something I had no knowledge of could ruin me started the tears a-falling. I broke down sobbing. The woman on the phone demanded payment, something that I couldn’t really do making $10 an hour and only working 35 hours a week. She said she would call back and then hung up.

By that point, I had left the office and was sitting outside crying. 

And then the lightbulb went on.

I called my mom’s cell phone. As soon as she picked up, I managed to choke out the words, “Please tell me that was a joke!” There may have been cussing. I’m human after all. 

“That’s what you get,” she replied. She explained that Brandy’s best friend had been the debt collector (she was a debt collector in real life, which is why she sounded so authentic). I thought about turning on Brandy, but I didn’t, because I couldn’t have that evil genius looking for revenge.

I’m actually scared recounting this story, because I’m sure that, even though 8 years have passed, my mom’s crotch may still be on fire. I think I’m going to go join Witness Protection now.

Did I Learn Anything in 2012??

While 2012 started out on the sucktacular side, it ended up pretty spiffilicious. Seriously, I went from being horribly depressed to having wacky dating adventures, finishing a novel, meeting HBJ (the hottest guy I know!) and just having some darn good fun in the process. In all, I’d count the year as a success just based on those things alone, but as I like to reflect upon the previous year’s hilarity, I figured I’d give you a look at what all I learned over the past 12 months. So sit back, relax, loosen your belt and prepare to laugh.

  • I am more than a bit obsessed with Funko dolls, amassing a collection that includes Freddie Krueger, Michael Meyers, Jason Vorhees, Leatherface, Beetlejuice, Sally, Jack Skellington, the Mayor, Edward Scissorhands, two Captain Americas and Edna Mode. They are amazingtastic.
  • My cat has now taken to guarding my pajamas from ebil.
  • Battlestar Galactica is the bomb-diggity, yo.
  • Krampus is as Krampus does.
  • Apple’s “will fit your ears” earbuds do not fit my ears.
  • Batman has satisfied me.
  • I heart Tarder Sauce, aka Grumpy Cat.
  • Ermagerd, Gersberms.
  • Adam Scott is still hot.
  • Nic Cage is the greatest actor in the history of ever.
  • Adding cherry vanilla flavoring to NyQuil only means it tastes like cherry vanilla-flavored devil juice.
  • You can actually have hot chocolate that does not taste like hot chocolate.
  • Even at the age of 33, it is still possible for me to fall out of bed.
  • Chocolate soda is nowhere near as awesome as it sounds.
  • I have a crush on Neil Degrasse Tyson.
  • It’s Obama’s fault that I miss Suzie and no longer live in Texas.
  • If Oprah described War Horse: YOU get a death scene! And YOU get a death scene! YOU get a death scene! EVERYBODY GETS DEATH SCENES!!!
  • Little baby people don’t have sideburns. They have to grow them when they’re older. But if your little baby already has sideburns, that’s awesome. Don’t be concerned.
  • Also, two beavers are better than one. They’re twice the fun. Ask anyone.
  • It’s good to be a geek.
  • My new apartment is haunted by a polite ghost who writes hello in the mirror, knocks on the door and folds socks.
  • I English good.
  • The idea of playing defense in softball is to catch the ball with your glove. Not with your mouth. Not with your bare hand.
  • Just because you’re 33 doesn’t mean you can’t have a Captain America-themed birthday party.
  • Teddy Roosevelt is a BAMF.
  • While lemon in your Coke is delicious, drinking Coke right after eating a lemon granola bar leaves you feeling as though you drank dish soap.
  • You can burn your eye with shrimp if your Japanese steakhouse chef has bad aim.
  • Rainbows taste like bacon.
  • I can blame Spiderman for all my problems.
  • I apparently dated a pirate.
  • Harry Potter Puppet Pals are even more amazing live.
  • All you need is love and a cat.
  • Zombie burgers are soooooooo good!
  • I cannot listen to the beginning of “Somebody that I Used to Know” without singing my ABCs.
  • The greatest meme in the history of memes is Thor learning to text.
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  • Do not, under any circumstance, make Oprah angry.
  • I’m about as big of a Tommy Lee Jones fan as you can get, but there is not enough fandom in the world to get me to see a movie about him and Meryl Streep trying to have sex. Ever.
  • Squats are a tool of the devil.
  • Mrs. Captain America does have a nice ring to it.
  • I have witnessed with my own eyes that it is possible to eat a bowl of cereal while driving.
  • My dentist is the devil.
  • Ten years later, Suzie and I can still tear up the River Walk. And it’s still Cleavage Friday.
  • I can touch my nose!

