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We have two cars, three TVs, four computers, and five Whoopie Cushions.
Recently, we were invited to preview a new exhibit at Parker, Colorado’s Wildlife Experience. It is produced by the same people who brought us the joy of sliding down a large plastic intestine into a pile of poo. I also have fond memories of my kids scaling a climbing wall made of the different types of acne eruptions. Yes, it is Grossology, the famous traveling ick-exhibit is now teaching the masses just how gross animals can be.
Anybody with a pet knows this, but we still learned a lot during our night at Animal Grossology. I wrote about it at Mile High Mamas. I realize it’s a Denver-thing, but you can still go say hi even if you live in Nashville or Cairo. I bet there are gross things there, too.
Regarding the whoopie cushions: As a souvenir, our five oldest kids were given their own personal cushions to take home and enjoy. Beatrix was slightly jealous, but soon proved she could make the same noises on cue without a cool red “balloon”. My husband warned them that if he heard one toot on the hour-long trip home, he’d start confiscating. They were angels, but I could tell they were dying to fill the night sky with the sounds of Taco Bell’s company picnic.
Once home, Joel approached me with a wry smile. “Mom, are you gonna work on the computer tonight?
“I wasn’t planning to.” I answered.
“Well, if you do, you’ll probably sit down. Right?”
“Yeah.”
He tore out of the room, giggling like a mad man.
I few minutes later, I visited my chair. A new red pillow rested on the seat. It looked comfortable.
I sat and made my 4 year old son deliriously happy. Oh, he got me!
A choir of honking, bleating, blatting, tooting, saluting, and trouser barking lulled everyone to sleep that night. I knew it was a novelty that had wear off. It’s like when you repeat a word too many times. It seems to lose it’s meaning.
The whoopie cushions have been silenced. Not by motherly disapproval but because they are officially boring. That’s what overuse will do.
But who knows? If you come over to our house, I’d still look before you sit. Especially if I am giggling for no apparent reason.
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Go say hello at Mile High Mamas!
(said most cheerily)
Hi, you’ve reached the Lifenut residence!
Chances are we are home, but we do not want to answer the phone! We don’t want to talk to pollsters, campaigners, volunteers, committee members, earnest college freshmen, hired prisoners, or anyone affiliated with any political candidate or cause.
Your constitutional amendment is confusing and we know that you’ve worded it in such a way that my “no” vote will actually be a “yes” and vice versa. You shameless dirty stinking weasels. Your referendums are boring and petty and that’s why I avoided signing your petition outside the grocery store a year ago—because the last thing we need is to clog up law books and our very state constitution with minutia and personal crusades against liquor stores and black bears. Really, aren’t there more pressing problems to solve?
I don’t want to spend 15 minutes on the phone strongly agreeing, agreeing, somewhat agreeing, somewhat disagreeing, disagreeing, or strongly disagreeing. I don’t want to rate your candidate or cause on a scale of 1 to 10. I don’t want to join your focus group where you pretend to care what I think, while at the same time you try to sway me toward your issue and/or candidate. The free coffee in the biodegradable cup isn’t that enticing.
I don’t want a sign for my yard, a bumper sticker, a button. We try to avoid being the victims of vandalization and personal assault.
Can you count on my support November 4th? Maybe, if you stop filling our mailbox with pamphlets, post cards, frantic letters, and lies. Newsflash, scooter: We don’t read any of the junk mail you send. Not. One. Even from the candidates and causes we feel slightly friendly about. Every time I open the mailbox and see the words Gas Prices! or Higher Taxes! or She Took a PAY RAISE! on a glossy tri-folded flyer, I die a little inside. I may not make it to November.
Dead of infuriation overload.
Sorry we are unavailable at this or any other time! We will see you on November 4th at the polls, where we will proudly cast our ballots knowing we did our best to avoid the moronic circus that you, dear pollster, helped create.
And exit pollers?
Don’t even think about it.
A few years ago, a woman at our church told Ryley that it was bad to celebrate Halloween because it is the devil’s birthday.
Quickly:
1. It is not the devil’s birthday.
2. It is not the devil’s birthday.
3. It is not the devil’s birthday.
We strongly assured him our family wouldn’t celebrate such a thing, and Halloween was not an evil day. I was furious that an adult would tell a lie like that to a little boy, especially at church. I really don’t care if she doesn’t observe Halloween, but she had no right to stomp all over one of our wholesome family traditions.
It is true that in recent years, Halloween has been highjacked by adults as an excuse to dress like prostitutes and party like it’s A.D. 59 in Rome. Images of death and horror are replacing good clean apple-bobbing fun. Why?
BECAUSE WE ARE LETTING IT HAPPEN.
I think when families give up on Halloween, we shouldn’t be surprised to see something ugly fill the void. When most of us were kids, we still roamed our neighborhoods on October 31st. Huge packs of flashlight-waving kids went door-to-door together. Neighbors actually saw each other, thanked each other, and marveled at all the Bionic Women and Six Million Dollar Men there were that year. We returned home exhausted. After dumping our sugary loot on the dining room table, we got to pick one piece to eat before bed. What a night!
Now? Not.
It’s malls, church basements, school gyms. It’s still community, but the adventure, the darkness, the walking in the snap of October night, the thrill, the approach to the house, the ringing of the bell, the anticipation, the opening, the neighbor smiling, the bowl, the unison of Trick-or-Treat, the little ones following with small shouts a second or two behind, the laughter, the thank you, the walking back down the steps, the admiration of the jack-o-lanterns, the comparisons, the decisions regarding left or right, north or south, the tired walk back home, the inspection, the trades, the falling into bed, the costumes in a heap on the floor, the talk of next year, I’m gonna be a cowboy.
All that? Gone, in the name of being safe from a threat which really isn’t there. Unless you let it move in.
Not on our street. We are taking Halloween back.
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