Robot Mom

Every mother has to do it.  Every mother hates doing it.  And ours was no exception.  What I’m referring to is when a mother has to scold her children for something they’ve done wrong.

Most mothers like to carry the belief that their children are perfect little angels who can do no wrong, and they live in that blissful world of ignorance until they’re met face-to-face with the dark evil that resides within the heart of all children. 

Sometimes it only takes one or two confrontations with this evil for the mother to snap and transform into the alternate, believer-in-punishment mother that has to take control.

Sometimes, it takes a bit more “prodding” from the children.  It’s usually when it takes a bit more prodding, however, the final result is more explosive than it is when it only takes one or two confrontations.

Basically, picture your mother as a volcano that’s been dormant for hundreds of years.  Before you know it, your mom is Vesuvius, and you’re Pompeii.

Now most children are aware that the father is the primary dealer of punishment when it comes to misbehavior.  As a result, most children tend to behave themselves more appropriately when their father is present, and rampage around when dad’s not looking.

Little Brother and I didn’t really have that option too often.  Both of our parents were around most of the time.  So mom never had to revert to that alternate personality that lies dormant in all mothers.

However, there were rare occasions where dad would be out for some reason or another, and we were left alone with mom. 

We should have never been left alone with mom.

We were monsters.

Actually, looking back on things, we never should’ve been left alone in general.  If you’ve read Microwaves Beware Part 2 you’ll know exactly what I mean.  And there are many more stories within that category, but I’ll write about those at some other point.

Little Brother and I knew for a fact that when dad was gone, we could get away with murder.  We pushed mom’s limits often.  We’d run around the house like crazy little leprechauns on crack.

We’d slide down the stairs in laundry baskets.

Make messes that encompassed the entirety of the house and refuse to clean it up.

And pretty much any other form of completely ignoring the authority our mother had over us.

It was during these times that our mother would try to be the good, calm mother that she is, and talk us down peacefully.  However, after continued ignorance from our end, mom would revert to the preinstalled programming that all mothers carry.

Little Brother and I, who were still young and unfamiliar with the ways women work, were always startled by this new, in-control mom who would yell and tell us what to do.

We were scared of this new entity that wasn’t easy to manipulate and made us clean up the messes we’d made.

All we knew was that this wasn’t our real mother.

This physically identical copy had replaced our mother during a split second window in which we weren’t fully paying attention.

We called her…Robot Mama.

Robot Mama yelled and stomped around the house, telling us that it was our fault she was like this, telling us that it was our fault she was yelling.

Our belief in Robot Mama evolved and became so real that Little Brother and I began having nightmares about this evil, mechanical entity.

I remember one night in specific that Little Brother woke up crying because, in his nightmare, he had opened the closet in our house where the vacuum was kept, and found the robotic twin of our mom next to the vacuum, standing there silently, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

It wasn’t long after his retelling of this nightmare that I too began having nightmares of my own, one repeating nightmare, where I would be running from Robot Mama as she clomped around the house.  Somehow in my dream I would manage to sneak around behind her, and the sight that awaited me was a terrifying one.  Right there, in the middle of her back, was a giant Duracell or Energizer battery, powering the creature.

Being awaked from these dreams by our mother was usually a chaotic experience.  We were already upset, but seeing our mother immediately after and not knowing if she was the real mom or the mechanized monster, was absolutely terrifying.

As we got older, the appearances of Robot Mama became more and more scarce.  Whether that’s because of us behaving more, our mother becoming more acclimated to our antics, or a combination of both, I can’t say. 

However I’d like to believe that it was because Robot Mama’s battery died and real mom got rid of her in a garage sale.

Microwaves Beware Part 2

So a little while ago I posted Microwaves Beware Part 1 saying that I would be posting Part 2 within a few weeks...and I suppose it HAS been a few weeks...kinda...

Ok, ok.  It's been two months, I know.  Give me a break.  You try studying Chinese and then tell me you have time to answer to every whim of my reading audience.  Do you think Mr. Rogers dropped everything he was doing to please the small children who clung to his show as if it was a religion?

Well...I guess he kind of did...seeing as that was his job.  But you know what I mean.

Anyway, this is yet another story of why I should not be allowed to have microwaves, let alone use them.  And either by a turn of ironic fate, or by the fact that my supervisors read my prior blog about "microwave safety", my roommates and I no longer have a microwave in our dorm room.

I never really thought about that before now, but it's kind of funny either way.  Remind me to write a note to Karma at some point telling her "good game."