Honestly, I learned so many awesome things. This is really just scratching the surface, but man was it fun. And so, I leave you now with what’s pushing me to learn some more awesome things in 2013. Enjoy!

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Bully!

Teddy Roosevelt
BAMF fo sho.

No, not the kid who takes your lunch money or that diabolical girl next door who knows exactly who to make you cry. I’m talking that cry often said by one of the greatest men in U.S. history, Teddy BAMF Roosevelt.

If you’re one of my friends, or a member of my quiz bowl team, you know that I adore Teddy Roosevelt. I mention him quite often, though not as often as I may mention a certain Steve Rogers, aka Captain America.  There’s even a photo of him currently hanging on the Wall of Awesome in my office. Teddy, I mean.

Because the man is seriously awesome.

So, what makes our 26th President a BAMF? I shall enlighten you and hopefully make you a convert to my Teddy Roosevelt Appreciation Society.

First off, if you aren’t sure who Teddy is, he’s a fifth cousin of another Roosevelt – Franklin D. Roosevelt, the longest serving President. But I’d argue that Teddy is the way more awesome cousin, though FDR was pretty darn cool himself, especially seeing how he got us out of the Great Depression and most of the way through World War II. 

But I digress.

Teddy accomplished many awesome things in his life, and his achievements are legendary. Now, I’m not going to write you a biography. Instead, I hope to inspire you to run out and learn more. So here are my personal favorite reasons why he’s a BAMF (in no particular order):

  • At the age of seven, he and two cousins created the Roosevelt Museum of Natural History and he taught himself rudimentary taxidermy to preserve his specimens.
  • Speaking of history, he was considered to be a serious historian after publishing his first book The Naval War of 1812
  • You know he was President, Vice-President and even Governor of New York. Did you know he was a deputy sheriff in the Dakota Territory, New York City Police Commissioner or Assistant Secretary of the Navy?
  • Youngest man to ever be President, assuming office after President William McKinley was assassinated. Take that JFK!
  • If you wanted to talk policy with President Roosevelt, you first had to fight him in Judo. That’s right. Fight him in Judo. Awesome.
  • He was considered an authority on American mammals, and he led scientific expeditions for animals in South America and Africa.
  • He was a big game hunter – yes, we all know this. But did you know he was a rancher in the Badlands of the Dakotas?
  • He wrote more than 35 books and on many occasions, would read a book a day. Along with Thomas Jefferson, Teddy is known as one of the most well-read presidents.
  • As President, he designated 150 National Forests, 51 Federal Bird Reservations, 5 National Parks, 18 National Monuments, 4 National Game Preserves and 21 Reclamation Projects.
  • Oh, and don’t forget getting the building of the Panama Canal rolling.
  • Won the Nobel Peace Prize (which only 2 other Presidents have won – Carter and Obama) for negotiating the end of the Russo-Japanese War.
  • He’s the reason we have meat inspections – thank you, baby Jesus!
  • Teddy was friends with F.O. Stanley, founder of the Stanley Hotel (you know, the haunted hotel that inspired Stephen King to write The Shining). When visiting Stanley in Estes Park, CO, Teddy would have a friend dress up as a bear to block the mountain pass and scare the guests.
  • His nickname was Teedie.
  • He hated the name Teddy, calling it “an outrageous impertinence.” Whoops!
  • Who was the first President to be seen riding in a car in public? That’s right!
  • And he is the reason why we have the White House Press Room.
  • He had a son named Kermit.
  • Yes, Virginia, teddy bears are named after Teedie.
  • He is one of the racing presidents during Washington Nationals home games, but he never wins the race.
  • Was an avid boxer until he was punched so hard it detached his retina and he went blind in one eye. And that happened while he was President; he just never told anyone.
  • He loved to skinny dip. In the Potomac River. In the winter.
  • His ghost is said to haunt the bar of the Menger Hotel in San Antonio, TX, where he recruited men to serve as Rough Riders. 
  • He is the first and only President to have received the Medal of Honor, which had been denied to him until 2001, when he was posthumously awarded the honor by President Bill Clinton.

