One Step Forward, Infinity Bazillion Steps Back

Want to know where I’m sitting as I write this blog post?

I’m in my van in the parking lot of the restaurant that we decided to go to after church.

Want to know why I’m sitting in my van writing a blog post on real paper with an actual pen like I’m one of the Brontë sisters, only less talented and less tuberculosis-y?

Let me tell you.  Sit back.  It’s going to take a minute.

It started about two and a half weeks ago.  My mom came for a visit because she needed to escape my dad for a little while.  When you’ve been married for 43 years, sometimes you need a month or so apart so that you don’t beat your spouse with a shovel and bury him in the backyard.

(Heads up, Dad.  You were about to be shanked.)

And she wanted to help me with The Beast.  So for the past two and a half weeks I’ve spent every waking moment, working under my mom’s direction, to fix The Beast.  She raised five daughters and helps with her dozen grandchildren and has watched a lot of The Supernanny over the years.  I have never caught more than a few minutes of The Supernanny because I didn’t need her.  The glimpses I did see of the show in the past would just cause me to wonder what lottery those parents lost to end up with terribly evil children.

Yes, I can hear Satan laughing.  You can hear it too, can’t you?

Lately I’ve been the epitome of consistent parenting.  I’ve been doing everything the Supernanny said to do to get my child to listen to me.  I’ve been deepening my voice so that I sound more like an authority figure and less like a shrill she-demon.

I’ve been making The Beast sit in timeout for everything.  If he says, “No!”; timeout.  Throws toys; timeout.  Disobeys; timeout.  Throws food; timeout.  Hits my apparently immortal dog; timeout.

We’ve spent a lot of time in timeout.  A.  Lot.  Of.  Time.

It turns out that The Beast hates timeouts, and he really seemed to be responding to just the threat of the timeout.  He started listening better and was generally less temper-tantrumy.

I already told you about the soccer game I got to watch last week.  This weekend we had a double-header, and I was able to watch both games.  The Beast did not by any means sit on a blanket and just watch the game with me, but he played with toys and kicked a ball nearby and didn’t once try to run into the nearby woods or onto the street.

This morning we went to church.  As I was dropping him off at his classroom, a woman who I had never seen before said, referring to The Beast, “Who is this?  He is adorable!” and I felt like this was it.  It was going to be a good day.

The church service was good.  They didn’t make us greet one another with a handshake, and in light of my vehement opposition to publicly touching people I don’t know — and people I do know — that was great.

I should have known Satan was just laying the kindling.

After a lovely service with music I liked and didn’t mind mouthing the words to, I went to pick up The Beast from his classroom.  I chatted briefly with another mom and when she commented that her son likes to stab his coloring sheet rather than color it, we chuckled in camaraderie.

I was happy.  And Satan was lighting matches.

Then I approached the window to pick up The Beast.  I was full of hope.  I just knew that The Beast had been an angel today.  The Beast’s teacher, Ms. Amy, smiled kindly and then punched me in the gut with her words.

“We had some problems with The Beast today.  He opened the door and ran down the hall and I had to run after him and bring him back.”

Not a surprise to me.  He has done this before and usually his teachers are smart enough to lock the door so that he doesn’t escape.

“The Beast tore some posters off of the wall and shredded them.”

Kind of surprised.

“And he just ran across the room and hit this little boy in the face with a toy car.”

Dear God, strike me with lightning right now.  We are going to get kicked out of church.

I made The Beast apologize to the boy he hit.  I gave him a lecture about not ripping up paper that isn’t ours and I made him apologize to his teacher, even though every nerve in my body was telling me to kick her teeth right out of her head.

Ms. Amy explained that she was the only teacher in the room today and she had to try to control 12 toddlers with only her own children, a boy about 7 and a girl about 4, as helpers.

Then Ms. Amy’s perfect little children decided to recount to me all of The Beast’s offenses and shared in great detail how utterly disobedient and destructive he is.

