The Spazziness is Strong With This One

As I’ve mentioned (I know, I know, ad nauseum, suck it up), I work in a theater. So you’d think I’d be really, really cool around actors and other famous people, right?

If you answered “right” to this you a., haven’t been reading this very long, and b., don’t know me very well. I am a spaz. A complete and total spaz. Around normal people, I’m just your everyday, basic spaz, which people can explain away with “she’s kooky” or “aw, Amy” in a patronizing tone; around real life famous people OMG FAMOUS PEOPLE!!! I turn into Spaz Extraordinaire.

I haven’t met a lot of famous people in person. Which is probably a good thing, because it is embarrassing. I'm better off sticking to Twitter, where you can talk to (and sometimes get responses from, as long as you're not a crazy attention-seeking lunatic) famous people and still retain a facade of cool aloofness. I was discussing this with a friend last night and told her that once I blogged about how I completely self-destruct around famous people, she would no longer invite me to come with her on our hypothetical quest to meet Joss Whedon. Here you go, Amanda...I won't be too hurt if my invitation gets lost in the mail.

Chance encounters that weren’t too bad:

When I started working at my theater, four people who worked on the first play I’d seen when I moved to town were involved with the show I was working on. I was so daunted by them I was afraid to talk to them, other than mono-syllabic “yes”’s and “no”’s, for a very long time. (I’m fairly sure if they knew this they’d laugh now, since I’ve known them for years and they’re just the loveliest people and not at all scary.) Spaz Quotient – 5 (because community theater people aren’t even CELEBRITIES, really!)

I met Lynn Redgrave after a play she’d acted in when I was doing a semester abroad in London. This was not too embarrassing because I wasn’t aware she was a famous person. I thought, “Isn’t it nice that the Weight Watchers spokeswoman got a role in a play!” So I didn’t spaz out. She was very gracious and shook my hand when I told her I’d enjoyed the play. (I didn’t. There was a horse onstage and I found it very distracting. I kept thinking it was either going to bolt or poo and therefore couldn’t pay attention to what was happening in the story because I was waiting for one of those two things to occur.) Spaz Quotient (on a scale of 1-10) – 2 (because I didn’t know she was a famous person, which is embarrassing in itself.)

I went to New York City with some friends while in college. One of them saw Buster Poindexter (Hot, Hot, Hot? No? Also known as David Johansen? Anyone? The song was popular then. Yes, yes, I know. I’m old) in a restaurant eating and wanted to go in and talk to him. He was summarily kicked out of the restaurant by Buster Poindexter’s goons. Yes, Buster Poindexter, at the height of his popularity, had toughs with him. I don’t know either. Spaz Quotient – 1 (I had nothing to do with this. I was embarrassed anyone wanted to meet Buster Poindexter.)

Also in New York City, while walking with a friend, he said, “Don’t look now, but there’s Ted Levine.” “Who?” I said. “Ted Levine. Jame Gumb. From Silence of the Lambs.” In my haste to see the real life person who said “It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again,” one of my favorite movie lines EVER, I almost knocked over three people on the sidewalk. For my pains, I saw a man’s back receding from us. He was wearing jeans and a hoodie. This could have been anyone. But it was very exciting nonetheless. Spaz Quotient – 4 (would be higher had I actually gotten to speak to him)

I went to college with two people who have since become “famous.” I put this in quotes because it’s not true. One of them was an extra on Contest Searchlight, which was a comedy show making fun of Project Greenlight years ago that starred Denis Leary. I saw him in a crowd scene. It was very exciting. In real life he was a bit of a tool, I guess, according to people who knew him. I always liked him well enough personally. The other one is even more fantastically “famous” as he was one of the “dates” on the episode “Whatta Manhunt” on the short-lived Salt-N-Pepa Show.  This was disheartening, because I know he’s an actor, so it ruined my true and honest belief that Pepa was looking for a real date as the dates were actually actors. Also, he was a very nice, very sweet, very earnest boy, and it made me sad that the best he seemed to be able to do was “Bachelor #2” on “Whatta Manhunt.” Spaz Quotient – nonexistent (however, embarrassment quotient for “Bachelor #2” is kind of high.)

