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Campfire Stories: The Most Horrible Story of All

We sat around the campfire, telling ghost stories of one kind or another. There was the one where the couple on Lover’s Lane end up with the hook in the door; the one where the escaped mental patient shows up at the campfire itself, to the terror of the campfire listeners; and then my children’s favorites, the stories I find most horrifying of all: The stories of my social mortification.

“Come on mom, tell that one!”

“What one?” I feign.

“You know, the ONE. The Most HORRIBLE Story of All!” Seeing the glint of fear and anticipation in their eyes, who am I to disappoint?

*sigh*

“Alright. Here goes….

“She was fifteen-years old. A simple girl in search of simple things, a girl who was kind and naïve; a girl who was exactly like you (“but smarter!” they shout) and looked like you (“but cuter!” they sing) and dressed like you (“but cheaper!” they laugh). In fact, this girl could be you, any one of you…”

“Except she wasn’t!” They ring out.

“No, she wasn’t. Lucky for you.

“One random Wednesday evening the girl, who for the purposes of this story we will call ‘Graci,’ and her best friend went to her church’s youth group. It was almost like any other night at youth group: There would be teens, there would be laughter, there was going to be a teen-only mass. And even better…”

“The boy she liked would be there!” the kids fill in.

“Exactly. The boy she had the biggest crush on ever in the history of big crushes: Darren Brown. He was cute. He was funny. And best of all, he was smart. Very, very smart. Yes. You see, kids, Darren was Brain Attractive—and that's the most desirable-kind of attractive there is for a girl. Next to Funny Attractive. Which he also was.” The girls all nod in understanding. The boys all look down at their shoes.

“Everything was perfect for young Graci that night. She was wearing her khaki shorts with the white Venetian-blind style shirt and her white Keds without laces, the tongue folded down. She wore her stonewashed denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up two times, her long bangs cascading delicately into her eyes, her white Ray Ban-knock-offs perched on her head… she looked AWESOME. She felt awesome. And yet little did she know the night would go horribly, horribly wrong.”

Panic fills the kids’ eyes. They huddle closer together, wrapping their arms around their tiny bodies, hugging each other for comfort.

“The group was meeting at the director’s house and the priest was there to officiate the short mass. Everyone was crammed in the small living room and to Graci’s surprise, Darren ended up sitting RIGHT NEXT TO HER! She was amazed. She was speechless!

“Her mind whirled with all the possibilities. Maybe she would get enough courage to talk to him? Maybe… maybe HE would talk to HER? The priest began the service, everyone listened respectfully. But Graci was only partially listening. She was trying to calm her breathing. She looked up to find that Darren was smiling at her.

“She smiled back and shyly looked away. OH MY GAWD HE WAS SMILING AT HER! That was a sign, right? I mean a boy smiling at you, out of the blue like that? That is a sign that maybe he thinks you’re cute, right? Wasn't it??

“Then it was time to recite the Our Father, and everyone held hands. And Darren was sitting next to her, which meant he ended up holding her HAND!

“Graci was stunned. She couldn’t believe her good fortune! Sure, the seating on the floor was pretty uncomfortable, straining her back, but she was sitting next to DARREN BROWN! It was worth the discomfort. Because, when it came time to give the sign of peace, everyone hugged. Which means she actually HUGGED Darren Brown, the cutest, smartest boy in the whole-wide room!

“It was the most amazing night of her life. The communion began and everyone started to sing. She sang softly and tried to use her best voice—she kept looking up from the Missile to show she knew the words but tastefully looked down on occasion so she didn’t come off too much like a show-off. Darren sang too, and he had a nice voice. She was in bliss. A state of pure and total bliss. Her leg was asleep, sure, but this night was fantastic.

“They’d all been sitting pretty still for a long time. Being on the floor and all crammed in the living room like that, everyone’s limbs were slightly contorted like the amazing rubber lady at the freak show. And Graci had a dead leg. She felt the overwhelming need to move, if ever so slightly, just to pull some blood back into her foot. She wiggled her toes, moving them just a bit. She scooted herself up to better posture. And then...

“The song ended. The room hushed. And in the split second of silence between the song’s end and the priests final blessing, like a small frog's ribbit, Graci flatulated.”

The boys at the campfire squeal with laughter. The girls sit in quiet mortification.

“Graci remembers nothing past this point except this: She never wore that outfit again.”

An Open Letter to Stupid People

Hey, you! EGGHEAD!

Yes, I’m talking to you, tough guy. Mr. Auto Mechanic with your Fu Manchu mustache, Popeye forearms and weathered skin like leather. You who could beat me senseless by just looking at me.

You, sir, are an idiot.