“He was ripping things off the wall and we kept telling him to stop and he wouldn’t listen.  And he took the yellow tacky stuff off the the posters and we don’t know what he did with it because we can’t find it.  And we tried to get him to listen but we just couldn’t make him mind us.”

I apologized to the obviously perfect children and suppressed the urge to make them as edentulous as I wanted to make their mother.

As I left the room, I also had the joy of apologizing to the mom of the boy that The Beast encouraged to help him in his destruction of the classroom posters.

At this point Ms. Amy was still comforting the child that The Beast hit, even though he was no longer crying and was completely fine.  I honestly felt like she was making a big show of how bad his injury was so that she could make me feel even worse than I already did.

“Here, honey, let me see if you’re okay.  Do you have a mark?  It’ll be okay.  Mommy will be here to pick you up soon.”

I felt like she was hoping the other mother would show up while she was comforting this completely fine child so that I would have the joy of groveling to his mother too.

Okay, Ms. Amy.  I get it.  I suck.  This sweet, innocent boy got hurt by my horribly behaved child.  He’s disobedient and wild.  I must be a terrible, ungodly parent to have a child who is so disobedient.  I’m so happy for you that your son and daughter are perfect and have never disobeyed you.  And I’m so glad that you taught them to be so dismayed and shocked by disobedience that they have the nerve to approach an adult that they don’t know and make her feel like utter and complete crap.  And I’m so glad that they pointed out my horrible parenting in front of you and you did not once tell them that it wasn’t their place to tell me how much my kid and I suck.  Good work, Ms. Amy.  You no longer need to comfort a completely fine child for me to get the point.  I really do get it.

We finally left church and made our way to the restaurant.  As we were waiting in the booth for our food to arrive, The Beast was jumping up and down on the seat, hitting his brother and trying to do somersaults on the bench.

I took him outside for a timeout and told him that if he didn’t sit on his bottom and behave, he and I were leaving the restaurant and were going to sit in the car until everyone else finished their lunch.

I asked him if he understood me, and he said, “Yes, ma’am,” which I’m pretty sure he thinks means “F— you.”

We went back into the restaurant and I calmly sat back down and began eating my salad.  Just as I put my second bite of food in my mouth, The Beast started trying to do flips on the seat again.

I started to stand up to take The Beast outside to the van.  My mom said, “Let Virginia Slims Man handle this.  You’re on edge right now.  Let him take this one.”  I sat back down and scooted away from The Beast so that I wasn’t close enough to reach over and slam his face into his hot pizza.

Unfortunately, by this point it was too late.  I could feel myself losing control.  I made Virginia Slims Man move so I could get out of the booth, and I ran, crying, out of the restaurant to the car.

So here I sit.

I think what I’m most afraid of is that The Beast is going to be that kid that nobody likes.  That child that no one wants to invite to birthday parties because of the dread they feel when they see him coming.  That child that one teacher will warn another about because of how ill-behaved he is.

And it bothers me that I feel like I’m being judged by people that have no idea what it’s like to battle daily, hourly, with a child whose stubbornness and temper outlast your resolve.  It’s entirely possible that Ms. Amy was genuinely concerned about the other child and it’s entirely possible that she wasn’t judging me at all, but I felt like I was being judged by her and her children.

I feel like people assume that a strong-willed, rambunctious child obviously has crappy, uninvolved parents.

I swear, I’m trying.  I struggle every damn day to help The Beast to make better choices, and I honestly thought I was making progress in my parenting and he was making progress in his self-control.  But if I were really doing better, I wouldn’t be sitting in my van in the parking lot of a restaurant writing a blog post on tear-soaked paper, would I?


P.S.  I’m home now, obviously, and I feel much better.  I’m typing this with a belly full of cookie dough and tequila.  I’ll probably throw up later.

