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.
You say to-may-toe
I say toe-mah-toe
continuing the theme, one of my memories of your childhood is a year that I grew tomatoes in the back yard and you ate so many right off the vine that you got sores in your mouth from the acid. Lucky thing that, or I wouldn’t have had enough to make the lovely marinara sauce and salsa that I imagined when I planted them.
Now, go solve the drug war on the streets of Tucson that the national newspapers are shouting about.
dad
Gee thanks, Rebecca. Yet another movie I now feel I must subject my children to because of your severely deranged influence.
My sister has always known exactly what it takes to make me laugh. Not just a hearty guffaw or a knowing chuckle but one of those doubled over, can’t breathe, tears running down your face, gasp-fests that gets everyone around you wondering, “is that guy having a seizure?”.
She has always used this power for evil. For example, in Confirmation Class…
Oh, Rebecca. Tell me that story again about you and Jack trying to burn down the house. I love that one.