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. 

Eight Random Facts about the Winiferd Woman

Today I bought my own domain for the blog. We have reached a whole new level of classy here at Winiferd in the Burbs. The new domain is http://www.winiferdintheburbs.com/.

To celebrate, I crafted a list of eight fascinating facts about me and my life. I figure this is appropriate, since writing an entire blog about yourself is a tremendous exercise in narcissism, anyways.

1. I'm still sorta shocked that I'm married. When I was younger, I assumed I would grow into an old, cranky spinster maid. With no cats, of course, since I'm allergic to them.

2. The above is why I got a hypoallergenic dog. My boyfriend at the time had dumped me several months prior, and I prepared for my perpetually single existence by renting a small apartment and adopting a tiny dog.

The dog was to be my one true companion during my bitter, lonely, elderly existence... I was twenty-five years old.

3. I began dating Ian two months after adopting Winnie.

4. I experience wildly ridiculous delusions of grandeur whenever someone upsets me: "Oh yeah?! Well just wait until I'm famous."

I have no real dreams of fame. This phenomenon only occurs when I'm pissed off. And then suddenly I'm a very pissed off, very famous person.

You know.

In my head.

5. Ian is two years older than me. Ergo, he believes he is a generation older than me.

When he talks about our generational differences, I point out that one generation equals at least eighteen years. And that a twenty-six year old and a twenty-eight year old are, indeed, from the same generation.

He continues to comment on our generational gap.

Wow! Two generations in one photo! It's historic!

6. When I was single and living in the city, I went bar-hopping with friends one night.

This was during the Great Bedbug Scare of 2010, and I'd been reading way too many news articles about bedbugs.

As we left a bar, a homeless woman appeared, sobbing for money. I handed her a five-dollar bill and she immediately yanked me into a hug. Visions of bedbugs danced in my head.

I raced home, ripped off my clothes, and stuffed them into a plastic sack. I then showered and crawled into bed, where I pulled out my laptop to read more articles about bedbugs.

I never got bedbugs.

7. For a while, I enjoyed handing Winnie to Ian and commanding, "Hold her." Then I would step back and wait to see how long he'd hold the dog.

It would usually take a few minutes for him to realize he was holding the dog for no particular reason, other than my own amusement. I did this several times before he caught on to me.

Here, Ian! Hold this!

Wait. What?

8. Now that Ian and I are married, "New Daddy" doesn't sound right. Ian loved being New Daddy. He never wanted to give up the name.

But I took matters into my own hands and began calling him "Forever Daddy." He's decided he likes his new name.

Please address all fan mail for Ian to his married name, Forever Daddy. His maiden name, New Daddy, is now obsolete.

I love you, Forever Daddy!

Where in the World is Polly Chickenheimer?

Ian and I keep running into interesting adventures with our newest flock of chickens. And when I say "adventures," I mean, "Dude, these things keep dying."

First, Jessup met his fate and went to that big chicken coop in sky. Then Maybelle did the same thing. Except we weren't fully responsible for Maybelle's demise. That honor goes to some crafty fox or raccoon.

We were two down from our original four. And then, on Thursday night, Polly went missing. Ian had let the chickens out of their cages to play in the yard while he used the weed-eater on the edge of the property.

He never saw a single dog, cat, hawk, or other predator descend upon our chickens. The chickens played merrily, running in circles and squawking.

When Ian finished weed-eating, he discovered Polly was missing. Ian and I searched and searched for Polly. Late afternoon turned into evening, and we had to break out flashlights.

Polly is our fastest and most cunning chicken. She likes to play games of hide and seek, roosting in tree branches and hiding in dark places. She's our friendliest chicken by far.

Also, Polly is bald on top. Either Jessup or Maybelle pecked her poor little head bare.

Being the sort who enjoys formal names on animals, I gave Polly the full name "Pauline" when I named her. Because Polly by itself is just too informal for a chicken, you know? Pauline gives her some dignity.

Polly's full name is Pauline Baldy Chickenheimer.

Ian and I enjoyed singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her. I delighted in calling her "Polly Wobbles" and "Polly Pockets." Polly Wobbles was feisty. We had grown attached to her, bald spot and all.