My husband, God bless the fool, came to me a while back and said, “Are you still mad at me?”  I said, “Why would you think I was mad at you?”  He said, “Because when you were in the restroom at the restaurant and I ordered your salad, I forgot to order it with the dressing on the side.”

Dear God, I must be a total hag if my husband thinks his failure to order my dressing on the side would send me into a full-blown psychotic breakdown.


Vampires…baby diapers…proms, WTF?

I had a dream last night that I was going to the prom with Robert Pattinson, despite the fact that I find him, and all things Twilight, repulsive and despite the fact that I’ll be 40 in three months.  At the pre-prom dinner, I had to change a friend’s baby’s diaper but they didn’t have any diapers, so I had to take the baby to the store and buy diapers.  By the time I made it back, the prom was over and Robert was angry with me so he hid in the attic of his parents’ house.  I found him in the attic shower, climbed in (both fully clothed, you perv) and apologized.


What the jack does that mean?

Birds — Harmless Creatures or Satan with Wings?

Disclaimer:  This post is not about kids or family.  It’s about my insanity.  Also, don’t read this if you love birds.  You’re not going to be happy with where I end up.

I hate birds.

I should clarify.  I hate live birds.  Chicken is delicious.

When I was a kid, if my sisters or I found a bird feather in the yard, we would pick it up and caress it and rub it against our faces, and my mother, who I can only assume was drunk and therefore no longer able to comprehend the plethora of diseases we were likely acquiring, did not flip out.  Or maybe she was completely aware of the risks of rubbing the shedded wings of diseased birds on one’s face but was willing to allow us to take those risks.

If The Good One or The Beast finds a bird feather in the yard, I assume that the bird was flying happily overhead when it was overcome by the symptoms of bird flu and then fell, dead, out of the sky.

I assume that that bird feathers that they bring to me with great excitement and joy are little-bitty, colorful, fluffy hypodermic needles of death.

Last year, The Good One had to do a project on wolves.  He used a board for his display and needed something to make a wolf den out of. [Yes, I used “of” at the end of the sentence.  You can go ahead and suck it if that bothers you.  PMS.  Sorry.]  Virginia Slims Man and The Good One were outside trying find something to use for a den, found an empty bird’s nest and BROUGHT IT INTO MY HOUSE!

I have no idea what sort of sane person my husband thought he was married to, because he decided to glue that hideous, cholera-infested nest to The Good One’s board.  He completed this task on my kitchen table. I pulled my shirt up over my nose to prevent the bird death from entering my body.

I repeatedly emphasized the fact that we were all going to be dead within a day from bird diseases and when the medical examiner finally showed up because of the smell that drew the attention of our neighbors, he would find our bodies slumped over the wolf den, covered in bites from bird mites.

Because VSM has learned after 18 years of marriage that you cannot argue with insanity, he removed the nest and disinfected everything it touched.

Our zoo has a giant aviary, or as I like to call it “The House of Flying Pestilence,” that houses hundreds and hundreds of birds.  For a mere dollar, you can enter The House of Flying Pestilence, get a stick that has a bunch of birdseed glued to it, and then you can have a flock of birds fight right in front of your face to be the one that gets to dig its claws into your hand or wrist so it can sit there and eat the birdseed.

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, the birds will fight right on your hand.  You might even get pecked in the process.

It’s great fun.

When you leave the birdhouse, the zoo employees tell you to wash your hands at the sink right outside.

You know what that means, right?  It means that they realize that birds are disease-carrying rodents with wings.

And lately, when I’ve been walking/running/hyperventilating in my neighborhood, I’ve noticed a larger than normal amount of birds flying around.  At first I thought they were bats, but Virginia Slims Man told me “They are not bats, you moron; they are martins and they are probably flying around in hysterics because of the infinity-billion mosquitoes in the air.  So instead of trying to shoot them out of the sky with laser beam eyes, you should be grateful for them.”

Ginny Slims can be a total ass.

