I have two confessions to make.
One. This post contains spoilers circa 1993.
Two. I am terrible with horror movies. This isn’t normal level oh God I’m so freaked out and I might jump a little while watching scared. This is I didn’t sleep for two days after I saw The Ring and was positive that bitch was hanging out outside my window waiting for me to let my guard down scared.
Even previews for horror movies freak me out. I’ve forced myself to watch movies after seeing the preview because I needed to know that these fictional characters that I’ve encountered for 1 minute and 12 seconds survived.
The best part about all of this intense fear of a genre is why I have said intense fear of a genre. And to understand that, we must travel back in time – to a simpler time, when Sarah Jessica Parker hadn’t had sex in a city yet, when Bette Middler was the wind beneath my wings, and when I had a crush on one Omri Katz.
Now, to put this into perspective, I was six when I first saw this movie. Actually, I was six when I saw most of this movie. And let’s be honest: Winifred Sanderson is pretty effing scary when you’re six years old. For whatever reason, I was watching Hocus Pocus, for the first time, by myself, at age six. My parents weren’t home. My older sister was not watching with me. And I don’t know if you know the premise of Hocus Pocus, but these crazy fucking witches come back from the dead and suck the life out of little children – which is exactly what I was at age six.
Suck. The Life. Out of Children.
So, I’m watching this terrible movie where these witches are coming after these kids to suck their life out, and completely missing great moments like the bus driver because I was too young to understand…
…and I am bat shit terrified. Like watching the movie with one eye terrified, because apparently that made it less scary, to only allow fifty percent of my vision to see the movie.
Well, I’m struggle-bussing my way through this movie, just about positive that the witches were going to lose, because it was a Disney movie, and everyone knew that Disney movies have to have a happy ending except for Bambi’s Mom because what a terrible movie.
And then this amazing moment happened where the kids forced the witches into a giant oven and fried them to death. Take that, Bette Middler. Everything is fine! The kids are dancing in the yard because they win, and the world is safe from life sucking creatures and –
YEAH. Omri just cooked the witches and they did not die.
Well, being the brave six year old that I was, that was about as much as I could handle. The witches did not die after being cooked, and therefore were not going to die, which meant that the good guys lost, and the bad guys won, and I was sleeping in my sister’s bed that night.
Except my sister wouldn’t let me in her bed. I huddled in my parents bed until they came home, absolutely terrified that the Sanderson sisters were going to come after me since I had watched half of Hocus Pocus. When my dad moved me back to my bed, I was sure that the shadows behind my Little Tykes kitchen were Winifred, waiting for me to fall asleep. I was the next Emily Binx, and was bound to be until 1999.
Six years later, when my family upgraded to cable from bunny ears antennas, I finally saw the end of Hocus Pocus when it aired on the Disney Channel.
Hot damn, I realized. The witches lose after all.
And that, my friends, is why Laura doesn’t do horror.
I was going to blog last week on Wednesday. I even started a post about how much I really hate Halloween because most girls dress up like whores, and whores are supposed to have long legs, not ginormous bike thighs.
I have ginormous bike thighs.
Conversation from last summer:
Me: I’m so excited to not be able to wear pants for two weeks.
Dad: You aren’t going to wear pants while biking?
Me: That’s creepy, Dad. I will be wearing spandex. But after biking, my thighs will be huge. I will not be able to wear my $200 dollar jeans for weeks and I will be depressed and thus eat, defeating all the calories I will burn during the bike trip.
Dad: Well, it’s obvious what the problem is.
Me: ALL THIS FAMILY BIKING HAS GIVEN ME MY GINORMOUS BIKE THIGHS.
Dad: No. You spent $200 dollars on jeans.
You know what’s hard to do when you’re depressed about your thighs? Blog. So I didn’t blog on Wednesday. But Friday, I ended up going out with my bike thighs and we all had a good time. Conversation from Friday night:
Me: I’m gonna dance all night!
Bike Thighs: You put us in heels, so fuck that!
Me: Here’s some alcohol!
Bike Thighs: WE’RE GONNA DANCE ALL NIGHT!
Saturday, I woke up hangover free and feeling better about myself. The bike thighs and I got lots of compliments on being a sailor.
Let’s be honest, compliments make everyone feel better. So, my raised self esteem and I were all set to blog, when I sat down with my father because the world series was on, and the Tigers really, really, really needed a win. Conversation during the game.
Dad: They’re not going to win.
Me: Optimism, father.
Dad: Realism, daughter.
Me: So why are you watching?
Dad: Because it’s on. This is a fly ball.
Me: Home Run.
Dad: I can’t believe that was a home run. Cabrera didn’t believe it was a home run.
Me: Faith, father.
Dad: Realism, daughter.
I had to put the game on pause at this point, because Boo needed a bath, and I figured, the Tigers were up, this was a good time to do that and put him to bed. I could blog with all my optimism afterwards. Plus, Boo was thrusting and cheering which is just freaking funny. Conversation with Boo:
Boo: Who got a home run?
Boo: Mouse?! ALRIGHT!!
Created with Gifboom
Me: Not Mickey Mouse…Miguel Cabrera.
So, Boo finished his bath, and I put him to bed, and I was going to blog, really. But then I started watching the game again, and it went into extra innings, and I was all stressed out and then we lost.
Dad: I told you.
Me: Go to bed, Dad.
Dad: At least the Lions won today.
Me: I’m still upset.
Dad: Well, blame the Giants.
And that’s why you don’t really have a new post this week.