So when Polly went missing, Ian and I felt distraught.

Laura: "Polly's idol was Amelia Earhart. I bet Polly was building a secret plane. And she finished it this afternoon and flew off. I bet she wanted to be the first chicken to fly across the Atlantic. You know, in a plane."

Ian: "Aww. That makes me sad. I'll miss singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her." 

Laura: "I'll tell my blog readers she's flying around the world, so they won't feel sad. I can make a special column."

Ian: "It'll be like Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Except with Polly Chickenheimer."

Laura: "We can Photoshop her into exotic locations."

Ian and I went to bed that night still feeling upset about Polly's disappearance.

The next morning, we awoke to Polly back home in her cage.

Ian: "Ms. Chickenheimer is back in her cage this morning. It's an X-File."

Polly is remaining mum on her whereabouts.

Perhaps she flew to the Hair Club for Men headquarters to try to fix that bald patch. Or perhaps she flew to Buckingham Palace to take tea with the Queen.

I'll let you know when she gives us the scoop.

Here are Ian and me serenading Polly with Polly Wolly Doodle. Ian plays banjo, I provide vocals, and Polly makes a special appearance. 

We had a bit of camera trouble so it sounds like it's playing through the old phonograph.

Watch closely. 

As soon as I finish singing of a chicken, "who sneezed so hard with the whooping cough; he sneezed his head and tail right off," Polly sneezes violently, spraying me with bits of corn and sludgy brown goo. 

Well played, Ms. Chickenheimer. Well played.

Married

We got married this morning at the court house.

We brought our best friends, Ren and Sam. 

These two were our match-makers, so we owe them about 30 million dollars apiece. Ren and Sam, your checks are in the mail. They're dated May 18, 2078.

County officials stashed us in a tiny, bizarre hallway while we waited for the judge to marry us. We, umm, got a little silly. And loud. The secretary reprimanded us for being too noisy.

Ian loved the pretty flowers.

The judge who married us was featured in the hallway. Her portrait loomed eerily upon us.

The county officials then led us to a conference room. 

Ren and Sam found it highly emotional.

Which made us highly uncomfortable.

And then we went to the court and were married.

Sam reminded me to throw the bouquet. Sam wanted the bouquet. Sam fought for the bouquet. 

"Give me my bouquet, bitch."

Ren took video footage of the ceremony. I posted the link below.

The judge insisted on calling Ian by his middle name, "Michael." By law, I must now call him Michael. Or Mikey. Or Michelangelo, when he's feeling like a ninja turtle. I love you, Mikey.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y90ZDp9Wav0&feature=youtu.be

Engaged

During the week he wakes early while I continue sleeping. Every morning in the hazy light, he leans down to kiss me good-bye. I'm usually burrowed under covers, and I hear him laugh as he searches for me.

When we arrive home from work, we hug and sway, spinning around slowly. It looks like we're dancing. Ian asks, "Why do we do that?" I reply I don't know, but it's comforting.

Later I chance upon an article that explains the science behind something we already know: rocking relieves stress and provides comfort. It's why mothers rock babies to sleep and people sway back and forth at concerts.

The New York Times recently published an article about the brain on love: "If you’re in a healthy relationship, holding your partner’s hand is enough to subdue your blood pressure, ease your response to stress, improve your health and soften physical pain."

It sounds obvious, but it goes a long way in explaining why I've felt so calm over the past couple of years.

We constantly scheme about our next big move: enterprises, non-profits, homesteading. We're still so poor we can only dream of some things. We share politics and ideology. We share a similar approach to life.

When I was younger, my friends dubbed me "Logical Laura." When Ian and I began dating, my practicality was one of the first traits he noticed.

One night in those early days, he remarked, "You're very pragmatic." I replied, "Yes, I am." It's a trait that makes me feel disconnected from other women sometimes, but it's a trait Ian admires. I can be myself.

One of Ian's friends suggests a nail polish color for me, and Ian instantly feels amused. I haven't worn nail polish since I was a kid. He knows me better than anyone.

I sometimes feel like I bring him down. When we began dating he would send me romantic messages, and I would feel embarrassed and wouldn't know how to respond.

Ian: "I tried to romance you."

Laura: "I know."

Ian: "You weren't into it."