I swear to you that on my run today, one of those supposedly kind birds flew straight at my face and only turned away from me when he got close enough for me to touch him, and I’m pretty sure he did that because I started Tae-bo’ing the air and shrieking in fear.

And did you read this story about the birds flying into the engine of a plane and forcing an emergency landing?  If you read/watch that story, you’ll be reminded about the plane that landed on the Hudson River, also because of birds.

So basically, birds, which I hate, will fly into the engine of your plane (happens all the time), cause the engine to stop working and then your plane will crash.

I apologize if you were unaware of this and are about to fly somewhere.  I suggest heading to the airport a week before your flight and spreading some sort of poison birdseed around so that all the birds in the area will die before you fly.

But that’s just what I’d do.

I’m thinking that when the Bible says that Satan convinced one-third of the angels to choose the dark side of the Force, the angels weren’t so much angels as they were birds, and he didn’t get one-third of them so much as he got all of them.

So I’d like to find someone to kill all the birds.

If you are a member of PETA, I don’t really care.  You can tell me that birds are creatures with feelings, and I’ll let you know if you’re right by listening for the sound of their screams when I throw them on my grill.

P.S.  One of my favorite books is To Kill a Mockingbird.  The irony is not lost on me.

A Sure Sign of Armageddon.

The Good One had a soccer game this morning, and The Beast had his best day ever! I  had to put him in timeout once for putting his foot over the white sideline after I told him he could not go on the field (he’s very much a boundary-pusher), but other than that, the child was an angel.

Or a relative angel.

Or less a minion of the devil.

I’m pretty sure this means the end is nigh.

Assuming “nigh” means near.

Either way, Satan’s Hot Pocket is cold and he’s wearing boots because it’s snowing in Hell.

Bug Walks and Harnesses

Yesterday my mom and I were in Old Navy doing a little shopping.  Normally, I hate Old Navy.  I promise it’s not because I’m a clothing snob.  90% of my wardrobe comes from a mixture of Sam’s Club, Target (not the cute stuff) and The Good One’s school fundraisers.

As you can imagine, I’m quite snazzy.

While at Old Navy, I found these pants and shorts that are easily the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn.  They have a wide elastic waistband and when you put them on, it feels like heaven is caressing your butt.  So if you can get past the fact that you’re now sporting elastic-waisted pants that are likely incredibly popular with the retirement village crowd, you will thank me for helping you find the most comfortable clothing ever made.

So, as usual, that is not even a little bit related to the point of my story.

While in Old Navy I got a phone call from The Beast’s preschool.  I always get a knot in the pit of my stomach when they call because I figure one of a few things has happened:

1.  They lost him.  This has actually happened.  They eventually found him hiding under a table eating one of his classmate’s cookies.

2.  He escaped out of the window.  This has also happened.  His classroom, thank God, is on the first floor of the building.  His teachers had the window open because it was such a beautiful day.  He, being an evil genius, saw the escape route, climbed a bookcase and was out the window before his teachers realized what had happened.  Fortunately he was quickly apprehended and returned to his class.  I kind of expect this to happen again in the future but instead of a preschool it’ll be a jail, and instead of teachers finding him it’ll be prison guards.

Same difference.

3.  He’s run away from the playground and jumped into the lake.  This has NOT happened, but I figure it’s only a matter of time.

Well, his teacher called to tell me that they were going to take a bug walk and they were concerned about him running away from them because of his nearly superhuman speed and his desire to perpetrate all manner of evil.  Honestly, The Beast alone in the woods could mean forest fires.  You really never know.

His one teacher told me that The Beast’s other teacher had a backpack harness and they wanted to know if they could put the harness on The Beast so that he didn’t run away from them near the lake.

Now, I have no idea how you feel about harnesses/leashes.  Before The Beast I was very anti-harness.  It thought it looked funny and I didn’t understand how parents couldn’t just force their child to stay with them.  I threw about phrases like “Children aren’t animals” and “That’s inhumane.”