And perhaps the greatest fact of all time: Just before giving a speech, good ole Teddy was shot by a would-be assassin. After determining that his wound was not fatal because he wasn’t coughing up blood, Teddy gave that speech, talking for 90 minutes. His greeting to the crowd? “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot; but it takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose.” 

Oh, and he didn’t have the bullet removed. 

Seriously. Does this sound like someone who was a sickly, asthmatic child? Does this sound like a man who was told to avoid strenuous activities to placate his heart problems? Nope, but he was, and the fact that he overcame his illnesses and lived an awesome life during a time when medical care was only starting to get serious shows that the man is a BAMF.

Many facts courtesy of http://www.theodoreroosevelt.com and theodoreroosevelt.org. Of course, many are just things I’ve learned after years of learning about my favorite President.

This Hate Has Got to End

What I’m about to do is one of the ballsiest things I’ve probably ever done. To be honest, I don’t really want to do this, but I feel like I am left with no choice. 

As I’m sure many of you already are aware, earlier today, Missouri Republican and Senate hopeful Todd Akin went on TV this morning in St. Louis and stated that few rapes end in pregnancies. An absurd statement, I know. 

Unfortunately, this is not the first absurd statement Todd Akin has ever made. Nor is it the most offensive thing he’s said, which is why I’m all fired up. Todd Akin has also spoken about rape, only in terms of “legitimate rape,” meaning that a person has not been raped unless he or she has been forced.

But before I get into the heart of my post, I would like to point out one very important fact. What I am about to say has nothing to do with my political leanings. I would say this even if Todd Akin were a Democrat, a Libertarian, or from any other political party. Because this issue goes beyond political parties. It goes to the very essence of who we are as humans, and sadly, I think so many people are so caught up in being the moral fiber police that they simply stop thinking about us as individuals.

So who am I, and why do I care?

Well, for starters, I am a rape victim. But I am quite certain that Todd Akin and his counterparts would never agree that I was raped. Why? Because I was raped by a partner.

Years ago, my partner (whom I have since left) would force me to have sex, but because we were in a consensual relationship, many people do not believe that it is “legitimate rape.” It doesn’t matter that I was forced to do something against my will. It doesn’t matter that my pleas went unheard. What the man in a relationship says goes in the minds of people like Todd Akin.

Very few people on this planet know what happened to me, and I thought that I would go to my grave without sharing that information. But as lawmakers around the United States continue to band together to strip women of their rights, I cannot be silent any more.

I do not want to be a martyr. I do not want people digging into the skeletons in my closet. But what choice do I have?

I currently live in a state with one of the toughest anti-abortion laws in the country, short of banning it outright. Less than 10 miles from me, across the border is the state I was born and raised in, the same state Todd Akin hopes to represent in the U.S. Senate. 

If I keep my mouth shut, women in the United States will continue to be stripped of their rights. We will lose the choices we have that involve our very own bodies. Have I ever gotten an abortion? No. Would I stand up in support of loved ones who have had no option but to have an abortion? I have and will always do so. 

If you don’t want to have an abortion because of your beliefs, whether they are religious or not, that is your right, but that does not give you the right to infringe upon my own rights. 

How long ago was it that Rush Limbaugh decried that unmarried women who want to use birth control should have to show videos of themselves having sex? What happened? He lost a few sponsors, and there was an outcry from those of us who realize how sexist and disgusting his request was, but that was it. It did not stop the state of Missouri from honoring him earlier this year.

And Rush Limbaugh would have a fit, because I do use birth control, even though I am not currently having sex, because that is my right. 

The voices of ignorance seem to be growing louder as the election draws nearer. As much as I wanted to stick my head in the sand and ignore it all, I can’t. I tried, but I can’t. Because if women like me keep our mouths shut, one day we will have no voice at all.