I have met and had books signed by two authors I admire – David Eggers and Russell Banks – and both times when I got to the signing table I stuttered out something like “I like you good books nice.” This, I think, makes them think I am possibly dyslexic, and isn’t it brave that I keep trying to read! Spaz Quotient – 6 (if I’d stayed longer, it would have been higher.)

Also, I went to a David Sedaris reading once, and afterwards, he was outside smoking, and I stood there watching him and was SO DESPERATE to go and talk to him but was too afraid, because he’s notoriously shy and I adore him so much I was afraid my love would kill him. So eventually he just walked away with the friend he’d been talking to. I’ve been sad about that ever since. Spaz Quotient – 4 (because I was a chickenshit)

I mentioned this in the past, but when I worked at the video store in grad school, Everett McGill used to rent videos from us. I didn’t spaz out on him because I was only aware of his work in The People Under the Stairs. So I was actually really quite cool with him, and he always waited patiently to be in my line, because my co-workers would act like weirdos if they waited on him and he was very taciturn and that seemed to freak him out. I have since seen him in a few things and I think I’d spaz out more now. Also, once, there was a mattress sale in the parking lot of the video store and he and his wife bounced on the mattresses in an adorable and gleeful manner. So there is a celebrity story for you. Breaking news, TMZ. Spaz Quotient – 1 (because I was unaware he was a famous person other than in ‘The People Under the Stairs’)

I went to a film festival and Kevin Bacon did a talk after a movie. I was sitting on the aisle and had my legs kind of stretched out more than I should have (stop it, I wasn’t being a dick, if anyone was coming, I would have pulled them in.) Someone said excuse me and I moved them and this very short, very thin man walked by. Yep, Kevin Bacon. Who is MINISCULE. But polite! +1, Kevin Bacon. And now you can all use me in your “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” game. Oh, it only counts if I’ve ACTED with Kevin Bacon? I disagree. I think you can say, for example, “Sarah Jessica Parker was in Footloose with Kevin Bacon and Amy was in A THEATER with Kevin Bacon” and that totally counts. Spaz Quotient – nonexistent (because I didn’t have enough time to react)

But here, here is my most embarrassing moment. A quick preface: I have a short list of people I’d like to meet; people I admire a great deal, whose work has made a huge impact on me and my life. A few new people get added here and there, but the three main, core people are Stephen King, Kevin Smith, and Joss Whedon. Their work has affected me more than anyone else’s; they are the people I’d like to meet and thank for giving me what they have over the years.

If you think these people suck, or are not fans, fine. I don’t care. You probably have your own short list. I won’t judge yours if you don’t judge mine. These are my people; I don’t need to explain or apologize for them.

A few years ago, two friends and I went to the Woodstock Film Festival to see an advanced screening of Zack and Miri Make a Porno. The Woodstock Film Festival is awesome – not too far from me, lots of excellent indie films, some bigger-budget ones, famous people come and give talks about films and filmmaking and acting, and it’s all-around a really happy and stress-free experience (especially for me, who hates crowds and people and hype.)  We knew Kevin Smith was in town, because he won the Woodstock Maverick Award that weekend, and was in town to accept it. Sometimes, after the movies, an actor or director will come and do a question-and-answer session, but not always, and it hadn’t been announced, so we weren’t sure if he would be there. So we watched the movie.  (Side note – right before it started, one of the snooty film snobs who comes to these things, who I have no idea why was there, said, “I hope this isn’t too VULGAR” and I almost spit-took my water because listen, lady, this isn’t a two-hour silent film about glassblowing, it’s a KEVIN SMITH MOVIE.) When it was done, the lights came up, and nothing happened, and we waited a bit. And I had butterflies, because I thought, maybe? Maybe Kevin Smith? And then, yes, Kevin Smith. I was in the same room as Kevin Smith, who has been one of my idols since I watched Clerks as a disaffected moody college student and realized “People are making movies? That are about me and my friends? THIS IS AMAZING.” When it was over, we left, and realized that Kevin Smith was standing RIGHT THERE IN THE PARKING LOT HAVING A CIGARETTE. I froze like a raccoon caught stealing from a trash can. See, most of you are reading this and thinking, “So what? I wait outside of concerts for people I like ALL THE TIME” but I never, never have the courage to do that. Also, I AM A SPAZ.

