If you found this blog because of a dirty Google search, get help you perverted bastard. This is not a sick tale. I mean it is, just not in that way.
The sick part is how I take such pleasure in the routine torture of my family with remnants of my somewhat twisted childhood. My brother and I are products of the slight neglect of parents who had a great sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic. The Hubster and company tend to think I’m making stuff up about my childhood as my brother and I always believed my father made up every song he sang while grocery shopping.
I have to prove my childhood memories. “I swear Attack of the Killer Tomatoes* is a real movie!” My brother and I watched it every chance we got. Again, being the children of parents who tended to leave us be as long as we didn’t burn down the house (not that we didn’t try), we got lots of chances, late at night, when the Boogey Man roamed the streets.
My brother used to cue me to scream like this:
I rocked the crazy scream. It made big brother giggle. I did it silently during confirmation classes (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived). If I were not the old lady soccer mom that I am (I am that I am*), I would make a great scream queen.
The hardest sell for those in tow of my thrilling reenactment is that the killer tomatoes are defeated by:
That’s right. As Video Killed the Radio Star*, so too Puberty Love killed the killer tomatoes. My family might argue that my rendition of the same killed any interest they had in hearing more of my childhood memories, but that won’t stop me from spending the next few days singing Puberty Love.
* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?