Terror In the Freezer

One would think after being terrorized multiple times in the past few months that I’d learn my lesson and stop doing nice things for my husband. Not me! Nope. My husband’s struck again.

While watching Sanctum after Nellie’s bedtime, my husband asked if I’d mind making a pot of decaf coffee. He doesn’t often drink coffee, and said he was craving a cup so being the sweet and awesome wife that I am, I told him of course I’d make him some coffee.

I went into the kitchen, rinsed out the carafe from this morning and replaced the filter, opened the freezer and found that in addition to the coffee, chicken nuggets, popsicles and vodka there was also this.



Luckily this one only gave me a slight start, I jumped a little and said “gah!” and turned to face my grinning, giggling husband. He clapped like a small schoolboy and did a little victory dance.

Seriously. I’m gonna piss in his shoes one of these days. Or in his hat. One of the two is getting pissed on by me.


Terror in the Microwave.

If you’ve been reading my blog for the last few months at least, you know that my husband likes to scare the ever-loving shit out of me. On Mother’s Day, he put a stuffed squirrel on the back of our toilet. The next day, he hid a prop rat in our linen closet. I even wrote a post about the beginning of his reign of terror.

My friends, Daddy Green has struck again.

We were sitting on the couch watching a horrible movie about some crazy chick that kills her neighbors in weird ways (we’re normal, I swear) when my husband says sweetly, “How about we make some popcorn?”

Now, I loves me some popcorn. I excitedly agreed, and he suggested, “Why don’t you go make it and I will rub your back?”

I also loves me some backrubs, so I leaped off the couch and headed to the kitchen. I pulled a bag of popcorn from the box, turned to face the microwave, opened the door, and came face to face with this:



As my brain processed the impending doom and infection of rabies that lay before me in my microwave, I made a slight “Ohhhhhh!” noise and did a little hop. I turned around to face my husband, who had slithered off the couch and was laughing so hard he couldn’t produce any sound. All that came from his mouth was a slight wheezing as he turned red in the face. I walked over to him and looked down at him as he gasped for air and flapped his hands at me. I wondered for a second if he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen and decided that if he did, I’d take a pee in his shoes and draw on his face as payback for scaring the shit out of me. Alas, my husband did not pass out so his shoes are dry and his face is safe.

People keep telling me I need to exact my revenge, but believe me when I tell you that this is no easy feat. My husband is almost impossible to scare or embarrass. Anything that I could do to scare him would just be mean. I couldn’t tell him I was pregnant, because he’d be elated and then I’d feel like an asshole when I told him I was joking. I don’t know how I’m going to get him back, but I’m going to, damnit.

Suggestions are welcome. Privately, because Captain Pranky McChuckleface reads my blog.


Reign of Terror: The Beginning

As I mentioned in my Mother’s Day post (and then again in my post the very next day), the “squirrel on the toilet” incident is not the first occurrence of my husband scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.

It actually began before we were even dating.

When I was 19, I broke up with my boyfriend and found myself without a place to live. Josh and I were best friends, and he arranged for me to stay with his brother Tim until I secured an apartment. My now brother-in-law is master of all things scary. He co-directs & coordinates a big local haunted attraction here in town each year, and his house is decorated to match.  The first night I stayed at Tim’s, I headed into the guest room to get ready for bed. I noticed something peeking out from under the blanket so I pulled it back. There was a prop rubber skeleton laying on the bed, grinning blankly up at me. I threw open the door and declared, “You’re going to have to try harder than that to scare me!”

Little did I know that my defiant proclamation was actually me throwing down the proverbial gauntlet.

The first bad scare that I can remember came years later, when Josh and I were married and living in our first apartment. It was a small one bedroom with a screened-in sunroom. We had our computer out there and I wasn’t working at the time so I spent many late evenings on the computer after Josh had gone to bed. This particular night was no exception.

I was up late one evening playing The Sims 2 (BEST EVER. I think it was after midnight when I finally decided to turn off my riveting game and join my husband in sleep. It was dark in our little apartment except for the artificial glow of our computer monitor. I stepped out of the sunroom and crossed the living room, heading into the hallway. Before I knew what was happening, I heard the sound of feet swiftly making their way through the living room right toward me. There was no maniacal laughter, no declaration of “GOT YOU NOW!”. The only thing I heard was someone silently making their way over to me in a hurry. I spun around just in time for a pair of arms to wrap around me. I let out a choked squeaking noise, bravely raised my hands into a “poised clawing” pose and promptly froze in terror. I’d been had. I was now going to be methodically and slowly tortured and then killed. I contemplated screaming but I was too terrified to make a sound.

And that’s when the apartment was filled with sound, but it was not the sound of my terrified cries for help. It was the sound of my husband, laughing his ass off. That’s when I realized that my attacker wasn’t a random thug, or a paid hitman. My assailant wasn’t a serial killer.

It was my own, loving husband who I’d thought to be sleeping in our bed. It turns out that Mr. Loving Husband had sneaked through the living room while I was engrossed in my Sims and had hidden out in our entrance hall waiting for me to come to bed. He’d crouched back there in the dark and had waited on me for almost a half an hour. THAT, my friends, is dedication.

Once I’d been able to breathe again and Josh’s hysterical laughter had subsided, he actually apologized profusely because he had genuinely terrified me. I was convinced that I was a goner and had completely frozen up. Nice self-defense skills, Mommy Boots.

Unfortunately for me, this was only the beginning of Daddy Green and Uncle Tim’s Reign of Terror and I’ve pretty much been living in fear ever since. Stay tuned for Reign of Terror Part II: The Pig’s Head.