Haunted House Hell

Haunted houses are near the top of the list of things I most hate. Right above green peppers and just below animal abusers. I can't stand watching scary movies; I don't like that "edge of your seat" feeling, etc., so you can imagine my delight at strolling through a live version of bloody, chainsaw toting teenagers in make-up that looks way too real for my taste. And no amount of chanting: "None of this is real. These are just regular people being paid to dress up and scare the bejeesus out of normal, everyday citizens" convinces you not to be scared out of your freaking mind. (Incidentally, this chanting draws a lot of dirty looks from the people in front of and behind you in line.)

So why on earth spend $27.50 to walk through a haunted house then, you ask? I only did this once, actually. Only one time because I do know this about myself, this distaste for being scared. But I was 19, on my first date with a boy I'd secretly worshiped since the seventh grade, and it was his suggestion. What was I going to do? Embarrass myself by declining the invite on the basis that I would be too scared? Of course not. Better, instead, to go along with the idea, as if haunted houses are no big deal, and then embarrass myself worse by my antics walking through the dreaded place.

We arrived with 2,000 or so folks who think being scared out of their wits is the ideal entertainment on the Saturday night before Halloween and paid the ridiculous fee to get in. How ludicrous that people will pay to be traumatized. Yet, we plunked down our cash and said "Where does the party begin?" Every step we inched closer to the front of the line, my heart began to beat faster. I ceased making any sort of conversation because my trembling voice betrayed how I really felt, dispite my boasting about haunted houses being no big deal.

No sooner had we taken five steps inside that monster mansion that some boogey man leapt out at me with such force and such surprise that the 2' space I'd respectfully left between me and Greg disappeared and I crawled halfway up his back. Literally. I also may have been shrieking. This startled Greg more than the dude in a black trenchcoat and blood-stained face and hands, and I backed off pretty quickly, nervously chuckling about how that guy just caught me a little off guard. From there, things most decidedly did not improve. I spent what seemed like an eternity but probably amounted to 20 minutes in gut-wrenching terror. Each turn in the house brought something else unexpected, extremely real and very, very scary. I gave up any pretense of being cool and sucked up so close to the back of Greg you couldn't have gotten a whisper between us. I don't think he appreciated it too much because it's probably hard to move with an extra buck twenty-five attached to your hip but I didn't care. I felt like I was losing my mind. My heart was beating so fast, I began envisioning the news reports about the girl who was literally scared to death in a haunted house. My death from extreme fear would be the reason haunted houses everywhere got banned. I'd be hated by the freaks who live for Halloween, those darker souls of the world who love a goulish holiday and the houses that accompany it. I decided then and there that I wouldn't die in the haunted house and attach such shame to my name forevermore. And I didn't but I came real, real close. I'm sure of it.

I left there with my heart in tact but my dignity long gone. I could barely look at Greg the whole ride home and I don't recall him saying much. Hard to make pleasant conversation with a girl who'd practically molested you because of fear in a silly ol' haunted house.

So this Halloween, once more the haunted houses have popped up everywhere. And while they have me to thank for their existence--for, you know, not dying during my one and only haunted house expedition--you can bet I won't be frequenting any of them. But guess who asked if I'd let him join a friend at one this weekend? Right. My 11 year old. The one who is even more afraid of scary stuff than I am. You might recall The Longest Night Ever from earlier this summer: the only night I've had to sleep in his bed with him because he was so scared after watching a scary television show. Tel-e-vision show. Relive that episode here. And yet he's asking to go experience that horror in person. See, his friends think it's cool and I'm betting Chase thinks that folks jump out and yell Boo! and then the lights come on and everyone laughs. He doesn't realize it's non-stop fear and terror that you believe is real no matter how sane you are or how much chanting you do otherwise. No, I think he'll be passing on the Haunted House this year--I like sleeping in my own bed.

I Am a Multi-taskaholic

Hello. My name is Megan. And I am a Multi-taskaholic.

I swear, if there is such a thing, I suffer from it. I am addicted to multi-tasking.

I've always been a big believer in maximizing time but lately it seems like the multi-tasking is almost out of hand. Can such a thing be? It's not just juggling a few things simultaneously--millions do that, of course. No, I've reached a point where if I'm doing just a single task, I almost get a little frazzled because I think there are other things that I should be doing but aren't doing. Crazy.

This occurred to me when I was making coffee this morning and as I was pouring the water in the back of the pot with my right hand, I couldn't resist rearranging the canisters on the countertop with my left hand. This isn't like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time--this requires a level of real dexterity I'm not sure I actually possess. And yet, standing there just pouring water seemed like I was wasting time I could be getting something else done. Like, moving the canisters so the big one is on the left instead of the right. Real necessary stuff like that.

I can't seem to help myself though. I don't walk up our stairs that I don't carry multiple items. In fact, I've learned to stack stuff on the steps so that as I make any trip up or down, I can move stuff from the bottom deck to the top deck in one trip. Because to make multiple trips seems like a colossal waste of time and energy that just doesn't sit well with me.

Here's my typical morning getting Chase ready for school: we come downstairs and I grab Chase's standard breakfast fare: Eggo waffles (only the healthy, homemade stuff for my family!). Pop the waffles in the toaster. While they cook, get the butter and the milk out of the frig. Plate from the cupboard, fork from the drawer. To the pantry for Carnation breakfast drink packet and syrup. All of this is done quickly because I need it all done before the waffles are done and Chase likes his light. Waffles pop, butter them, cut them up, syrup on top. Plate into the microwave to warm up the syrup. While that cooks, I mix the breakfast drink and milk and bam--everything is ready to be served at once.

And while Chase eats, I pour some coffee while admiring my organized countertops.

These are just a few examples that I'm willing to admit to the world. So. Uber-organized? Or is this just normal stuff?