Laura's Tenth Birthday: Satan, Ghosts, and Mass Hysteria

I was really into ghost stories as a child. Really into them.

Laura in third grade, probably thinking about ghost stories

Laura in fourth grade, sporting unfortunate bangs

As luck would have it, a dilapidated old house sat in the woods behind my family's home. My brother and I loved to play there, and one day we found a letter addressed to a James Erbank.

That was all it took: within minutes I had concocted a story about a fire that had destroyed James Erbank's house, killing him and his family. And the agonized ghost of James Erbank had followed us home to live in our attic. Obviously.

Anyways, for my tenth birthday I asked to throw a sleepover. My mom set one ground rule: my friends and I had to stay out of my parents' bedroom.

Mom and me when I was nine

In the days leading up to the sleepover, I plotted an elaborate prank: I would take my friends on a tour of the woods, showing them the dilapidated house. I would then lead them back home and tell the ghost story of James Erbank.

A few years back, my dad had rigged our living room lamps with timers. I asked my dad to set the timers to midnight. I planned to tell the ghost story at 11:30 and end with, "the ghost gets angry when we throw parties. He appears at midnight and turns off the lights."

The day of the party, I quizzed my dad one more time about the lamps. Dad reassured me that the lamps were set for "around midnight."

Young Laura with her James and the Giant Peach diorama: clearly a brilliant child

My friends arrived, and as planned, I showed them the house and dramatically regaled them with the ghost story. Midnight came and passed. The lamps remained lit.

Feeling disappointed, I continued telling stories about James Erbank, assuring my friends he would show up at any moment.

Because seriously. This was me as a kid.

I was an imaginative kid, and I had a bad habit of revving myself up to a completely terrorized state of mind. And so I did that night.

Never mind that I had made up the story entirely. Never mind that I was in my own house, with my big brother in the next room and my parents upstairs. I was so scared I couldn't move. I was so scared I couldn't breathe.

My friends and I grew more and more panicked, waiting for the imaginary ghost that I invented to show up. We packed close together, terrified.

I grew so frightened that I led my friends into the computer room where my brother was trying to ignore the presence of six little girls. 

"We're scared," I hissed.

We settled on the couch and turned on the TV. We promptly gasped: a man in a Satan costume was on TV.

Laura: "SATAN IS HERE. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE."

I lost my head entirely. I looked deep into the eyes of Lucifer in a car commercial and saw true evil. There was only one solution.

Laura: "I'M GOING TO MOM AND DAD'S ROOM."

I thundered up the stairs to my parent's room, with a stampede of little girls following me, terrified of being left alone with Satan and my brother.

I ripped their bedroom door open and hurled myself into their bed. One or two others hurled themselves with me. The others collected at the doorway, peering into the room.

My mom was... not amused. I mean, you give your daughter one rule, and in a moment of ghost story hysteria, she breaks it. 

My mom, realizing I was mildly insane with fear, gathered us up and herded us downstairs. My dad stayed in bed, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with his kid.

My mom guided us to our sleeping bags and gently tucked us in for the night. She soothed and calmed us. We breathed a collective sigh of relief. My mom turned to head back upstairs, the crisis resolved.

And then it happened. The timer kicked in, one hour late. All the lamps turned off. We were plunged into darkness.

You could hear the screams for miles. 

There is a high-pitched scream that little girls can produce, in perfect unison, that breaks the sound barrier. We screamed together, high, loud, and strong. 

We were a symphony of cracked-out dolphins. We made Mariah Carey sound like Barry White, if his voice was a little deeper. The fat lady singing had been reduced to half a dozen fourth graders.

That was my last big sleepover. 

Recaps and Rites of Passage: Winiferd the Blog Turns One and Winiferd the Dog Turns Two

I published our marriage post in a hurry last Friday because I was trying to get the post out to friends and family as quickly as possible.

There's a little bit more to the story.

Ian and I bought our marriage license the day before my birthday, on April 25th.

I forgot to brush my hair and donned my mutant and super-hero shirt. It was a special occasion, you see.

We had zero plans, and in our area, marriage licenses expire after thirty days. I called the courthouse that same day and and politely asked that someone marry us. I received no feedback.

I began calling the courthouse on a daily basis. The weeks passed. With eight days left until the license expired, I began to panic. I called every judge and reverend I could think of, desperate. And they all ignored me.

You guys, we spent 100 bucks on that marriage license. That's, like, ten pizzas from Pizza Hut. Or ten bags of dog food.   

And so, still desperate, I handed the phone to my co-worker who called the courthouse, pretended to be me, and copped an enormous attitude. Within three minutes, I had an appointment with a judge.

I sent Ian a text: "Call me. We're getting married tomorrow at 11:15am."

The morning of the wedding was a blur.

