Mom Knows Best

Hey my peeps. 


So, I'm back by popular (one person's) demand. Yes, I'll admit, I was temporarily distracted by my nighttime job of vigilante crime-fighting in the insidious streets of Massachusetts...

You understand, though. Being the hero can be harsh. 

Anyhoo, I am proud to say that I have a whole new outlook on this blogging business. I have something important to say to y'all, straight from the bottom of my rather large and generous heart. I'm gonna stick to it this time and keep cranking out those useless life experiences for you, all for the small price of nothing. Sound good? Good like gingerbread? 

...at least I think that's what I meant to say. It might just be the Dr. Pepper talking. That smooth, exquisite, luscious, delectably foxy soda.... ahem.  I may have had a sip earlier today. I don't know when my father's going to learn that supplying me with delicious forms of caffeine is not a good idea. 

But man, do I covet that Dr. Pepper. My mom never let me drink soda growing up, so naturally I've learned to cherish every single drop that comes into my possession. In hindsight, there was probably something to this rule. My mom says that in the end, she's always right. 

Also, I handle caffeine rather poorly. 

You see, caffeine poisoning is very serious in some individuals. Some people just can't handle their Pepsi. I know I am susceptible to this affliction. I will not try to deny it. I cannot break free of it, however. I can only show you what it looks like to witness this terrible spectacle, and hope that you don't travel down the same barren road I did.

The first stage. You are aware of the presence of the bottle. It's sitting there, begging to be swigged. The color is beautiful. The seal of the cap so delicately unbroken. Your twitching limbs, flopping surreptitiously in the direction of the sweet elixir, drawing you closer with every second, like iron fillings to a magnet. The fleeting glances. 

Often, I willing put myself in this risky position because of the undeniable splendor of the bottle of Mega Voluptuous Caffeine Suckerpunch or whatever I happen to stumble upon. 

But WAIT! At this point I remember my mother's dire message... 

YOU CANNOT HAVE THAT SODA.

...do I really have it in me to deny that one simple statement, spoken by the most important, all-powerful person in my life?

The uncertainty grows within like a festering disease. That disease slowly transforms into a looming fear. The consequences. The repercussions. Punishment. If I should be caught. What will happen to me? I may never see the softly glowing silhouette of a sweet bottle of Coca-Cola again...

Then my eyes fall on the bottle once more. Can't deny it. There it is. In all its glory. 

IN. ALL. ITS. SUMPTUOUS. GLORY.

Then. It comes down to this. The moment of truth. The final showdown between what I desire most and what I know in my heart to be right. 

This outcome seems to be the most common. The extreme desire for fructose-injected caffeine-water always wins out against my mother's will. What's a girl to do?  


Subsequently, which is one of my favorite words, the caffeine does not take effect. It seems as though it has an opposite effect on me. I usually experience a sort of energy leakage after the consumption of a bottle/can of soda. I'm not sure if my mother ever learned to recognize this caffeine low, but it feels like it must've been pretty obvious after a while.

In any case, the unavoidable caffeine burst-o-power strikes about three to six hours late in my case. And it lasts for a while. Quite a while.

It's probably pretty terrifying. It's too bad I can't see my reaction to one of my own caffeine rampages. Too bad I can't really focus on one thing long enough to see anyone else's reaction, either. 


I've noticed that my feet twitch and bounce a lot, as my caffeine highs are a little more lucid now than they were during my earlier childhood. Also, I tend to not talk quite right. And my attention span shortens to about five seconds. 


All I know is that there's probably a very good reason my mom forbid my caffeine consumption as a child.

Mom knows best.

The Jelly Cucumber

Only spoken of in whispers, a certain tale of woe haunts the family with a spirit of squalor. It's hotly debated over whether this event actually occurred, or if it was just a tall tale spun to spice up an otherwise boring day.


My mom swears it never happened, and unfortunately, I was not present to bear witness. So, perhaps I may never know what truly went down on that fateful night...


The night...

of...

...THE JELLY CUCUMBER!

  

So, I have taken what I've heard of the incident and formed my own formal opinion about its legitimacy. 

Since I only have my father's word to go on (and that's not the best source for accuracy), I am forced to present the best understanding of the event I can manage. 

It was just an average evening at the house ("house" is an exaggeration; it was more of a tiny stand-alone apartment with a basement that smelled like poop and mold). 


My father, ever the healthnut (Cheetos is his idea of a mustard green) decided to whip up a deliciously nutritious salad to go with dinner that fine evening.

My father in the midst of intense salad excitement.

He cut up some lush, green lettuce; he diced up some fresh, bright carrots; maybe he even threw a dash of lovely sliced tomatoes. 


His salad was finished. As he beheld it in all of its leafy glory, he took a moment to absorb its sheer beauty. However... It lacked something...


But what?


He checked the refrigerator to see if there was anything to polish up the fine salad and make it shine. Eggs? No. Milk? No. Ham? Probably not. 


He dug around for ages, and finally... 


he beheld...

The heavens opened up to reveal a gloriously delectable cucumber, perched poised and perfect in the vegetable drawer. It was simply begging to be sliced up and thrown into a salad to fill it with the glory of the gods.


My father went to work.

He held the knife suspended over the magnificent cuke, basking in its phallic splendor. Could he really do it? Could he possibly deface this pure specimen of perfection? And at that, toss it into a salad full of unworthy plebeian-veggies?  

He pondered this. It took an immense amount of willpower and strength to battle this decision. But, in the end, the fatherly desire to put dinner on the table won out.


He touched the knife blade to the cucumber's skin, ever so slightly, and this is, as I understand it, what happened:

The skin parted and the gelatinous contents of the satanic cucumber exploded all over the kitchen, as if under extreme pressure. 

You may be wondering how there could possibly be so much crap stuffed into one cucumber. The truth is, I have no idea. Also, I remind you that I was not there when it happened and I do sometimes have a tendency to maybe exaggerate. A little.


Now, my mom insists that it never happened, and I suppose I have no way of truly validating the story as a legit horror tale of my childhood. However, one can dream. And I would prefer to think this one is true.