Friend’s boyfriend: We have to talk to him.

Me: No. Too afraid. Can’t.
FB: You are going to hate yourself if you don’t.
Me: SO SCARED.
FB: Seriously. He wouldn’t have come out if he didn’t want to say hi to his fans.
Me: I AM GOING TO BE A SPAZ.
FB: Well, um, yeah, probably. You are Amy. That hasn’t changed in the past ten minutes.
Me: TOO SCARED. IT IS KEVIN SMITH. TOO SCARED.

My friend agreed with me – she’s with me on the “it’s kind of embarrassing to be up in celebrities’ faces” thing – but her boyfriend? The bravest. He started walking over there. And I couldn’t let him go alone. I had to go. I mean, I had to go, right? I would hate myself, right? This would be David Sedaris but to the power of A MILLION.

So we were standing in front of Kevin Smith, who had complained at the Q&A that he had food poisoning. No one else, apparently, had noticed him. We were all alone with Kevin Smith.

FB:  This is Amy. She's really nervous to meet you.

Kevin Smith: Oh, because I might projectile vomit all over you?
Me: NobecauseIreallyadmireyouyou'reoneofmyidols. (All in one breath. Like a crazy person with asthma.)
KS: Thank you, that's so nice! (Shook my hand. SHOOK MY HAND. I KNOW! Which I totally didn’t lick afterwards because that would be gross and he had food poisoning but I might have joked about doing so and also thought about not washing it.)
Me: This is my friend! She ALSO likes you!

Then he shook her hand and laughed a little at my weirdness, in a “I think she might be sizing my skin up to wear it as a cape” sort of way.

FB: Could you sign this? (Kevin Smith signed his program.) Congratulations on the Maverick Award last night!
KS: Yeah, thanks, that was cool.

And now, here is where I use WITTY WORDPLAY. On KEVIN SMITH. Ready? I don’t know if you can handle it.

Me: You're a maverick, just like Sarah Palin.

 

In my defense, this was back in what, 2008? When she had just debated and said she was a maverick 43 kabillion times. And I did say this sarcastically. But I think in my haste to say words out of my mouth it came out like “Blah blah LOONEY PERSON WITH CRAZY EYES blah.”

KS: I am JUST LIKE Sarah Palin, you're right.

Then we all laughed. My friend’s laughter was normal; Kevin Smith’s was a person who had to deal with a crazy; mine sounded like that person you change cars to get away from on the subway who smells like feet.

KS: OK, I have to get going - really not feeling well. Nice to meet you all, though.

Me: I hope you feel better!
KS: Thank you! (He said this VERY NICELY.)

Then he left. And he WAVED TO US AS HIS CAR DROVE HIM AWAY. No, seriously.

OK, what have we learned, here?

I am a GOON and a SPAZ.

Kevin Smith is really the nicest. See? I choose GOOD people to idolize. I have since seen him live again and he was wonderful then, too.

I should not be allowed out in public where there are people because I am EMBARRASSING.

Also, Friend’s Boyfriend gave me the signed program as a birthday present a week later, cementing him as a keeper in my book.

 

Spaz Quotient – 9 (I suppose things always could be worse, like I could have tripped and fallen on him or something)

Doctors don't really make out all the time. THANKS, Grey's Anatomy.

