Trick-or-Trauma

Now, look. Everybody (including mothers and dogs) knows that I'm a klutz. I'm not ashamed to admit it and I have learned to accept it.

However, it's not my fault if I presume a door to be open and run head-first into it. It's also not my fault if a table is ten feet away, yet I somehow manage to bang my thigh into it's sharp corner.

My co-workers have even taken to looking out for my best interests, warning me if I'm dangerously close to injuring myself.

It's so bad, that my husband worries when I'm running or walking up or down a set of stairs, for fear that I will somehow fall to my death.

But this takes the cake.

Actually, it takes the whole bakery.

It was Halloween, about two years ago.

I suffer from a number of afflictions, migraines being one of them, and had been shipped off to the doc's where I was given a shot to ease the pain and needless to say... I was feeling groovy.

By the time I'd been returned to the confines of my bed, I was enjoying the far-out experience too much to go sleep, so I kind of just wandered around the house, feeling fabulous, ocassionally stopping mid-step to stare at the ceiling.

As day turned to night, my boyfriend and I were preparing for our annual "Scare the Shit out of the Kids" song and dance. We love Halloween and like to decorate our place of residence with the standard creepy, spooky, dangling heads, spider webs, hanging skeletons, and the like.

Because of our lack of imagination with costumes, my boyfriend was Jason while I wore a borrowed mask, a la Big Foot.

The plan was to turn the lights off in the house, and have me sit at the window, completely still and as the kids approached, I would bang my hands on the window, hopefully resulting in a few screams, and possibly, a child running scared from our porch or a poop in the pants situation. Then my BF would open the door to the remaining survivors and offer them candy. We considered it their reward.

It was a wonderful arrangement. And worked perfectly! We successfully startled several kids, and our winning moment, was when a group of young teens came up, and saw my eyes moving although I was completely still. One of the bigger teens then said to the window, as if trying to convince himself, "You're not real!" As they stepped closer, I banged my hands against the glass, and I'm certain that one even shot up into the skies. It was kick-ass!

So, as the night went on, we got hungry, ordered pizza and ate in between door duties. My migraine had disappeared, but a sore throat came in it's place. Being the genius that I am, I took a swig of Nyquil and resumed eating my dinner. P.S., Nyquil and pizza not good together. Not good at all.

Okay, so on to the good stuff.

After a pizza break, we heard a door knock, and we went racing clear across the house to answer it. I jumped on the loveseat adjacent to the window, slammed my hands on the glass and went right through it.

Yep. I went through a glass window.

"AHHH!!!"

Mission accomplished. We successfully scared the kids.

"Oh my God! Is that real?" one of the girls yelled.

"Yes, that's real," BF answered, in shock, ushering the kids away from the door where it was littered with broken glass.

I'm still stuck in the window, mind you.

One kid was screaming his lungs out, his cries piercing my ears.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" my BF asked while I was pulling myself back through the window.

Fortunately, the mask prevented my face from being maimed.

But that was an unusual experience: looking down at my bloody hands through the eyes of a furry mask. I was like a cheap horror movie with horrible special effects.

"Oh, fuck," I said as reality slapped me in the face.

I just went through the window.

BF turned off the light on the porch which would signify that we were officially closed for business. No need to stop here. We don't have any candy. Keep on walkin. Drugged hairy woman just flew through window.

I walked back to the kitchen to wash the blood/glass from my hands. And that's when my breathing became erratic; my heart pacing, to which I attributed to what would surely become an early heart attack.

I felt faint, as I sat myself down on the linoleum of our ghetto kitchen, and had my hands on my chest as I panted like a dog. I had visions of Redd Foxx in Sanford and Son feigning a trip to Heaven.

"Get a hold of yourself!" BF urged. Now I don't know why, but this statement always sends me into hysterics. It's so adult. So very 50's.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur, but I do recall passing out and having nightmares of stomping on our porch and a little boy crying.

"We're gonna get sued!" I proclaimed the following morning, after BF had spent most of the night clearing away the aftermath of the flying Yeti.

I stayed home from work that day, to keep a watchful eye on the scene of the crime so a passerby would think the broken window was an open invitation to loot the place.

It was like a walk of shame as I would later relay the story to the window-fixer guy, who tried his best to stifle a laugh.

But that was nothing compared to responses we received from friends, family and perfect strangers after we told them about the night we scared the shit, possibly literally, out of some kids in the neighborhood.

I should also add that this incident was remarkable enough to make it into the speech of one of my maid's of honor at my wedding, which continues to provide a good laugh at my expense.