So here's the story now.

I was 12 and Little Brother was 10.  It was a boring summer day, and all the cartoons we had wanted to watch were done for the day.  It was about mid afternoon and total summer boredom had set in.

Mom was out in her garden, and dad has just stepped out to set up the sprinkler to help out our front lawn that was suffering from heat stroke.

Little brother and I decided that our toys and video games were boring and that the only thing that would quench our thirst for something to do was the microwave.

We didn’t really make plans of what we wanted to put in there.  All we knew was something was going in there and we were gonna see what happened to it.

I think if there had been a plan at all, it was to put different things in there to watch the different results.  Fortunately for us, and the microwave, we only got through one experiment before our research got shut down.

Our first, and only, test subject was a potato chip.

I don’t know how we landed on the idea of a potato chip, but it was available, and we could reach them in the cabinet.  They would do just fine.

We had enough brains to grab a plate from the cupboard at least.  We put a single potato chip on the plate and placed it in the microwave.

Thankfully for our young, easily distracted minds, this was one of the earlier, not as complicated and advanced microwaves that required a secret, eighty-button code to set the cooking time.

We decided thirty minutes was ample time to conduct our experiment on the potato chip.

Pay attention that I said thirty minutes and not seconds.

Yes.  We’re crazy.  We know.

Five minutes passed and nothing really changed other than the fact that the potato chip browned ever so slightly and the air had a smell of “fresh” potato chips.  The experiment was going smoothly so far.

It was around the ten-minute mark that things started to get moving at a quicker pace.  The chip had turned a dark, charred brown, and the air no longer smelled like fresh potato chip, but overcooked, potentially burning potato chip.

I remember it was also at this point that we began to get a little nervous.  We looked around to make sure mom and dad were still not present and weren’t able to disrupt this effort to make advances in the field of nuclear science.  We continued to push forward with our experiment.

At fifteen minutes, halfway through the originally set time, we knew we’d taken things too far.

The chip was crisp and black, and had in fact begun to ignite in spots.  Somewhere along the way, the plate had begun to fill up with a liquid that we later found out was some sort of grease.  In fact, I’m pretty sure we actually managed to liquefy part of the potato chip.

The air definitely smelled like something was burning, though whether it was a potato chip smell, or burning flesh, was indistinguishable anymore.

We quickly popped open the door to the microwave and grabbed the nearest things we could to put out the ignited potato chip, which just so happened to be the spray bottle of water my mom kept for her plants.  It would have to do.

The smell, that up until that point had been only slight in the air, flowed out of the microwave like water flows through a crack in the Hoover Dam.

Panicking, Little Brother continued to make sure the chip was out by dousing it with water, while I ran to the bathroom to grab the Lysol air freshener.

I ran through the house, releasing a spray of blueberry aerosol through the air generously.  That would cover up the fact that we’d burned a potato chip to indistinguishable proportions right?

Wrong.  As soon as dad came in the house, he smelled the mixture of burning potato chip/flesh and blueberry and became suspicious.

Our nonchalant cartoon watching in the other room didn’t work for a second.

Needless to say, we got in a lot of trouble and weren’t allowed to use the microwave for a long time afterwards.

Also the plate we did this all on had a permanent scorch mark on it.  Mom used it as a constant reminder of our stupidity.

I think she still has it too…

So in conclusion, me + microwaves = doom.  Microwaves had better look out when they see me coming with a food item, or any other item for that matter.

Microwaves Beware Part 1

I was reminded the other day of why I should avoid microwaves at all cost.  I’m a microwave murderer.  Not a premeditative murderer, mind you, I’m more of a microwave man slaughterer.  You know, the one where it’s an accident.

Maybe it’s my curiosity toward the idea of pumping things full of nuclear waves. 

Maybe it’s my inability to figure out the stupid buttons because it’s never as easy as pushing one button to cook your food. 

Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m too scatter brained and ADD to pay attention to things I put in the microwave and forgot about until odd smells invade my nasal cavity.

The world may never know.

For example, yesterday, one of the guys on my floor offered my roommate and I some of his leftover hot wings.  Being poor college students that love to eat (and man do I love to eat) we eagerly accepted.

He handed me a cardboard takeout box.  I didn’t bother to look inside the box first to check on the status of these hot wings.  All I knew was that they were cold, and they needed to get all warm and cozy before entering my stomach.  What better appliance to use than our friend the microwave?

I placed the box in the microwave and began the task of pushing the eighty buttons it takes to warm up my future snack for thirty seconds.