I’ve mentioned my clumsiness, right? I know I have. It’s legendary. I can’t even impress upon you how clumsy I am. In high school, I fell down some stairs at my boyfriend’s house and lost the ring he’d just given me (and banged myself up pretty severely in the process.) I once fell on my ass so badly I bruised my tailbone and had trouble sitting for two weeks. I think I needed one of those doughnut pillows but I was way too embarrassed to even go to the doctor and explain that I’d fallen so badly I had a sore rear, let alone get a prescription for an ass doughnut.

The best example of this clumsiness leading to injury was my senior year of college. I was moving out of my apartment and into a new one (transitioning between undergrad and grad school, and my current roommates were moving away) and was in the new apartment, puttering around and decorating a little. We weren’t officially moving in for another week, but we’d gotten the keys early so we could have the space in advance. My summer roommate was in her room, I was in mine, and we had planned a trip to the mattress store later in the afternoon to get a new bed for her. I decided a good use of my time would be to hang glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. (I know. That’s not a good use of anyone’s time. I was obsessed with glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling for years. I don’t know why, exactly. I thought it would be like camping without the mosquitoes or bears or cold-water showers? Still not sure on that one.)

We were in the midst of moving in, so we didn't have much in the way of furniture there yet. I poked around, found an old kitchen chair on the back porch, and stood on it to put the stars on my ceiling. I didn't look at it too closely. It was a chair. There were four legs. It was made of wood. What more do you want?

Well, rungs. Rungs are what you want. Because I stood on it, and it was already missing two rungs, and the third rung was just popped into one of the holes in the leg, and one of the legs just broke clean off. I was reaching up to the ceiling at the time, and went down. Hard. I landed on my hipbone and my elbow, mostly.

My roommate came running in to see what the noise was, and I just sat there laughing, because seriously, who but me stands on a chair missing rungs that she pulled from a random back porch because she could not wait to put up glow-in-the-dark stars before she even had a bed to enjoy them from? We tossed the chair in the garbage and went to run errands.

That's when I started to realize that something might be seriously wrong.

I'd banged my elbow pretty badly, but I fall a lot, so it wasn't a new thing. I mean, who hasn't banged their elbow? Elbows hurt like a son of a bitch. They even have an ironic nickname. "Funnybone." Because they're not! Funny to injure, I mean! Ha!

My roommate drove, and I realized I'd started cradling my arm. I told myself to stop being a baby. It would stop hurting soon. I'd just banged the damn thing. It was nothing. I'd fallen worse than this before. 

We got to the mattress store and she asked if I wanted to stay in the car, but I told her no, I was fine to come in. She walked around, talking to the salesperson, and I sat on the edge of a mattress, gingerly, holding my arm very, very steadily to my chest with the other. The next thing I knew, she and the salesperson were standing over me. "Are you ok? You're really pale," she said.  But her voice sounded like it was coming from a million miles away. My ears were ringing. There were huge black spots in front of my eyes. I couldn't talk. 

"Um, yeah, we're going to the ER. You broke your arm, dummy," she said, and bustled me off to the car and brought me to the ER as quick as she could, me weakly protesting I'd be fine, I just banged my arm, I fell all the time. "Do you pass out in mattress stores all the time, too? We're going," she said. She was very practical in a crisis. 

We got to the ER and waited. And waited. And waited. As long as I didn't move, I was fine. If I moved, I was either going to pass out or throw up again, one or the other. When we were signing in, I'd asked the nurse if I could take a painkiller. She looked at me like I'd just mentioned, offhandedly, I liked to murder puppies and feed their corpses to toddlers on my time off.  "No, because we don't know what's wrong yet," she said. "That could be very dangerous, until we know your condition."

I'm fairly sure downing a couple of store-brand ibuprofen wouldn't have killed me if falling off of a chair onto a hardwood floor didn't, but I figured since she worked in the medical profession, she knew better than I did.