Laura: "Nope."

He expresses himself with ease. He talks about his day, the people he encounters, how certain plants and animals make him feel, why he loves nature, and the things he's learned. He people watches all the time. He's intuitive.

I'm often quieter. I find it difficult to express myself sometimes. It drives my mom nuts. He knows when I'm upset because I grow very quiet.

We attend a party where I laugh and joke with friends. A guy makes harsh comments to no one in particular. I shrink back, silent and suddenly exhausted.

Ian whispers in my ear, "Are you okay?" I whisper back, "Yes."

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yes."

So we go home.

He is a gentle man, so gentle that we make off-colored jokes about the domestic violence he supposedly incurs and then roll with laughter.

We go to a thrift store, where he examines the tools and spots some shelves he'd like to buy. He also sees a dainty picture book about cats, containing a drawing of two tuxedo cats who resemble his own. He opts for the picture book. He chuckles at himself: "I could have gotten shelves but instead I got a book about cats."

He loves tinkering with electronics, taking things apart and putting them back together. And, of course, he loves the natural world. He sees a beauty and calmness in nature that many people overlook. He plaintively wonders why modern society eschews the natural environment. His favorite word is "sustainable." 

We talk about our past, about our bikes and pets and parents and the things that brought us joy and the events that brought us heartache.

We talk about the present, which wholly encompasses the two of us. When I think about my life now, I think of Ian. And we talk about the future, a future we will share.

Ian and I got engaged in early December 2011. Over the next several months we quietly told friends, prompting many, "Well, duh" reactions.

Since our first date in October 2010, we've done everything together. Every decision is a mutual decision: every dinner we eat, every show we watch, every appliance we buy.

Ian is my first truly serious boyfriend, the only one I've lived with. I remember feeling nervous about sharing everything with him, but it quickly became innate. I became a part of him and he became a part of me.

I can see crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles and gray hair in his widow's peak. I look at him and try to envision what he'll look like when he's older.

He's two years older than me. When I was 19, I took a sociology of marriage and family class. My professor warned, "Ladies, marry someone a few years younger than you if you want to avoid widowhood. Women outlive men."

I think of that and hope he and I live for a long time yet. I realize that I don't mind growing older, because I will be with him and he will think I'm beautiful. We crawl into bed late one night, and he tells me I'm beautiful. I suddenly feel shy even though he's told me many times before.

We both agree that we already feel married. In my own quiet way, I feel jittery with excitement. I can't want to become Mrs. New Daddy.

When We Adopted Six Babies

Guess what we got?

We got adorable, down-covered, freshly-hatched chicks. Last Saturday, Ian and I drove out to a tractor supply store to buy the tiny babies.

We had planned on buying four, but store policy insisted we buy six. So we watched a store employee grab up six squawking chicks and stick them in a box.

The shape of the box spelled out a clear message regarding the chicks' purpose in life:

It's the original Chicken McNugget Happy Meal. It comes with Happy Meal toys: chicken poop for the girls and salmonella for the boys.

As we drove back home, I cradled the box on my lap and opened the top to gaze inside. I watched in horror as one of the chicks snapped onto another's leg and yanked with all his might.

I lowered my head into the box and yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

The chicks erupted into intense, resounding peeps.

The chicks: "PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP."

Ian: "Close the box! They're scared! They're loud! Oh my God, so loud."

Laura: "I'm sorry. I just can't believe the little devil tried to murder his sister. What a bastard."

Ian: "So you think the evil one's a boy?"

Laura: "Oh, I'm sure of it. That one's gotta be a rooster. Which means we get to use our boy name!"

I've spent the past couple of months preparing for the arrival of our chicks by analyzing chicken names. What, did you think I was going to prepare by buying chicken feed and light bulbs? Please.

Here are their names (and the inspiration thereof):

Bernadette

Marjorine

Sal (short for Salmonella)

Hester Prynne

Gertrude (Gertie)

And our bastard boy who likes to chomp legs and peck faces: John Proctor.

Unfortunately, Gertie looked sickly from the beginning. She passed away after her first night.

That leaves us with five.

(Of course, I have no idea whether we have boys or girls. John Proctor may morph into Jane Proctor at some point).