In the car, on the way downtown:

Laura: "I phoned ahead and talked to the judge. Our ceremony might run slightly longer than usual. I added a couple things."

Ian: "Oh yeah?"

Laura: "Yeah. You have to promise to honor and obey me. And I have to promise to make you honor and obey me."   

The cops at the courthouse were straight out of a Reno 911 episode. One rather, err, rugged woman put my purse through a scanner and puffed up like a female Hulk.

Rugged female cop: "Ma'am, do you have a camera in there?"

Laura: Yes. It's my wedding day."

Rugged female cop: <Rolls eyes> <Glares at bride>

Laura: "Eeep."

Rugged female cop: "Cameras aren't allowed."

Luckily another nicer female cop rescued us.

Nicer female cop: "Cameras are always allowed at marriage ceremonies. Congratulations, ma'am!"

Once inside the courthouse, we had a blast. And it was perfect.

The day after we married, Ian and I drove to Jackson for a quick get-away.

We visited the Casey Jones museum and home. You know, the Casey Jones famous for smashing into a stalled freight train and killing himself.

Posing in front of the Casey Jones steam engine. Presumably pre-smash. 

The Casey Jones historic home was terrifying. It had all the charms and graces of the hotel in The Shining. Particularly that scene when the the cascade of blood gushes down the hallway. 

All work and no play makes Laura a dull girl.

Then we went to the Big Cypress Tree state park. We were underwhelmed.

Who drives an extra thirty miles to see poison ivy? We do!

A magnificent specimen of poison ivy

We walked under entire canopies of poison ivy for most of the trail. It was horrifically romantic.

We also visited the Cypress Grove Nature park, which was fifty times cooler than the state park.

We saw ghost-owls. I think.

Yep. Definitely ghost-owls.

Winiferd the dog turns two tomorrow, on May 24th. She has outgrown the incessant hyperactivity of her first year and mellowed into a calmer dog who needs multiple naps everyday.

She adores Spottswood, the yard, the walks around the neighborhood, and the chickens. She even adores New Daddy.

Laura: "Winnie, Daddy loves you."

Ian: "Because I'm forced to."

Laura: "Legally, you have to now. It's in our marriage certificate. I made the judge add a clause."

These days, you'll find Winnie doing this the majority of the time:

Happy birthday, Winnie!

Finally, Winiferd the blog turns one today. The blog has chronicled the best year of my life, and I've had way too much fun writing it.

Thank you for reading, thank you for the feedback, and I hope you stick around.

Ian's Birthday

Ian's birthday was last week. We felt pretty psyched about it.

We had made plans with Ian's mom to meet at the Botanical Gardens in Alabama.

We awoke at 5:00am on Friday morning, Ian's actual birthday, to go meet Ian's mom. We dropped Winnie off with my parents and drove into the ritzy town across the way, as directed by Google Maps.

Suddenly, we saw blue lights flash behind us.

Ian: "I'm being pulled over."

Laura: "Why? You weren't doing anything wrong."

Ian: "I know. I'm confused."

A young, bleached blonde man strode over to Ian's window.

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land "You went straight in a turn-only lane."

Ian: <Baffled>

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Are you from here?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Do you know where our court house is?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Here's your ticket."

Ian: "Thanks?"

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Do you know where our court house is?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "..........."

Needless to say, Ian felt a little angry.

Ian: "He didn't even say happy birthday."

We motored on. Google Maps had indicated a three and a half hour trip.

Google Maps was mistaken. The drive lasted five hours.

At the gardens, we spent the day strolling the grounds with Ian's lovely mom. We basked in the surprisingly pleasant weather and considered our luck changed. We bid farewell to Ian's mom at 3:30 and drove towards home, confident in a simple trip back.

Five Minutes Later 

We found ourselves in bumper-to bumper traffic, ensnared in an ocean of cars, going at a snail's pace.

Thirty Minutes Later 

We passed the wreck that was holding up traffic and got back on our way. Hooray!

Forty Minutes Later 

Laura: "What should we eat for dinner?"

Ian: "Mexican food? I saw a ton of Mexican restaurants on the way here."

Laura: "Okay!"

One Hour Later

We saw zero Mexican restaurants. Our route was a wasteland of McDonald's and Wendy's and Burger King's. But no Mexican restaurants.

Ian: "I must have been dreaming when I saw all those Mexican restaurants. I'm starving."

Laura: "Me too."

Twenty Minutes Later 

Ian spotted a Mexican restaurant. Yay! It's in the scariest part of town on the scariest road in Alabama, but we can eat!

Ian: "I bet someone steals my hubcaps while we eat."

Laura: "Do you hear that? A little dog barking? In that building. Wait... Oh my god! There are two dozen Chihuahuas in there! And they're going ballistic!"

The Chihuahuas were housed in a dark, blank building directly next to the Mexican restaurant.