Our country is a mess, as the religious right seems to forget the fact that this country was founded upon religious freedom. I have done my research on the First Amendment and written papers on the topic. I know that we, as a country, should be as open as we can and accept that not everyone here believes the same. Yet, so many in this country still openly hate against anyone who doesn’t fit in the Christian code.

I grew up Christian, and it was that very hate that drove me from being an active Christian. I could not sit down and listen to all the hate that was spewed forth in the name of God. That same hate that drives people like Todd Akin to want to control everything about us, to strip us of the rights we had to fight so hard to get in the first place. If people like Todd Akin have their way, anyone who is not a white, Christian, God-fearing hypocritical male will be a second-class citizen. And all that progress we will have achieved since our founding will have been for naught.

So, to those of you who, as I do, believe that this hate has got to go, please stand up for our rights. Show your legislators that you will not have them relegate large portions of the U.S. citizenry to the back seat. Whether you are fighting for women’s rights or gay rights, you are fighting for human rights. Please stand up and help us work toward a democratic society that is truly democratic, where all citizens – regardless of race, creed, religion, sex, sexual orientation, status, etc. – have the same equal and unalienable rights we deserve.

Please register to vote, if you have not already done so. And when November comes around, vote for anyone who is willing to stand up for equal rights for all. It is the least we deserve.

The Russians are Coming!!

This Thanksgiving, the US will experience a remake of one of the most harrowing movies of the 1980s. It’s a movie that leaves me cowering in terror, plotting escape routes, and leave me with flashbacks of all the nightmares I had as a child. In other words, it’s my ‘Nam.

So what is this terrifying piece of film? Red Dawn.

Stop laughing.

Seriously, stop laughing.

If there’s one thing about me that’s both a blessing and a curse, it would be the fact that I have a very overactive imagination. I couldn’t shut my brain off even if I tried. I have actually had the following thoughts: machines will rise up, led by a demonic semi featuring the Green Goblin, and they will destroy everyone I love; a demonic midget clown named Chuckles is watching and waiting to pounce upon me and steal my soul; and the troll from Troll lives in the woods and will attack me whenever I walk outside at night.

I couldn’t even babysit as a teen without plotting escape routes in the event that murderous robbers broke into the house and started murdering everyone. Never mind the fact that I was babysitting for two cops, who could probably handle themselves in such a situation.

But the worst, most terrible nightmares I had as a child stemmed from the Cold War, especially the Star Wars program. It’s funny, I wasn’t even a glimmer in my father’s eye when schoolchildren in the US were forced to endure air raid drills in the event of nuclear attack. (By the way, what good would hiding under your desk do if you’re vaporized?? Schools should have been teaching yoga so kids would be flexible enough to kiss their butts goodbye.)

If you asked me now what Star Wars was all about, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I just knew it was something to do with satellites and was not to be confused with the George Lucas films. But hearing about it night after night as my parents watched World News Tonight with Peter Jennings, I knew that it was not going to be good if shit got real.

I never said a word to anyone about my terror. At that point, I was just worried that the world was a seriously dangerous place and kept thinking that I may have been better off had I been born a street urchin in Edwardian England. Especially if I could have worked for Sherlock Holmes, but I’m a geek like that.

So, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, I was only slightly crazy at that point. What moved me over the boundaries from Kookyland into Bat Crap Crazy Town was my family’s Friday night movie night movie ritual.

It’s funny, I can tell you exactly what my dad rented that night, besides Red Dawn. I remember, because the night started off great with the classic Disney film The Gnome Mobile (and if you were cool enough to have seen that at any point in your life, you are now singing the theme song).

The movie was a great way to unwind from a stressful week in second grade, so I had no qualms when I my dad put in the next film. Of course, that peace only lasted for a few minutes, as the intro of the film left me more chilled than even the most horrific of horror movies has ever managed to do. Honestly.

After the initial outbreak of Russian terrorism, I burrowed myself into the couch, hiding my head under a pillow, then cocooning myself inside a blanket. I didn’t see another shot from the film. But I heard every shot, death, order in Russian, and shout of “Wolverines!”

