I saw my first scary movie, Psycho, at Beth's house in the seventh grade at a slumber party. During the movie, her mother went outside and scratched on the window. Of course we looked, and there she was wearing a mask and holding a huge butcher knife.
Because of that movie, I have certain
Needless to say, the movie left an impression.
I've mentioned before how much of a big weenie I am, and how I hate to be scared. You can read that blog post here. It was not one of my finer moments. Neither are any of these.
When Big Daddy and I started dating when I was in my early 20s, he was shocked by the number of scary movies I hadn't seen. One beautiful early summer day, he introduced to me to Jason and Friday the 13th. I was transfixed. Big Daddy lived out in the middle of the the woods just like in the movie. The living room had floor to ceiling windows that had a beautiful view of woods, woods, and more woods. You couldn't see a neighbor, a car, or a living soul anywhere.
Right after the first murder of the movie, Big Daddy had to go outside to smoke. It was just starting to get dark, and I wanted to see what would happen next, so I stayed inside. He'd been gone for a bit, when I had to go to the bathroom. As I sat there doing my business, there was a scratch at the bathroom window, and then Big Daddy started making the noise from the movie, "Tsch, tsch, tsch, tsch, ah, ah, ah, ah....tsch, tsch, tsch, tsch, ah, ah, ah, ah...."
"Not funny!" I shouted at him.
I washed my hands and went back to the living room, just in time to see someone else die at Jason's hands. As I began to get more into the movie, something caught my eye from those huge windows. There stood Big Daddy motionless in coveralls, eyes wide, face frozen in this crazy Farmer Fred face.
I screamed bloody murder.
Of course, that was the payoff Big Daddy wanted and all was right in his world. There is nothing he loves more than for me to scream like a crazy woman.
Years later, because of his evil, black heart and the depth of my paranoia, Big Daddy loves to jack with me when I'm in the shower. He scrapes on the screens. He presses his face to the window. He pulls back the shower curtain and says, "Boo." Sometimes, he squeals a noise we like to call "Demon Pig" because it truly sounds like an animal from the depths of hell.
Usually, I scream and back away, he laughs, I wet myself a little, and we move on with our lives.
Except for what happened a few months ago.
There I was carefully taking a shower, when suddenly the shower curtain was ripped back and a man I didn't recognize made the most horrendously, frightening noise.
It was the Demon Pig and he was coming to carry me to Norman Bates at the Bates Motel. I just knew it.
He wouldn't take me alive. Oh, no. I stepped one foot out of the shower and slapped the Demon Pig with my right hand, and made two punches with my left. One, two, baby. Don't mess with me. Momma don't play.
Big Daddy stepped back. "Dammit, Kristi!! You hit me in the nose! I've got soap in my nose and eyes, and it burns. Why'd ya hit me?"
Everything came in to focus. It wasn't a Demon Pig. It was Big Daddy, his face red and soapy, eyes watering.
Oops.
Moral of the story: If Norman Bates ever does come for me, I will Kung Fu his ass. Hiiii-ya.
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