They finally got me in and told me they needed to take an x-ray to see if I'd actually broken a bone. I was alright with that until I realized they'd need to straighten out my arm to do so. I actually got up to leave, until I almost passed out from the movement. The nurse tried to hold me down and straighten out my arm. I actually struggled with her.

Her actual words to me? "Don't be a baby."

Don't be a BABY? Um, this is hurting me to the point of PASSING OUT? So "don't be a baby" really isn't the most constructive thing you could say to me right now?

Then - THEN! - she brought in two "orderlies" who I think were actually "professional wrestlers" because one held me down and the other straightened out my arm. I passed out on the table. I only know this because when I came to, the nurse (I like to call her Nurse Ratched) told me, "Well, that was a lot easier when you weren't struggling."

Um, thanks? I - I aim to please?

She sent me back out into the waiting room to wait for the results. At this point, I was really angry. Wrestlers had been called in to straighten out my broken arm; a sadistic evil nurse had called me a baby; and no one would allow me to take linty ibuprofen from the bottom of my purse. And my arm hurt. Seriously HURT.

About an hour later (what were they DOING back there? Playing strip POKER? There was no one else even in the waiting room for them to see!) a doctor came out and said, very condescendingly, "There's nothing wrong. No break. You just bumped it in your fall. Go home and put an ice pack on it. You'll be fine."

I got up, livid (and almost passed out, so my roommate had to hold me up) and said, "I am LEAVING. There is OBVIOUSLY something wrong, but you can't FIND IT." Then I stomped out (only, I didn't as much "stomp" as "tried not to throw up on my roommate's shoes") and we got three-fourths of the way to her car (this took a very, very long time) when ANOTHER doctor ran out of the side door of the hospital, panting.

"Stop! STOP! YOUR ELBOW IS BROKEN!" he yelled across the parking lot.

This did not inspire confidence.

There was a hairline fracture in my elbow, which apparently a number of people didn't see, but this guy did. Do you know what they do for broken elbows? Me, either, but for this one, nothing. They gave me a sling made of muslin (seriously, theatrical muslin, I recognized it from school) and a prescription for codeine and told me it should be better in 6-8 weeks.

This seemed a little Keystone Cops to me.

I walked around with a sling that looked like I cobbled it together myself in scene shop at the theater for 6-8 weeks. Classy! That didn't get dirty at all! My reaction to codeine - well, let's just say we don't play well together. I pass out about half an hour after taking it. Even codeine cough syrup does this to me. Over the next week, friends found me passed out on the floor of my closet (I'd gone in to clean it in preparation for the move - easy, with only one arm you could use) and on an acquaintance's shoulder, drooling down her top (she'd come over to watch a movie; I'd popped a pill, and off to dreamland I went - her shoulder was apparently the nearest pillow my unconscious head found. Embarrassing. I didn't even know her that well.) My parents came up to help me move and we went to dinner and my father had to help me cut up my food. He was struck by how adorable this was; I was distressed by how I felt like a weirdo cripple. I half-expected people to start calling me Blue Roses and comparing me to a glass figurine.

The follow-up doctor told me I'd probably feel the weather in my elbow for the rest of my life (um, thank you, now I am a barometer?) but I don't, so mixed blessing, I guess? That'd kind of be a nice superpower, so not even getting a superpower out of the whole thing seems like a raw deal. However, he also predicted I would never be able to straighten out my arm again, and I can. Um, now that I look back on it, this doctor sort of sucked? Hmm. Probably not a good idea when your followup is in the back of a van. Yeah, I'm here all week, tip your waiters. Just keep your feet and hands to yourself, otherwise I could trip, and you know I'll bring your ass down with me.

Attraction Not Recommended for Those 8 and Under. Oh, and ME.

As much as I like horror movies and horror novels, I am a gigantic baby when it comes to actual, real-life haunted houses. I’m not referring to the real ones – although I’m a baby when it comes to those, too – but the ones that are set up for Halloween. You know the ones: sometimes they’re professional, and there’s a whole complex of buildings, sets, costumes, the whole nine yards; sometimes less-so, and they’re run by a church group, or something along those lines, as a fundraiser.