I’m getting goosebumps just writing this.

The film left an indelible scar upon my brain, which continued to haunt me each time I fell asleep. My first nightmare is the most vivid.

My brother and I were at my great-grandmother’s home, where we spent most of our childhood. We were hanging out in the backyard, goofing around per usual.

And then the planes started flying low overhead. We watched as parachutes fell, depositing raging Russians hellbent on American destruction in the neighborhood around us. 

Fortunately, my brother and I acted quickly. It was well known that my granny slept with a machete under her mattress and kept an arsenal of rusty hatchets and axes in her shed (seriously, she did). So, we armed ourselves and hid in the backyard, killing any Commie who tried to climb the 6-foot wooden privacy fence. 

Around that point, I woke up in a panic. Instead of realizing that it was just a dream, I would look around my darkened bedroom plotting how to survive if the Russians were currently lurking in the dark outside my home waiting to blow a hole in me. My favorite plan was to hide in a footlocker that sat at the foot of my bunk bed and served as a toy box. I’d cower in there among the Legos and Barbies, trying my darndest not to breathe too loudly and give my location away.

For the next few years, until the Berlin Wall fell and the USSR disintegrated, I would panic every time an airplane flew low overhead. Doubly so if it actually was a military airplane.

And funny enough, I don’t think that’s weird. Well, too weird.

About 25 years have passed since that first nightmare, so I thought that enough time had passed for me to realize how ridiculous the whole situation was. When the trailer for the remake popped up last week, I thought I could give it a watch and laugh at the absurdity of the plot – I mean seriously, North Koreans with a super weapon that shuts off our electronics? Actually, wait. That would really suck. I bet they wouldn’t like me too much, what with my love of South Korea, especially Lee Byung Hun. Crap, I’m doomed.

But I digress.

I pulled up the trailer, expecting that I would have no issues with the film. I mean, seriously, it stars Thor, Peeta and Josh from “Drake & Josh.” It’s gotta be a great big ball o’ cheese, right?

No.

I couldn’t even watch the whole trailer.

Once it got to the shot of parachutes falling from the sky, my flashbacks ramped right up, and I had to shut off the video and leave my office.

In other words, I’m still Queen of the Megaweenies.

When they start running the trailer on TV this fall, I’m going to be so screwed. Nightmares every night, I tell you. And what can I do about it? Nothing short of moving to my own island and starting Mindayland.

Maybe Captain America will come save me.

Bad Moon Rising

Every small town has a cast of characters so unique they become infamous. The small Missouri town I grew up in is no exception. We had the guy who drove a hot pink hearse. We had a religious cult. And of course, like every small town, we had our very own Elvis.

Elvis wasn’t the young, handsome man calling others hound dogs. Nor was he an overweight drug addict squeezed into a rhinestone jumpsuit. Our Elvis sported a pompadour with his patented lip curl, and he was more likely to be wearing jeans and boots than leather or blue suede shoes.

I had never seen Elvis in person. I only heard tales of him and his Priscilla – a chubby, older blonde whose hair was straight out of Hairspray. Priscilla jumped out of the ’50s or at least Grease with her satiny Pink Ladies jacket that she paired with jeans. Like her elusive husband, she was only someone I had heard gossip about from my parents or at the cafeteria lunch table at school.

At the time, I didn’t care much for Elvis Presley. I knew who he was, especially as a girl I knew had a mom whose house was a shrine to the singer. You couldn’t move anywhere without some Elvis picture, doll or tchotchke in your immediate line of sight. The obsession is exactly why I didn’t care much for the man. Instead, my heart was all aflutter for New Kids on the Block. What can I say? It was 1989, and I was a wee 10-year-old lass.

Back in the late ’80s and early ’90s, my family would order from Pizza Hut every Friday night. It was a ritual my siblings and I looked forward to every week. Such was our love of supreme pizzas.

When Friday rolled around, Dad would call in the order, and after the prescribed amount of time, we’d jump into the car, drive downtown and pick up our dinner. I loved this ritual, because I usually was allowed to run in, pay for and pick up dinner. And the night of The Incident was no exception.