Once this is done, and I’m sure they’re really only going to be cooking for 30 seconds, I begin doing other things.  I put some music on, check my email, and run to the bathroom to check the mirror to make sure it’s still the face I’m used to looking at and not someone else’s.

That’s when I smell something…odd.  It smells like someone’s cooking marshmallows.  All I can think at this point is, “Oh my god!  Smores would be so good right now!”

Then I slowly realize that there’s no way anyone could be properly roasting marshmallows in the dorms.

I follow the smell from my bathroom towards my microwave.  My mind starts thinking of the horrible things that could be happening in there to make such an awful smell, because I’m pretty sure I’ve never smelled hot wings smell like that.

I peer through the window on the microwave and find, to my horror, that for once my imagination wasn’t enough to encompass what my eyes were seeing.

Flames covered the entire take out box.  Not a few sparks.  Not a small, candle-like flame.  I’m talking a literal fire in my microwave.

Apparently, whatever place the guy got the hot wings from wrapped the hot wings in two layers of aluminum foil before putting them in the take out box.

If it were me, I would’ve just slapped the wings in the box and called it good.

But apparently that’s only me, because my roommate informed me that wrapping perishable foodstuffs, like hot wings, in tin foil is a very common occurrence and that I was stupid for ruining our snack.

I ran cups of water back and forth from the bathroom to put out the fire in the microwave.  Once it was finally out, I carried the charred box into the bathroom like a pallbearer carries a coffin at a funeral.  I placed its body in the tub and ran some more water on it, just in case.

The cremation ceremony that followed was a solemn one.

I then went back to look at the damage in the microwave.  Mr. Clean Magic Erasers were definitely going to be on my list of cleaning supplies to buy.

After purchasing said Magic Erasers, I proceeded to cleaning the microwave.

Regardless of the claims that these Magic Erasers in fact do incorporate the use of magic in their cleaning powers, no amount of magic was able to completely clean the burn marks out of the microwave.

She still works, but I guarantee my friend the microwave, is no longer my friend.

This brings me to another story from my teenage years concerning a microwave and why I should never be allowed to use them.  But I'll mention that next time, otherwise this blog would be WAY too long.

Waffles Are the ONLY Thing That Matters

So today I decided my need for a fresh, warm waffle smothered in butter and so much syrup you could drown in it, outweighed my need for anything else.

When I get these sort of cravings, and they happen quite frequently, everything else goes flying out the window.

After I finally managed to pry myself away from my computer and its endless supply of things to distract me from my need for waffles, it really hit me.  If I did not get waffles, my reason for living would be non-existent.

I texted my friend and convinced him of the urgency of going out to procure waffles.  He decided to spite me by taking a quick shower first.  All I could think is, "We're going to Denny's.  Not a fancy restaurant like Olive Garden.  There's no need for a shower."

Maybe I'm biased right now, but these waffles are darn important.

We finally get in my pickup and begin our drive to Denny's.

I talk feverishly about waffles the entire trip.

We get to Denny's and I begin to plan my waffle experience.  I'm going to have a lot of them.  That is, until I get the menu and there is only ONE waffle related item on the menu.  The Belgian Waffle Slam, which to my horror only come with one waffle, two eggs, two pieces of bacon and two sausage links.

I frantically searched the menus in vain for anything else waffle related.  But to no avail.

A small panic attack creeped through me.  I didn't want A waffle in its non-plural form.  I wanted a freaking HERD of waffles.

It was somewhere amongst this panic that the waitress came.  I made a hasty decision.

Me: I have a serious question about your waffles.  Can I just get the waffles plural and skip everything else?

Waitress: Yes. So you don't want the bacon or...

Me: Nope.  Just the waffles.

Waitress: So two?

Me: Three.  Make it three.  You have no idea how much my life depends on these right now.

She leaves and my friend has his head down on the table in total shame from being with the crazy waffle person and having to sit through this ordeal.

I'm feeling very comfortable with my future waffle situation when the waitress comes back.

Waitress: The Belgian waffles are $6.50 each.  Just so you know.

Me: *after a moments silence for what I'm about to say* Ok....just two waffles....

I sat there after she walked away, morbidly depressed and slightly defeated by how much waffles cost nowadays.  These had better be some pretty freaking impressive waffles.

I can see them!  They're here!

They look phenomenal!!!

OMG!  That's ALL I can say right now!  I'll write more later!!!

