When I was a little kid, I was basically a tiny little frenetic ball of idiocy that was constantly running into things and cutting myself open accidentally on sharp objects (and also sometimes dull objects). I was a terrible, terrible child. Anyone that misremembers that fact either has severe memory loss or a strange perception of how big of a pain I was.
Here’s the cold hard proof.
I used to steal golf balls and hide them in the beach because I was pretty positive they would hatch like turtle eggs. Exactly where I got that idea, I’m not sure, but I ran with it for an embarrassing period of time. Also, we lived next to a golf course, so there were plenty of golf balls to be had.
As soon as I realized I was immune to poison ivy, I decided to build a fort (which basically was where I kept my stolen golf balls) right in the middle of a poison ivy patch, so my parents couldn’t grab me whenever they wanted for chores or whatever. My Grandma used to stand on the outside of my den and yell at me to come in for dinner, and if I didn’t feel like it, there was nothing she could do. Which is, admittedly, impressively evil for a seven year old.
I would sometimes sneak downstairs at night and steal spoonfuls of honey out of the cupboard. That’s right parents, our house wasn’t haunted (lies, it was totally haunted), that was ME being a SNEAKY SNEAK. And I TOTALLY SLID DOWN THE BANNISTER TOO. HAHA.
We used to play this game call King of the Jungle Gym when I was seven or eight, and it involved two people on opposite ends of the structure meeting in the middle and kicking each other off. The girls were mysteriously good at this game. Why? Because I totally taught them where to kick the boys. Yeah. Yeah, I kinda feel bad about that one now.
Every time someone bought me a Barbie doll, I’d get all my guy friends together and we’d cut the hair off, tear it limb from limb, and bury the pieces.
Hey Grandpa, wondering where that pack of cigarettes mysteriously vanished to when I was ten? Yeah, I buried it in the back yard (I apparently should have been an archaeologist, because I loved burying things).
I’m using a writing prompt today from this randomness I found online: 501 Writing Prompts.
Describe a vegetable that you truly dislike.
(A little backstory – I’m sitting out on Gallifrey’s porch with Varenka and reading from this list of prompts aloud and when I read that one she said “Oh god, do that one and write about your love-hate relationship with asparagus” and I went “Love-hate?” and she went “Hate-hate.”)
I loathe asparagus.
Okay, maybe not loathe. I loathe Hitler and Stalin and people who starve puppies.
I have, at best, a complicated relationship with asparagus.
When I was a small child, I was very gullible (okay, I’m still very gullible, but slightly less so).
My aunt once told me sharks lived in Lake Erie and I didn’t go swimming for a week. My aunt also once told me that if I hung upside down from my closet rod, I’d grow faster. Also that your ears bleed a lot when you get them pierced.
Actually, come to think about it, it was mostly my aunt who preyed upon my naiveté.
However, in this particular story, it was my American Grandfather who told me that asparagus spears were so named because if you ate them at the wrong angle they would stick in your throat and you would die a horrible painful death.
My family, ladies and gentlemen.
Anyways, since then I haven’t touched the stuff. I think partly because my grandfather psychologically scarred me and partly because asparagus is the devil.
I might officially have the two stupidest dogs on the planet.
Let me explain.
I’m still in Canada visiting my grandparents, whose house is right on the lake. Not lake close. Not lake side. Lake on.
My two golden retriever puppies, Patty Mayonnaise and Dr. Pepper, are H2o enthusiasts. They swim like otters who have spend the entire morning unattended in a candy shop. Patty, in particular, is aqua obsessive. She will figuratively swim until she dies. Pepper enjoys BEING in water, but less so the physical aspect.
Let’s omit the part where it took them 15 minutes to even figure out that the house was near a body of water. Namely, the 15 minutes it took for me to put a swimsuit on and take them down to the beach. Come on, dogs.
No, the part that had me in stitches was the part where my dear dogs could not see the massive schools of spawning carp that were literally underneath their noses.
Side note – did you see what I did up there with the correct usage of figuratively and literally? That’s how it’s done, internet.
Yet I digress.
Each spring, the lakefront right outside my grandparent’s house is home to multiple healthy populations of fish… uh… doin’ it. As only fish can do. Meaning by laying eggs and – you know what, you get the idea.
I distinctly remember one day when I was a kid, about 7 years old. I was swimming in the shallows and I caught, with my bare hands, a pike who was clearly sedated by his (her?) post-coital bliss. I grabbed hold of the struggling serpentine shape and high-tailed to the house, where mi familia was enjoying some late afternoon apéritifs.
I proudly walked into the middle of this pleasant gathering, and said (true story), “Look! I caught dinner!”
It took some time for then to convince me to put the fish back in the lake. Apparently people don’t eat pike (reasons why I’m single #4 – I’m wicked good at catching spawning pike).
Long story summarized – lots of fish up in this lake. Massive fish. I saw at least five 10-pounders.
What catches my dog’s attention, pray tell? What makes them raise their hackles and growl and clash their teeth?
This inanimate, non-threatening rock. Keep in mind there are huge fish swimming INTO my dog’s legs (fish are dumb).
But no, apparently the rock was a bigger security issue than the fish.
Because of reasons?