When we arrived, I raced into Pizza Hut and paid for dinner. The food wasn’t quite ready, so I sat on the bench by the take-out window to wait. I won’t lie, I was bored and fidgeting as though I had drank a case of Coke. My dad had given me exact change, so I didn’t even have a quarter to play Super Mario Bros. Resigned, I sat there and looked around at everything and nothing all at once.

And then Elvis walked in the door.

In the early dusk of late fall, spotlighted by the headlights of cars driving past, Elvis seemed to glow. Maybe ghosts got hungry too, I thought, not even trying to hide my gawking. But as the man stepped up to the take-out window, I realized he was flesh and bone. A lot of flesh. Way too much flesh.

I’m shuddering as I type this.

The staff didn’t immediately step up to help, so Mr. Presley decided to make good use of his time by relaxing his boot. Clearly, Mr. Presley’s mom never taught him to bend at the knees. So, like a drunken woman with a tramp stamp, he leaned over, giving me an eyeful of tighty whities and plumber’s crack.

I’ll understand if you have to stop reading so you can go vomit. 

Better? Okay, I’ll wrap this up.

Before Elvis finished tying his boot, I heard a teen shout, “Kinnaman!”

Looking away from the mentally scarring butt of the King of Rock, I saw my pizzas being held out to me. Unfortunately, in order to access them, I had to stand next to Nightmare on Crack Street. I took a deep breath to steel my nerves and ran for my pizzas. Yanking them out of the teen’s hands, I ran to the car. My dad turned to me once I jumped in the passenger seat. “Did you see Elvis?”

“Oh yeah.”

Ugh.

Why’s Everybody Always Picking on Me?

I’m pretty convinced that there is a tattoo on my forehead that everyone but me can read. It’s big and clearly shouts, “PICK ON ME!”

Seriously, why else would I always end up being the target of everyone’s pranks?

Ever since I was a wee girl, my siblings would pull various stunts that would emphasize my clumsiness, leave me red in the face or result in my screaming and flailing about in terror. And then my friends started joining in. Before long, I just learned to expect that, at least once a week, something will happen to scare the bejeebers out of me.

Brandy, my sister, is the undisputed master of scaring Mindy.

Don’t get me wrong, others have scared me. For instance, one of my coworkers when I worked in the housing office in college, would always try to scare me when I would be walking about campus in the middle of the night. Her best was the night we saw The Blair Witch Project. As my roommate and I walked back to our room, my coworker hid around the corner, waiting for our approach. When she jumped out, I nearly peed myself in terror. The scream probably woke up everyone on campus that night.

My little brother, Allen, tries pretty often too. He always liked to hang outside of the bathroom door and scare me as I walked out after taking a shower. I’d then chase him down the hallway on trembling legs, trying to punch him for leaving me quaking in fear.

But Brandy is a woman who spends her days plotting how to scare people. And she scares anyone and everyone. Ask her husband why he’s terrified of being in dark spaces with her or why her daughters hate the walk from their bedroom to the living room.

Sometimes Brandy’s scares are unintentional, like when she says something to me when I’m in the middle of some task, like laundry, and because I think I’m alone, the sound of her voice results in me clinging to the ceiling.

Another innocent scare happened tonight as we drove home from Target. I turned a corner to pull onto the highway, and Brandy commented on a hitchhiker she saw. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed him standing on the corner, leaning out into the lane with his thumb held high. When I saw him, I screamed bloody murder and yanked the steering wheel to the left, trying to pull away from him so I didn’t run him over. I actually reacted in fear so badly that I pulled a muscle in my chest. Sad, huh?

But the number of intentional scares Brandy has initiated far outweigh the number of innocent ones.

You know how I mentioned Allen would lurk outside the bathroom and scare me? Brandy has scared me after knocking on the door. How? She’ll hide, so I’m confused when I answer the door, then she’ll jump out and scream. I once punched a screen door, because she jumped out and scared me so bad after I answered one of her phantom door knocks.

So, it’s no surprise that, as I sat in my car answering a text message before leaving her house tonight, she managed to leave me quaking and beating my car horn in fear.