Karma, being the psychotic bitch that she is, remembered these statements of judgment and decided to bludgeon me with them.

So, I adopted The Beast and realized that sometimes, even if you’re the most awesome mom on the earth (if you discount the heavy reliance on tequila and the desire to smack your child in the head with heavy cookware), you cannot make your children listen to you.

Virginia Slims Man and I talked about harnesses and leashes, and I just can’t bring myself to buy one.  I am not judging you if you use a harness.  I WAS judging you about 4 years ago, but now I get it.  And honestly, if toddler shock collars were legal, I’d be all up in that business.

I told The Beast’s teacher that she could put a harness on The Beast so that he didn’t kill himself in the lake or start a forest fire.  I’d rather pick him up from school alive than dead.  And since I have no idea how fast his teachers can sprint, I didn’t trust that they’d be able to catch him if he decided to go for a swim.

My mom and I got a big kick out of imagining The Beast with a backpack harness.

Way back when I liked my pets and didn’t fantasize about them being carried off by large birds of prey, I had this dog.  Her name was Scout and she was a sweet dog, but she had this penchant for running away from us when we’d go for walks, so we’d put her on a leash.  The instant that leash was attached to her collar, she’d throw herself on the ground, roll onto her back and become a large, fluffy, white sack of cement.

You could not get her to stand up for anything.  She would let you drag her around by her neck, but under no circumstances was she going to condone this humiliating ritual of control by walking while being attached to a leash.

I kind of expected The Beast to be like this.

When I picked him up at the end of the day, I asked his teacher how the walk went and she said that the other teacher was only kidding about having a harness.  So I asked the other teacher and she said, “I would never put harness on him.  I just told him he had to hold my hand and he did fine.”

So I still don’t know how The Beast would do with a harness.

As we were walking to the van, we walked by a mom who was getting her twins out of her car.  They were about 18 months old, and low and behold, they each had a harness.  The little girl twin sported her harness proudly, like it was a designer purse.

The boy twin screamed like he was being assaulted, threw himself on the grass and became a sack of cement.  He absolutely refused to stand up with this leash attached to his cute little monkey backpack.  His mom tried to drag him by the backpack but he just screamed louder.  She eventually picked him up and carried him into the school.

So I think I’ve decided against a harness for The Beast, because as bizarre as it looks to see a kid walking while attached to a leash, it looks even weirder to see a kid being dragged by a leash.

And I feel relatively confident that The Beast would be a dragger.

Easter — Me: Take that, Satan. Satan: I’ll see your “Take that” and raise you poisoned deviled eggs.

Do you celebrate Easter?  If not, what’s wrong with you?  I’m kidding.  I judge no one for not celebrating or celebrating anything.  As I mentioned, I grew up in a cult and we didn’t celebrate Easter.  Not that not celebrating Easter means you’re a member of a cult.  It might just mean you’re Jewish or Hindu or Muslim, or it might mean you’re a member of a cult.  Really, that’s between you and your Rabbi or Buddha or the guy who’s telling you to drink the purple Koolaid.

None of that matters for the purposes of my story.  I would, however, suggest not drinking the Koolaid at religious functions.

I celebrate Easter.  We always go to our best friend’s house for Easter because none of us have family that live nearby.  We’ve become surrogate families to each other, which is actually quite nice.

It’s always my job to bake desserts for Easter.  I love to bake.  I’d bake all day every day if my gall bladder didn’t get all pissy with me every time I eat a lot of fat.

My gall bladder is a raging bitch.

As I mentioned previously, I had been doing some baking on Armageddon Saturday, which will forevermore be how I refer to the day before Easter.  After Virginia Slims Man returned from running errands and saved me from committing the Great Skillet Massacre of 2012, I decided to do a bit more baking.