I tie this into my fear of things jumping out at me. I’m usually very practical and very level-headed. I can kill a mouse with a shoe (no jumping up on something and squealing for this woman!); I can bait my own hook, catch my own fish, remove it from the hook, clean it, cook it, and eat it, all on my own (so, as you can see, totally ready for the zombie apocalypse); I once watched as a doctor removed moles from my shoulder (much to her disgust; I’m fairly sure there’s a file out there somewhere that says “Keep an eye on this one; latent serial killer tendencies.”) However, I hate, hate, HATE things jumping out at me. Even worse: surprises, where you’re supposed to look pleased, that involve people jumping out at me.

When I was six, my mother planned an elaborate surprise party for me. My father took me on errands with him for the day, so she could organize the whole thing and so everyone could arrive. When we pulled up (why I didn’t notice all the cars in the yard? Give me a break, I was SIX) and went in, they all leaped out from behind things and screamed “SURPRISE!!!” at me. The photos of my face are really things of legend. They get brought up at family functions, sometimes. I was first scared shitless (I have a really overdeveloped fight-or-flight response, and wasn’t sure whether to punch someone or run out screaming; you can see this crossing my face); then I almost pissed myself (again, I was six); then I was FURIOUS. Every photo of me from that party was of me scowling like a young Winston Churchill. I remember asking when we could send everyone home, including my mother (who lives there), who I had named as the head betrayer. Everyone once and a while, my family jokingly says things like, “Hey, you have a milestone birthday coming up…maybe a surprise party is in order?” This is NOT FUNNY. I do not like people jumping out at me; I don’t like not being in on something; I don’t like people screaming in my face. Does anyone like this? If so, what the hell is wrong with you?

In grad school, a friend of mine invited me and another friend of ours to a haunted house his fraternity (fraternity in name only; please, like I’m close friends with too many fraternity brothers. I believe they were a grades-oriented fraternity. Or charitable works. Something like that) was putting on at the local Chuck E. Cheese knock-off. I wasn’t sure about this. “Will people touch me?” I asked. “No,” he said. “We’re not allowed to touch people. We’d get sued.” “Will things jump out and surprise me?” I then asked. He looked at me like I was special (which I am, but I mean that more in the special-needs way, not the sparkly-princess-unicorn way.) “Um, probably?” I love him – still do, he’s one of my favorite people in the world, and why he puts up with my insanity? Well, he’s very patient, and kind – so I said I’d be there.

(Before I start, I want to make this clear – I am well aware these people are actors. I work with actors. For some reason, this does nothing to make them less scary to me. Something is broken in my brain? Probably.)

We showed up, and listen, this wasn’t anything fancy. They’d closed off half of the place and draped it in garbage bags, so it was like one long tunnel, and set up little scenarios inside. It was for children, not adults. I need to reiterate this. It was for children, not adults. The tour guide brought my friend and me in and then all hell broke loose.

I don’t remember a lot of what was in there. Scenarios, like people dressed up with Halloween masks and a lot of fake blood, I think. But apparently, they had all been tipped off I was coming, so they were all whispering, “Amy….Ammmmyyyyy…” as I walked along. But I couldn’t SEE them whispering it. It was coming from NOWHERE. I tried to rush the tour guide but she was NOT HAVING IT. (I think because if we went too fast, the wind from our wake would knock down the garbage-bag tunnels. Did I mention – this was for children? Not adults? Because it was.) The children on the tour with us were laughing and pointing and I could not understand this. This was not funny. Did they not hear the creepy whispering? The people in the scenarios would reach out at us and I almost trampled the children pulling away from them. I could not get out of there soon enough.

We got to the end – oh, the friend I was with thought this was all very funny, because, as I mentioned, normally I pretty much have it all together – and I could see the light (literally!) at the end of the tunnel. I booked it to the end.