Brandy stepped outside to bring in her dogs and noticed that I was sat in the car doing something (texting). She didn’t hear my engine and thought my car had broken down, so she walked over to see if I needed help. Eventually, she heard my engine and thought it was the perfect time to enact a new scare. Clearly, dancing about in my headlights in her black coat and dark jeans wouldn’t work as I was otherwise engaged. So she began pounding on my passenger window.

Sat in my car, in the dark, in front of the woods behind Brandy’s house, I was already a bit creeped out. So when something dressed in black started pounding on my window, I began beating at the horn, screaming and trying to stop from having a fatal heart attack.

What did Brandy do? What she always does, laugh her butt off.

Things I’ve Learned, the 2010 edition

If you had asked me a year ago today what would happen over the upcoming year, I can honestly say that I don’t think I would have gotten a single prediction right.

No, I wouldn’t have said that I was going to be rich, a published author, wife, mother, etc. Those would have been the predictions of a crazy person.

I probably would have said that I’d still be in a relationship, that I’d have finished my master’s degree, and still be working at my last job, prepping for a big move to another part of the country.

See, totally wrong on all counts. I’m single, still working on that degree, and I got my dream job and work with some awesome people.

But what has happened over the past year has taught me quite a lot, and most of it has been absolutely hysterical. As it should be.

Honestly, if the year wasn’t hilarious, it could only be because I died before the year even started.

So, without further ado, I present for you all the things that I learned in 2010, in no particular order.

  • Being out of shape can, and will, result in someone thinking I’m pregnant.
  • The Apple TV remote is so small that I will forever lose it inside my couch. While it’s small, it’s the perfect size to use as a microphone when I’m singing to myself.
  • Never watch the trailer for The Human Centipede while eating a chili dog.
  • I’m not allowed to play Super Mario Bros. Wii while unsupervised.
  • It is possible to inhale the following things in hilarious, yet painful, ways: chili, spaghetti noodles, chai lattes, just-out-of-the-oven brownies, and jalapeño seeds.
  • Even Santa Claus gets speeding tickets.
  • I can, and will, lock both my keys and my glasses in the car at the same time.
  • I can hurt myself with my own footwear. And I don’t mean fall down or trip on it. I mean kick the flip-flop off my foot and hit myself in the head with it.
  • Never think about how long I’d survive in a horror movie while showering…or really doing activity in which people die in horror movies.
  • Even after doing it for the first time when I was six, I will still manage to fall into my laundry basket and get stuck.
  • A quorum of 2/3 majority must be established before voting can occur.
  • If I happen to slip and fall down on the paint in front of Target during a rain storm, I will always hear, “Don’t slip!” when I go to that Target with my sister.
  • My cat continues to hate me.
  • Apparently, if I wear my hair down and tuck my glasses inside of a beanie, I’m hot.
  • It doesn’t matter how long I step away from my phone or computer. Amir will find a way to hack my Facebook.
  • It is possible to mistake my finger for a potato while using a vegetable peeler. And it fricken hurts.
  • Speaking of…four stitches and a tetanus shot costs $1,653.48.

So with all of the awesome things I learned this year, I can’t help but make a couple of predictions for the upcoming year:

  • I will have finished my first novel and start writing a second (bonus points if I finish the second!)
  • I will finish my master’s or go insane!
  • I will be a 40s-style lounge singer

Stay tuned!

A Cut Above the Rest

Just last night I was sat in this very spot trying to think of something funny to write about. I tried and tried, but my poor brain just wasn’t feeling it. Instead, I answered one of those survey thingies I’m so fond of. And that’s fine, because I definitely have a doozy of a story today.

Now I should start by saying that Thanksgiving Mindays are nothing new. Ever since I took up cooking for Turkey Day, I’ve walked away with battle scars. One year, I burnt my left thumb, and just a month later, at Christmas, I burnt my right in the exact same spot. And then there was Thanksgiving with the Murphys.

So, as you can see, I probably shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a kitchen.

This year, I had lucked out. I wouldn’t be cooking the entire feast. Instead, I was only responsible for two things: mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes. Easy, right?

If you’re anyone but Mindy.