I made deviled eggs, and I found it ironic to be making something called deviled eggs on Armageddon Saturday in anticipation for Resurrection Sunday.  Have you ever thought about that?  Why is an egg named after Satan traditionally served on Easter Sunday? I bet that’s something Dana Carvey’s Church Lady would consider.

You should Google it.

I had prepared egg whites for a meringue.  I had squeezed one and a half cups of key lime juice for three pies I was going to make.  Do you know how long it takes to do this?  About a bajillion hours.  It’s like trying to get a cup of milk by squeezing an ant’s teat.  I realize ants probably don’t have teats, but I don’t know a tiny milk-making mammal small enough to convey the amount of time and effort it took to get that key lime juice.

I also had a fridge full of groceries that I had purchased the day before in anticipation for my sister and her family’s arrival on Sunday night.  They weren’t going to make it in time for Easter dinner, but my brother-in-law is a dessert lover so I wanted to have some desserts ready for when they arrived.

You’ll remember in my other post about Armageddon Saturday that I mentioned that no good can come from taunting Satan.  You really need to listen to me when I tell you these things, because I know what I’m talking about.  My dad’s a minister and that nearly makes me a biblical genius.  (Yes, for many years he was a minister in a cult.  Now he’s a minister not in a cult.)

After spending all Saturday evening drinking tequila and doing all kinds of prep work for Sunday, I went to bed.

I woke up the next morning with the intention of making cinnamon rolls for breakfast and then getting ready to go to church.  I went into the kitchen to start making the cinnamon rolls and discovered that the refrigerator door had been left open overnight.

I personally think that Satan opened my fridge door and rearranged the contents of the door shelves so that the door would be ajar all night long.  VSM tried to tell me that I’m just an idiot who put the tall bottle of ketchup on the side of the door that would cause it to bump up against the cheese drawer, thus not allowing the door to shut fully.

He’s such an ass for taking Satan’s side.

Well, apparently a crack is all Satan needs to breathe his hot, fetid breath into the fridge because the internal temperature of my fridge was a balmy 65 degrees.  (Yes, I have a thermometer in my fridge and I check it daily.  Does this really surprise you?)

You can lay out at 65 degrees.  You can wear shorts at 65 degrees.  You cannot store perishables at 65 degrees.

I’m pretty sure that Satan was snacking on a Hot Pocket, sitting on his couch in hell and getting a good chuckle at the freak-out that he was watching.  More than likely, God was getting a kick out of it too.

In my disbelief and panic, I started touching everything in the fridge.  The milk cartons were sweating.  The lime juice was warm.  The deviled eggs smelled like something that Satan’s actual chickens in hell would lay.

I went into full botulism-eradication mode and started dumping everything into the garbage can.  Every bit of prep work I had done the day before was now sitting in a trash bag.

I do not know if key lime juice can grow bacteria that quickly, but in my mind it was already lethal.  All of my opened condiments were tossed.  I threw away the now-putrid deviled eggs and all of the lunch meat, cheeses, salads and vegetables that I had in my fridge.

I kept thinking about the children in Africa that my parents would tell me about every time I didn’t finish my dinner as a child, and I comforted myself in the fact that even starving children in Africa do not want the dysentery that comes from eating Satan’s rancid poultry.

So now my plans for Easter were changed drastically.  Instead of the delicious homemade-ish cinnamon rolls that I was going to make using refrigerated crescent rolls that were now teeming with listeria, VSM ran to the doughnut shop and bought doughnuts.

And because my refrigerator was now empty of everything but an unopened jar of pickles and a new bottle of mustard, I had to spend Easter Sunday at the grocery store so that I could remake all of the desserts for Easter and also be able to feed my sister and her family that night.

Well, as it so happens, there aren’t a whole lot of grocery stores open on Easter morning, so I was forced to go to Walmart.  I fully expected the store to be completely empty, but would you believe that the store was absolutely packed?

What the hell were all of these people doing in Walmart on Easter morning?  Surely we didn’t all tick off Satan and wake up to a fridge full of warm food.