AND THEN A WOLFMAN GRABBED ME FROM BEHIND.

Seriously. A wolfman grabbed me from behind and stopped me from exiting. A wolfman put his paws on me around my waist and was eerily silent and would not let me go. So, as I think anyone would do, I elbowed the wolfman in the solar plexus and, when he bent over in pain and let go, turned around and punched him really hard around the face and neck. I faced the wolfman, triumphant. No wolfman was grabbing me! No sir!

And then the wolfman said, “Jesus, Amy, really?” and took off his K-Mart mask and it was really my friend whose fraternity had set the whole thing up. Listen, I still, years later, think I was within my rights. A wolfman was attacking me. I think I actually thought fast and acted appropriately. I mean, what would you have done, just sat there whining “Oh, no, wolfman, please, don’t eat my face?” Yeah, that’s what I thought. I clobbered that wolfman. (Also, the wolfman had FAIR WARNING I did not like being surprised or touched, so the wolfman might have gotten what was coming to him. Just saying.)

After that (and I can tell you, I never really lived that down – it’s hard to keep your reputation as a bad-ass when the story of you weeping and wailing like a baby at a child’s haunted house gets out) I didn’t go back to haunted houses. Obviously, they were out to get me and I didn’t have the psychological tools necessary to fight them. Until a couple of years ago, when not one, but two haunted houses reared their broken windows and cobwebby halls at me. I had to take the challenge. I had to regain my womanhood.

The first was a haunted house for a children’s charity at a local house of history. I was interested to see the house. Plus, there was the promise of a petting zoo. You could tell me, “Listen, you’re going to have to do about five hours of work in 90 degree sun, then you’ll get beaten by a couple of Russian wrestlers until you pass out, but there will be pygmy goats” and I’d be there. My friend, her sister who was visiting from out of town, and I went. I was prepared. I knew what I was up against. I kept asking, “This won’t be that bad, right? This is for kids, right?” and kept getting, “Yes, it’s for kids.” “No, it won’t be that bad.” “Were you accidentally dropped as a child?” (That was from the visiting sister. She didn’t really get that I’m pleasantly neurotic and not just looney tunes.)

We were in a group with about ten kindergarteners and the three of us. I thought, “The haunted house can’t kill us. Look at all of these adorable kiddos!” much as you do when there are babies on your plane and you reason it won’t go down because the powers that be wouldn’t be that cruel, would they? (They would. They are.) The children, the ladies, and I followed our ghostly-dressed tour guide into the house.

It was a wonderful old house. But I don’t know if you’re aware, but old houses are creepy on their own. They creak. The floors are crooked. Add some cobwebs and people dressed up like escaped mental patients grabbing at you and JUMPING OUT FROM BEHIND DOORS (this happened) and it’s like a recipe for disaster.

I started hiding behind my two friends when I realized that this house was even worse than the haunted garbage bag tunnel. I just grabbed onto their sleeves and put my head between their shoulderblades and followed them. The children in our group thought this was hysterical, as did my two friends (I think they might have also found it annoying, because it was like a lamprey had attached itself to them and wouldn’t let go. Made it hard to walk easily.) We got to the last room, and, as in my first experience, I could see the outdoors. Pygmy goats! And a mini-horse! And (for some reason) chickens! The petting zoo, my reward for braving the haunted house (and, let’s face it, losing!)

The last room was set up like a butcher’s shop, only people were being butchered, and for some reason, the butcher decided he was going to scream, to the top of his lungs, “Get out of my HOUSE! Get out of my HOUSE! Get out of my HOUSE!” However, in his infinite wisdom, he was blocking the only door out of the room. So you couldn’t “get out of his HOUSE!” because he was blocking the exit. And he was waving around a bloody cleaver. I tried to get out, and he kept blocking me, while bellowing for me to get out. After trying to get out and pet some goats to calm down about three times, I had had enough.

“I AM TRYING TO GET OUT OF YOUR HOUSE BUT YOU WON’T GET OUT OF THE WAY, BUTCHER!” I screamed back at him.