I started with the sweet potatoes. With the exception of having selecting four massively huge sweet potatoes, which meant I would have to boil them in two batches, they were easy-peasy, bacon-cheesy. I did scald myself slightly on the water as I was removing a chunk of sweet potato, and I did think of Thanksgiving with the Murphys, wondering if that would be the worst of my drama.

I really think I jinxed myself.

Not even 10 minutes had passed, and I had set up a new pot of water so I could boil the potatoes. As the water warmed, I grabbed my brand new Oxo veggie peeler and a small potato.

And two seconds later, I gasped in pain. I had mistaken my right ring finger for the potato and now had a diagonal gash across the top, through the fingernail.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. <— Standard Mindy reaction to blood, especially her own.

Alexis, who was sat on the floor eating lunch, immediately looked up to see me wrapping my finger in a kitchen towel. She didn’t learn what was going on until a few seconds later, when I called her mom and asked, “How do you know if you need to get stitches?”

I have since learned that, if you need to ask that question, you either need stitches or you don’t need them. Yes, I know that makes no sense, but I had to share a little of what I dealt with today.

Brandy called Allen, who came right over to look at my finger. His first thought: I needed stitches. His second: let’s try wrapping it up. So, with a large chunk of gauze and a lot of whinging from Mindy who was experiencing some pretty horrific pain, he tried wrapping it.

Yeah, pretty quickly that proved to be a failure. And as the blood began seeping through the gauze, we decided to go with Allen’s first idea, so off we headed to the hospital.

On the way, I couldn’t help but joke. One, it’s my way of dealing with things I can’t really handle. Two, I was certain I was not the first, nor would I be the last, Thanksgiving casualty they saw at the emergency room.

I was right, by the way.

When we walked into the hospital, everyone asked how I got my injury. I was the first potato peeler injury of the day. Go me!

No one was surprised to hear it, though.

In the emergency room, I found myself getting nervous, especially when words like X-ray and tetanus were thrown about. Fortunately, it was determined I didn’t need the X-ray. Unfortunately, I did need the tetanus shot. Along with two other shots to numb my poor finger.

Okay, I had already been stabbed by needles twice this week. I got my flu shot Tuesday, and I had blood drawn Wednesday. Now I was getting stabbed three times???

Let the fainting begin.

It’s silly to say I don’t like needles. As the guy who drew my blood joked, “Does anyone really like being stuck with needles?” If you do, you are fricken weird.

I got the tetanus shot first, and surprisingly, that hurt less than the flu shot did. Though I currently feel like I’ve been punched in the arm for the past eight hours straight.

Then, the doctor came in to work on my finger.

I’m pretty certain he could sense my apprehension. Well, I’m pretty sure everyone within a 50-yard radius could sense my apprehension. I turned away with a sickened squeal as he unwrapped my finger. But then he became generous and laid the bed down flat so I didn’t have to watch him work.

Then I proceeded to crack everyone up.

I had been holding on to my wallet, but as the doctor prepared to work on me, I clutched on to it for dear life, my head turned to my left and my eyes squeezed shut. And he hadn’t even started yet.

The doctor warned me that he would numb my finger with two shots, one to each side of my wounded finger. And boy did he ever.

As the first needle broke my skin, I burst into loud hysterical laughter.

No, seriously, I burst into loud hysterical laughter, which in turn caused all of the attention in the place to turn to me.

And when he administered the second shot, I laughed even harder. But you know what, my finger went numb nearly immediately, and I still can’t feel that puppy eight hours later.

I got a grand total of four stitches. I know, I’m going to have a fricken sweet scar. Jealous? You should be. Dear God, I can’t even type that with a straight face.

So, I took a couple of pics. The first should only be viewed if you can handle gross stuff. The second is the PG version. When viewing these, remember how you spent your day chilling with relatives and stuffing yourself silly. You could have had a much more awesome day, a Minday to be exact.

Of course, tomorrow, when the numbness has worn off, and the pain kicks in, I won’t be so silly. In fact, I will hate this particular Minday.

 

For the record, typing this hilarious story up took ages. You never realize just how much you use the ring finger on your non-dominant hand until you try lopping it off.