I tore around Walmart with a half-written list and threw groceries into the cart. I was so insane with insanity that I didn’t even have the time to check seals and pop-up buttons on jars.  After rebuying all of the things I had bought two days earlier, I drove home and started dictating to my family members the things I needed them to do so that I’d get everything remade in time for Easter.

I was the Easter Nazi.

I had VSM squeezing key limes, boiling and peeling eggs and smashing yolks.  I had The Good One cleaning up my messes and I had The Beast sitting in front of the TV watching whatever the hell he wanted.  Probably Basic Instinct.

About 20 minutes before we were due to be at our friend’s house, I jumped in the shower.  I’m very grateful that my friends have seen me at my absolute, unshowered, unmade-up worst because I do believe my appearance on Easter would have frightened babies.  And Jesus.  And baby Jesus.

After a very delicious dinner, we headed back home so that VSM could get ready to pick up my sister and her family.  While he was gone, my two best friends came back to my house to hang out and let the kids play.

And to drink wine.

The Beast was eating some crackers and got a small piece stuck in his throat.  Not enough to choke him, but enough to make him gag and cough.  He managed to gag up the piece of cracker that was bothering him, and then, because it was Easter Sunday and because I had ticked off Satan, The Beast threw up.  First, he threw up in my hand.  Then when my hand overflowed, he threw up on the floor.  Then my one friend grabbed a big metal bowl and he threw up the entire contents of his stomach into the bowl.

I know it was the entire contents of his stomach because I saw the rainbow sprinkles from his breakfast doughnut.

Just in case this hasn’t come up before, do not have kids unless you’re willing to catch vomit.  There is not a mother in the world who hasn’t used her hands as a receptacle for the regurgitated contents of her child’s stomach.

I put The Beast in the shower and changed my vomit-splattered clothes while my two friends cleaned and disinfected my entire kitchen.

So the fiasco of my Easter has made me realize that I have the two best friends in the world, because not everyone would be willing to clean up your kid’s vomit.

I also have decided to taunt Satan no longer.  It’s too expensive to replace the contents of my fridge and I can’t stand the smell of his eggs.  Plus I’m not very fond of the way vomit feels in my hands.

An OCD moment, brought to you by the makers of Tic-Tac, the just-under-2-calorie breath mint.

My sister and her family are in town visiting me for a few days, which is why you’re getting this short OCD post rather than a story about how Satan tried to destroy my Easter.  That story will wait for another day.

Today’s story is about Tic-Tacs and insanity.

You see this pack of Tic-Tacs?

Contaminated Tic-Tacs that will likely poison me.

Unless you’re color-blind like my one brother-in-law (the idiot savant), you’ll notice the one green Tic-Tac in the pack of white Tic-Tacs.  I bought a four-pack that was completely wrapped and didn’t see this when I purchased it.  I don’t buy irregular things because my OCD doesn’t let me.

I cannot eat these Tic-Tacs and let me tell you why.  Here’s what I think happened.

Joe the Serial Killer who works at the Tic-Tac manufacturing plant wants to kill people.  One day he’s working on the green Tic-Tac assembly line and decides to grab a green Tic-Tac to take home and paint with a coating of cyanide.  Unfortunately, when he returns to work the next day, he’s assigned to work on the white Tic-Tac assembly line.  However, unwilling to wait until his shift brings him back to the green Tic-Tac assembly line, he opts to insert one green Tic-Tac into a package of white Tic-Tacs hoping that the idiot who purchases them will just assume that there was some sort of benign screw-up at the Tic-Tac plant.  Said idiot will eat the green Tic-Tac and die an incredibly painful death.

Well, Joe the Tic-Tac Serial Killer, you have met your match.  I am not an idiot and I will not eat that green Tic-Tac.

I wish I were kidding.

P.S.  When did Tic-Tacs stop being the “One-and-a-half-calorie breath mint”?