The waitress came over to check on us.  I must have given her a stay away from my waffles look because she got this terrified look on her face and booked it outta my waffle time.

Yall should feel very loved that I've been stopping every so often, mid-waffle, to write more of this waffle induced garbage.

My friend is telling me about this magical place where he's from in Virginia that serves nothing BUT waffles.  Not pancakes.  Not croissants.  Waffles.

I must go to this place.

I'm down to the last bite.  Which is ALWAYS the best bite.

Well the waffles are gone, but my love for them will live on forever.

Thank you all for coming with me on my psycho waffle rant.  Please don't look down on me for being crazy.

Why Clowns Really Are Hell's Minions

The circus was in town, and my parents decided to take me to it.  Probably because they wanted to go out, and the circus is the only place where a 4-year-old, like myself (who was prone to fits of excitement due to the fact that I had new Batman underwear, and fits of rage due to the fact that Batman was on the rear where I couldn’t look down and see him) was socially acceptable.

At some point in every child’s life, they nurture the idea of running away with the circus.  And who can blame them?  The circus is like visual crack for kids.  Bright colors, fancy costumes, fun music, and those are just the realistic reasons.  Most kids just want to run away with the circus for one of two reasons.  Because their tiny imaginations have told them having a pet tiger would be the best thing ever, or, they saw Snoopy do it.

Mine was a combination of both.                 

As we walked into the big tent, my mind exploded with the possibilities.  You could literally watch my pupils dilate and my eyes glaze over at the sheer grandeur of it all, like the way you can watch a deer’s eyes do the same thing as it stares at an oncoming semi.  And, like the deer, I was blissfully unaware of the horror that was to come.

This particular circus, to say the least, was mediocre at best.  The trained tigers, that I so longed to keep as pets, performed nothing other than their uncanny ability to evacuate their bowels at the sound of the whip, and then sniff it.

The trapeze artist was a dirty woman.  And when I say dirty, I mean she looked like she hadn’t properly bathed in a while.  She was wearing a thong that gave her a major case of butt floss, and liked to go up and down the ladders to the trapeze platform a lot, so you got quite the show.  Good thing too, because we didn’t stay much longer after that, so at least we got our money’s worth.

It was at this point, between the bare bottom trapeze act and the main event, the clowns arrived.

Up until then, I’d never interacted with a clown.  They seemed like alright chaps.  They sure knew how to make everyone laugh.  That is, until they began their sweep of the audience, picking out random individuals to smack on the head with their rubber mallet.

I watched intently as they made their way through the crowd.  A slight feeling of panic began to stir inside my tiny chest.  What if they hit ME on the head!?

 

You could tell the clowns were running out of time to perform their little stunt, because they began to jog around the crowd instead of just walking.  Needless to say, this didn’t help with my mini panic attack.

Finally the clowns made it to our section of the crowd.  I remember mentally preparing myself for the pain of getting hit on the head that was sure to come.  I didn’t, however, prepare myself for the clowns avoiding me entirely, and hitting dad instead.

I lost it.  Instant hysterics broke out.

Me: They hit my daddy…………………..THEY HIT MY DADDY!  THEY HIT MY DADDY!  DAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDYYYYYY!

Dad: Sammy, daddy’s ok, look!  I’m fine.

Me: THEY!  HIT!  MY!  DAAAAAAAADDDDDDDYYYYYYY!

At this point mom also tried to calm me down, because even though an average child’s behavior is socially acceptable at these sorts of establishments, I was quite obviously, not behaving like an average child.

Mom: Daddy’s ok Sammy.  It wasn’t real.  It was pretend.

There was no consoling my broken spirit.

It was then that the clowns decided to do their share in helping to calm me down.  They all walked over to me slowly, like a pack of wolves hunting their prey.

My crying increased tenfold.

They danced around and did their little clown things to cheer me up.  It didn’t work.  The last clown resorted to the last trick in his repertoire, the squirting flower, which he squirted directly in my face.

The cold water on my face and in my eyes shocked me enough to stop my crying momentarily.  A small convulsion trickled through my body as if I’d had a stroke, and not only did I start crying again, but this time, my world was over.

Needless to say, mom and dad decided it was time to leave.

It was from then on my parents took me to fairs, and not circuses.  Fairs have ponies, which are fun and cute.  Fairs don’t have clowns.

It was also after that circus, that clowns terrified me.  I was no longer able to watch The Brave Little Toaster without running from the room screaming during Toaster’s nightmare sequence.

Life as I knew it, would never be the same.