The children, my friends, and the butcher all got very silent. The children took this opportunity to sneak past him to the exit and raid the cider doughnut table. The butcher and I were facing each other, both furious. My friends were in hysterics. Like, holding each other up, in tears, their sides aching for days with laughter hysterics. I had screamed at an actor in the children’s charity haunted house. This was the best Halloween ever.

The butcher sized me up and finally moved aside enough that I could pass. I had conquered the butcher! (Or he heard the next tour group coming and realized I was a weirdo and it was time to let me out.) Whatever the reason, I escaped with my life! I frantically petted the animals in the petting zoo for the rest of the afternoon to get over my trauma. (There were also rabbits, by the way. RABBITS. And I had acted like I was in Of Mice and Men, so it was appropriate that I got to continue to do so.)

Finally, there was the coup de grace, the Headless Horseman Hayride. This thing gets voted scariest in the state. How I got talked into this? I’m not 100% sure about that. I thought it would be fun? My friends thought it would be funny? This isn’t a haunted house. It’s a COMPLEX of haunted houses. First you take a hayride (this is – oh, I could be nice, but why – kind of lame, like “let’s put on a skit!” lame, only the skit didn’t make a lot of sense. Although there were pyrotechnics, and things jumped out of the woods and followed the hay wagon, and that was kind of funny.) I entertained myself by snarking at the storyline (something about an escaped mental patient, only it didn’t all tie together very well) only inside I was quite aware what was next – 5 haunted houses, one after the other, and a haunted corn maze. I couldn’t handle a children’s haunted house and this had an AGE LIMIT ON IT. You had to be AT LEAST THIRTEEN to even buy a ticket to this thing.

The night is kind of a blur. Like when you’re in a car accident and you look back and remember arriving, and leaving, but not the terror in between. I think, at some point during the night, my brain shut off. Because I started chatting with the ghosts. The ghosts, who can apparently, in some other-worldly way, sense fear, locked onto me like I was a tractor beam. (Oh, and also, they told me as I was coming in, “The ghosts are going to love you.” I’d worn a light-colored shirt. The ghosts working the park can’t see that well in the dark, but they can see you in a light-colored shirt. Blast you, fashion sense! So if you want to be left alone at the Haunted Hayride, wear black.) Once the ghosts started following me (they couldn’t touch, but they could get very, very close) I mentally shut down, and started a monologue to them under my breath. “Oh. Hi. Another ghost. Right nearby. Awesome. No, really. So cool. Are you going to eat my brain? Because that would be great. IS IT STILL FOLLOWING ME?” (Here my friends, laughing like lunatics, would scream, “YES!”) “Oh. Well, good. Hi, then. Were you going to kill me? Is there someone else you’d like to follow? Oh, you’re leaving that’s great WHY IS ANOTHER GHOST COMING?” (They did this tag-team thing where one would peel off into the night and another one would glom onto me. I was like ghost Velcro.)

I also agreed with them a lot. It seemed to shut them up faster than screaming or trying to run. When one would scream, “You’re going to die tonight!” I would say, “I know. It’s the worst.” “You’re one of us now!” “Yes, yes, I saw the movie ‘Freaks’ too. One of us. One of us. I know.” This made my friend’s boyfriend laugh until he had to brave the haunted port-a-potties. (I came back from them with a haunted piece of toilet paper trailing me from the sole of my shoe. Ghostly fun!) When we were driving home, he kept saying, “And Amy agreeing with the ghosts was the best. No matter what they said, she just agreed with them.” Apparently, he has never watched the millions of kidnapping Lifetime movies I’ve watched. You APPEASE killers. This makes them KILL YOU LESS FAST.

This Halloween, there’s a Haunted Capitol tour in Albany. I want to go. Thing is, I’m fairly sure my antics (which I would like to emphasize, are not under my control) would get me on a terrorist watchlist. And who needs that, really?