Laura: "Is that a Chihuahua puppy mill?"

Ian: "The restaurant probably owns them and uses them for food."

Laura: "Eww. What's this place called?"

Ian: "El Parian."

Laura: "That must be Spanish for 'fried Chihuahua'."

We walked into the restaurant and gratefully ordered dinner.

Then the food came.

Laura: "I had no idea food could taste this bad."

Ian: "They have a buffet table for lunch. I bet they reheat the old buffet food for dinner."

Laura: "This stuff would make great diet food. Because nobody would ever eat it."

The restaurant's decor was, well, colorful.

Ian: "Don't ask why, but I feel the distinct need to take a photo of you right now."

Laura: "Toucan Sam and his sugary gang are staring me down. I feel funny inside."

We left the restaurant feeling queasy and more suspicious of the Chihuahuas next door.

But, we were on our way home! Home! We could put this awful car ride behind us!

One Hour Later 

Ian: "Does any of this look familiar?"

Laura: "Not really. But then, everything has looked the same on this trip. Sorta redneck meets Twister. I can't tell if it looks familiar or not."

Ian: "I think we're lost."

Laura: "How can we be lost? It's a straight shot down 72, and we've been going straight on 72."

Ian: "What road are we on?"

Laura: "Umm. Highway 13. Highway 13?"

Ian: "I must have missed a turn."

Laura: "How could you miss a turn? We're meant to go straight for a million miles. The only way we could be lost is if you had suddenly made a U-turn and driven in the opposite direction."

Ian: "That's true. We must be on the right path."

Two Hours Later 

We were not on the right path. We had been barreling forth in the wrong direction for hours.

We were deep into Deliverance country, following the sounds of banjos, the stench of hard liquor, and the screech of the weekly chicken fight.

Ian: "Oh my god, we're in Jasper. How the hell did we end up in Jasper? We drove hours out of our way! @#$%^&*()_++_)(*&^@#$%^&*()#$%^&*(@#$%^&*($%^&*()!@#$%^&!"

One Hour Later

Laura: "Hi, Dad. Remember how I said we'd be home by 6? And then I said we'd be home by 9? Umm, well, we should be home by 1:00 a.m. Hopefully."

Dad: "Are you lost?"

Laura: "Not anymore."

Dad: "Okay. Winnie can spend the night with Mom and me."

Laura: "Thanks."

Ian: "@#$%^&*()@#$%^&*()!@#$%^&*()."

One Hour Later

We drove into Memphis. We were met by unholy construction and a snare of cars and semis.

Ian: "@$#^%%*(&$#^%&(()&**&^#@$*@$#@$$$#@^%$."

Fifteen Minutes Later

We got lost in downtown Memphis.

Ian: "$#!@^$&*()*(^%$#&)&@%$#!%#@!%$#^%$#."

Ten Minutes Later

We arrived home.

And it was the best birthday ever.

Happy Birthday, Ian!

The Rapture, the Birthday, and the Dress: Winnie Turns One

Ian: "What are you doing tonight?"

Laura: "Winnie's birthday is Tuesday, so I need to go to Pet Smart to buy her a dress. Obviously."

Ian: "Ha."

We don't know Winnie's exact birth date, since she's a rescue. Her vet proclaimed May 24, 2010 her birthday upon examining her teeth, so that's the day we celebrate.

For months, I have been telling Ian that Winnie will settle down when she turns a year old.

Stop worrying about annoying puppy behavior! Winnie's first birthday will signify a landmark day of maturity, sensibleness, and infinite grown-up doggy wisdom!

She'll stop chewing through leashes! She'll stop chewing on chairs! She'll doo doo every eight hours instead of every three hours!

I fanatically clung to my beliefs, despite every dog owner on the planet remarking that it takes three, four, or even five years for a pup to calm down.

Dog Owner: "Wow, Winnie still has that puppy energy."

Laura: "She'll be a year old in a few months. She'll settle down then."

Dog Owner: "My dog didn't calm down until he was five."

Laura: "Oh. Yeah. Well...." <waves off comment, secure in superior knowledge that Winnie will sleep twenty hours a day the minute she turns one>.

I was like one of those rabid Judgement Day people.

Judgement Day People: "God will return on May 21st and take me to heaven!"

Laura: "Winnie will turn into a mature dog on May 24th and it'll feel like heaven!"

Alas, no rapture occurred on May 21st, nor did Winnie reach full maturity on May 24th. Winnie spent her first birthday wildly chasing Ian's cats and chewing through another leash. 

Much like Howard Camping, I've had to postpone that rapturous day when Winnie Grows the Hell Up to a later date. A much later date. Like, three to fours years later. Or maybe five or six. 

At any rate, here's Winnie wearing a dress on her first birthday.