So are you, little old lady with the lavender, polyester pants and fluffy white hair that matches her tennis shoes. You are a complete and total imbecile.

You girls there, you teenagers heading to the mall in your tiny denim skirts and oversized sunglasses? You are just as big a pair of fools as that computer-geek couple in their late 40s with their black socks and running shoes, or the preppy twosome trying to be all sporty in Tommy Hilfiger.

Yes, I am talking to all of you Stupid People.

Congratulations. You are all top winners in my daily, personal Darwin Award effort. Each and every one of you suffer from a particular kind of DUMB and it really ticks me off that I, a simple woman who does not know you from Adam, care more about your very existences than any of you do.

I applaud all of your efforts to find alternate transportation, or insert more exercise into your daily routine, or take yourself on a stimulating outing. And yet, when I look at each of you, I wish you’d stayed home and couch surfed instead.

There are those of us who take bike riding seriously. We do so because we have almost been hit several times by soccer moms who cannot see us in their oversized SUVs while conversing intensely on their cell phones; cursed at by home boys, frat boys and cowboys who’ve been inconvenienced by our properly executed left turn; and had drunken partiers nearly run us off the road on their way home from casinos. Some of us know what it’s like to undergo hip or knee replacement surgery after having been clipped by a lax driver, or to spend months nursing a broken shoulder because someone rolled through a stop sign.

We cyclists all have our war stories, our almosts, our near misses; each is different and special to the telling. But the one thing we serious bicycle riders—whether we’re toddlers or adults—all have in common: We ALL wear HELMETS when we ride. It is WHY we CAN still TELL OUR STORIES. Why we continue to make it through another commute or trip out to Millerton.

And all of you, from cute little granny to the rockin’ Fu, to the ridiculous girls who were also riding on the WRONG side of the road to the sporty couple out on their morning “date” to the mom with the 3 kids tooling around on a Saturday—get your fat heads out of your… armpits… and put helmets on them. On your fat heads, I mean.

If you ride a bike—whether it is 10 feet or 10 miles—WEAR A HELMET. And, Stupid People, stop thinking that because you are over 18 that wearing a helmet somehow doesn’t apply to you. It does. It applies to everyone, even Stupid People. Enough with the worrying that it will crumple your hairdo, or that wearing one will make you look uncool. HELLO?? Of course wearing a helmet will make you look uncool! Of course it will crumple your hairdo! The alternative is that you end up looking like a complete freak with a crumpled HEAD without using one. Have you SEEN what steel plates do for fashion? NOTHING. No one designs with accommodating steel plates in mind.

You know what? On second thought, DON’T. Do us all a favor and don’t wear one. If you’re stupid enough to put your life on the line because it is an inconvenience to you or an embarrassment to have brain protection, maybe our society as a whole is better off without your special brand of self-absorbed absurdity.

But first, please buy helmets for all your children and force them to wear them every time they get on a bike—especially your toddler with the tricycle. You see, that way we can ensure that your funeral will be well attended.

Thanks.

Procrastinators: Read this... eventually.

I stare at the page, and it stares at me. We regard each other amicably enough, though I know the page is thinking nasty thoughts, and if I listen close enough I am pretty sure it’s got a potty mouth.

Right when I decide that it’s time to begin, that I need to start writing down what I sat to write—oh holy Hannah, what is that noise from the closet? Seriously? The shoe rack collapsed. Okay, so after I fix the rack-- wait. My bed isn’t made. Someone downstairs wants something to eat. I just walked in my room to get something—what was it? The laptop! Okay—so, after I fix the shoe rack, pick up the shoes, change my sheets, make my bed, start my laundry, make a peanut butter sandwich for kids five and six then macaroni and cheese instead, clean up the cat vomit, turn down the TV, go upstairs again for the laptop plug, change my shirt, change my shirt again, put on some face lotion, watch kid number four show me his Halo maneuvers, listen to kid number one fret about friends, go back downstairs with the laptop plug, then I will begin…wait…. What was I doing?

Oh yes. Procrastination. If it were a nation, I would be its Queen. Apparently, and though it feels contrary, I am not alone in my ability to put off for another day all that can be put off... for another day. And another.

If you're like me, you'll be happy to know there may be hope for us yet. On today’s Talk of the Nation on NPR, “Procrastination expert Timothy Pychyl and self-professed "structured procrastinator" John Perry discuss[ed] the latest research on this type of behavior and how to prioritize what's really important.”

Listen in!

Three Tiers for Mr. Jarman!

J cake
Originally uploaded by girlmonkey

Hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hooray!
I baked this cake last week for Harrison's teacher.

Jana's 9th Birthday Cake

Jana's 9th Birthday Cake
Originally uploaded by artofdessert

OMG-- what a great looking cake!