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?

Say No to Pink Tu-Tu's

Dogs cannot actually speak for themselves but some special individuals feel like they can communicate with them on a level that not just anyone can. I am one of these people. That's right. I'm not a cracker jack--I just understand these furry creatures because I pay attention. And many of them have collectively asked me to share a particular message with all you folks who don't seem able to communicate with their pets but do love them and have the best intentions, however misguided they end up being. Ready for the message? Here it is:

Dogs don't like to be dressed in clothes.

Gasp! I know, I know. Were you sitting down? I should've warned you but alas, it's true. Amazingly, there aren't doggie clothing stores in the wild and yet, dogs of all breeds manage to survive cool--even cold--weather in just their skin and--get this--fur.

How can people claim to adore their pets and then proceed to humiliate them by dressing them in clothes? Sweaters, rain coats, sparkly beaded shirts. The look of discomfort and humiliation on the animals' faces who are relegated to walking in front of their doggie friends in such a display is so sad. Usually it's the smaller dogs who are subjected to such nonsense (why is this? Probably because more people who really wish they had children to "baby" end up with small dogs they can more easily child-substitute with: holding, cradling, pushing in strollers and, yes, dressing) but today was the ultimate indignity that finally prompted me to make this announcement on behalf of dogs everywhere. Walking down the street was a grown man in a Chicago Bears jersey walking a big black lab wearing--you guessed it--a Chicago Bears jersey. Really? This is how you "man up" your dog? As I drove by, the dog literally rolled his eyes at me and gestured up at his moronic owner. All I could do was roll my eyes back and shrug my shoulders. And off they went--the man walking unencumbered, and the dog walking, with his legs stuck through sleeve holes, encumbered.

Please, if you truly love dogs, let them be dogs. And dogs do not wear sports jerseys, sweaters, hats, sunglasses or pink tu-tu's. Ever.

Welcoming Addie

I'm an aunt again. My new niece was born in the wee hours of the morning yesterday, October 8th...at 1:05 a.m. Her name is Carlee Addison and will go by Addie and she is the cutest thing. I know everyone says that but this time, it's actually true. I know it's rude to give a gal's weight and all but this time, I think it'll be ok. She made her grand debut at 7 lbs, 14 oz and is already nearly two feet tall--21" to be exact.

Erin is my only sister, 13 years younger than me (never mind the math), and it went without saying that I would be at the hospital when Addie was ready to show up. Even if it was a two hour drive to get there. But I was so excited to be there when she embarked on a whole new part of her life. We parents know it'll occasionally be the toughest thing she's ever done but also the most rewarding. As much as she loves Addie now, she has no idea the depth her love will reach over the next days, weeks, months, years.

Miss Addie might've worked a little magic for her favorite aunt (that's me) and rushed her arrival a bit more than she did since it was a school night and all, but obstinacy runs in our family and she was clearly already exerting her family traits starting on her very first birthday. She's a night owl, evidently. Something that I hope doesn't continue as the days march on, for her parents' sake!

She arrived at 1:05 a.m. and by 2, the crowd at the hospital had spent an hour ooh'ing and ahh'ing over this little pumpkin with a head full of dark hair just like my sister. But Erin was tired and the amount of sleep hours available to those of us needing to work the following day was dwindling fast so we all said our goodbyes and congratulations and headed out the door. Unfortunately I had a two hour drive to get home. It was from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. that I gained an entirely new respect for drivers who drive these hours regularly--and I saw a lot of them out there. For the first 20 minutes, I was pretty awake and thinking the drive would be no big deal. For the next hour and 40 minutes, I drove with the windows down in the chilly air, shivering with the radio blaring and singing at the top of my lungs (a real treat for the cars I drove alongside on the interstate) to make sure I kept the heavy eyelids at bay. I got home at 4 and me and my fully clothed self with a face of make up and unbrushed teeth plopped into bed by 4:02.

I love this sweet little Addie already, am so proud of my sister and excited for the experiences that are coming her way. Reminds me of when my Chase was born. I wrote about it here if you care to reminisce: A New Baby, a Dose of Hysteria & the Dog Food Fork

Carlee Addison Beck:



Me and my sister Erin, pre-Addie: