The Story:
When I was a young kid my sister and I were tasked with the job of helping mom bring in the groceries every Saturday afternoon. This was a chore that we actually looked forward to because we could peak in the bags to see if she had bought anything good. Which she never did. We were hopeful little idiots though and sure enough, every saturday we'd run out to the garage when her car pulled in, eager to help. So one day I run up to the trunk with my arms open, waiting for my bag. My mom hands me a gallon of milk and tells me to be careful. Of course I paid no attention to this warning as we walked back to the house and I began to swing the gallon of milk wildly. As my mom walked into the kitchen and left me on the enclosed back porch she called back to me, "Erika knock that off! Do you have any idea of what kind of mess that's going to make if you drop that?" Sure enough on the next upswing the gallon goes flying out of my hands, sails through the air and crashes to the floor. It was a milk flood. There was so much milk that it was flowing out the back door and down the steps. Not to mention the mess on the walls and ceiling from the splash back. I was quite amazed at just how much liquid a gallon could hold. I'm pretty sure my mom was amazed as well. She didn't even yell. She just kinda of stood there with her mouth open. Then she sat on the kitchen floor and did this laughing and crying at the same time kinda thing. My sister just laughed. And pointed out how much trouble I was in.
The Truth:
I let it go on purpose. I honestly didn't know what kind of a mess it would make and I was curious to find out. Plus I thought it would be funny. Twenty years later, mom still laughs when she tells the story. Totally worth it.
The Broken Foot
The Story:
Down the street from my grandparents house growing up was a kick ass play ground. Not like these wussy play grounds that the kids have today. There were no wood chips or safe plastic slides. We had concrete and metal. It was survival of the fittest. Every year some kid you knew stepped on broken glass in the sand box, got cut by the jagged metal of the burning hot slide, fell off the monkey bars and broke an arm, got hit in the head with a big, heavy metal horse swing or flew off of the merry go round as some other kid ran around spinning it with the purpose of making someone fly off. I was that last kid. Flew off of the merry go round, crumpled up in a ball, got up, shook it off and limped back to my parents, being brave and not saying anything about it until we got in the car and were on our way home. At which point my parents said that we had to make a quick stop at the hardware store. This was also the point when I started whining that my foot hurt from when I fell off of the merry go round. I despised the hardware store. And it was never a quick stop. I also had a fairly prolific history of crying wolf so the folks were a bit skeptical of my anguish. I believe the exact words were "You're fine knock it off." So they dragged me through the store anyway. After 30 minutes or so of walking through this 10th level of hell I was ready to gnaw my leg off. When we finally got home my parents got busy with whatever home improvement project they were working on and I got busy lying on my bed and plotting how I would escape these evil parental figures as soon as I could walk again. Eventually my sister noticed that my foot had swelled up to the size of a watermelon and told my parents that I wasn't faking it. After being advised not to tell the doctors how long ago I had injured myself I was rushed to the ER, got a bitchin cast and given some magical pills that made me feel fuzzy in a very good way. And then the guilt began. I played such a great victim. Soap opera worthy. The broken foot was caused by some jerk at the playground spinning the merry go round. Poor thing! My parents dragged me through a store for half an hour on my broken foot. Poor thing! Two weeks of lying on the couch watching cartoons, eating ice cream and popping pain pills. Not to mention the years of residual guilt I got out of them anytime they mentioned going into a hardware store.
The Truth:
I did fly off of that merry go round. But I'm pretty certain I didn't break my foot at that point. The broken foot came from me tripping over myself on the way into the hardware store. Now that's karma. I figured they already heard a great story that didn't involve me being a klutz so why change it now. How someone breaks their foot by tripping I still don't know. But I managed it. I'm also pretty certain that this began my love of pharmaceuticals as I distinctly remember, cast and all, dragging a chair across the kitchen, climbing onto the counter and balancing on one foot to reach the top shelf where I knew my pills had been hidden.
The Truth:
I did fly off of that merry go round. But I'm pretty certain I didn't break my foot at that point. The broken foot came from me tripping over myself on the way into the hardware store. Now that's karma. I figured they already heard a great story that didn't involve me being a klutz so why change it now. How someone breaks their foot by tripping I still don't know. But I managed it. I'm also pretty certain that this began my love of pharmaceuticals as I distinctly remember, cast and all, dragging a chair across the kitchen, climbing onto the counter and balancing on one foot to reach the top shelf where I knew my pills had been hidden.
The Bad Wolfy's Chicken Sandwich
The Story:
I spent quite a few lunch breaks during my high school career in a greasy burger joint called Wolfy's. A fine establishment in my opinion. Even now when I drive through the old neighborhood I get a craving for a wolfy burger with cheesy fries. This one day I opted for the chicken sandwich which was apparently a bad idea as I got a massive case of food poisoning. My friend Joanne was good enough to drive me home from school early. Upon reaching home, I puked all over the front steps before stumbling into the house, crawling into bed and remaining there for the next 24 hours. Whenever anyone mentions Wolfy's (a place that comes up often as it is so tasty) the parents tell the cautionary tale of Erika and the food poisoning from the chicken sandwich.
The Truth:
The only thing in my stomach that day was orange juice and a fifth of gin. It was the end of the school year cut day and my friends and I decided to celebrate with a few drinks. We got a bit carried away. My sister should really get the credit for pulling this one off. As I stumbled through the house knocking stuff over she smelled the alcohol and asked if I'd been drinking. I mumbled something to her about a chicken sandwich. She laughed, got out the air freshener and proceeded to release half the bottle into my bedroom. It gets pretty fuzzy after that but I do remember her relating to my parents the bogus chicken sandwich story. And selling it better than I could have at that point. Thanks Jess! What still doesn't make sense to me is that my dad was the one to hose off the steps and had to have noticed that my "chicken sandwich" looked an awful lot like orange juice and smelled like liquor.
I spent quite a few lunch breaks during my high school career in a greasy burger joint called Wolfy's. A fine establishment in my opinion. Even now when I drive through the old neighborhood I get a craving for a wolfy burger with cheesy fries. This one day I opted for the chicken sandwich which was apparently a bad idea as I got a massive case of food poisoning. My friend Joanne was good enough to drive me home from school early. Upon reaching home, I puked all over the front steps before stumbling into the house, crawling into bed and remaining there for the next 24 hours. Whenever anyone mentions Wolfy's (a place that comes up often as it is so tasty) the parents tell the cautionary tale of Erika and the food poisoning from the chicken sandwich.
The Truth:
The only thing in my stomach that day was orange juice and a fifth of gin. It was the end of the school year cut day and my friends and I decided to celebrate with a few drinks. We got a bit carried away. My sister should really get the credit for pulling this one off. As I stumbled through the house knocking stuff over she smelled the alcohol and asked if I'd been drinking. I mumbled something to her about a chicken sandwich. She laughed, got out the air freshener and proceeded to release half the bottle into my bedroom. It gets pretty fuzzy after that but I do remember her relating to my parents the bogus chicken sandwich story. And selling it better than I could have at that point. Thanks Jess! What still doesn't make sense to me is that my dad was the one to hose off the steps and had to have noticed that my "chicken sandwich" looked an awful lot like orange juice and smelled like liquor.
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