Archive | February, 2013

The Time I Got Kidnapped.

21 Feb

I am not going to lie. I was a little turd as a child. I loooooved getting into mischief.  I especially enjoyed torturing my poor mother.  Here are just a handful of things I did to drive her to the brink of insanity:

  • Threw a tantrum while she was carrying me down the stairs, causing her to fall down them and subsequently break her leg (I knew she’d broken her leg when I was little, but had no idea that I was the root cause of it until I was like 18)
  • Climbed on top of the refrigerator while her leg was broken and she was in a cast up to her buttcheek, rendering her helpless to catch me
  • Snuck into her bedroom late at night, tap her until she woke up, hide, and then run away.  Repeat 10 times.
  • Snuck up behind her while she was sitting in her rocking recliner, jerk it backwards to make her feel like she was going to flip end over end, and then run away with glee

But none of those experiences even compare to the time I pretended I got kidnapped.

Let’s take a little trip back in time, shall we?

back to the future

The year:  approximately 1983.  Age:  4 years old.

My mom decided she needed something at this old department store called Montgomery Ward.  It was a store at a mall not too far from our house.  My dad was at work, so she had to take my little evil ass with her.

I loved going to the mall.  I was so excited.


So she packed my evilness in the car and off to the mall we went.

My mom was on a mission, so we did some serious mall-walking to get to what she wanted (clothes of some sort).  We walked through shelves and racks of clothes until we got to the rack she was searching for.  Until this point, she’d had a firm grip on my hand because she knew I would take off running.  Because I was evil.  This was before the days of child leashes (not that I condone the use of those but I’m just sayin’ – I may’ve needed to be on one).  Anyway, briefly, she let go of my hand to rifle through some shirts hanging on a rack.

Suddenly, I had an idea.


Before my mom had a chance to even realize she’d let go of my hand, I tiptoed to an adjacent circular rack of clothing and hid in the middle of it.

I could still see my mom from where I was hiding, but she could not see me.  Within seconds she realized that I was not next to her.  She remained calm at first, looking around the aisles and different racks of clothes.  But her calm turned into panic after a few minutes of searching for me.

Before I knew it, my mom ran off and I couldn’t see her anymore.  I continued to stay hidden in the rack of clothes, giggling away like the evil little spawn that I was.


Soon, she returned to near the rack I was hiding in, accompanied by a security guard.  They began frantically searching for me while I sat there and giggled…and giggled…and giggled.

Then I started to get bored.  Sitting in that rack of clothes was losing it’s coolness fast.  Just as I decided that maybe it was time for me to fess up, I heard the security guard tell my mom that he was going to radio the police department.

And even as a 4-year old, I knew that was a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad idea.


Naturally, I began to panic a little.


I sat there in my rotunda of overpriced bejewelled sweatshirts and weighed my options.  1.)  I could fess up on my own, wherein I would be punished by being hung upside down by my toes, taken to the orphanage, being sent to my room without dinner (which would inevitably turn into a meager diet of bread and water for the rest of my natural-born life), or any other combination of the varitable punishments my mother had threatened me with over the years, or 2.) I could wait for the police to arrive, find me, arrest me, and be thrown in jail for the rest of my days.  While the second option was, for a fleeting moment, slightly more favorable than facing my mother after pulling such a stunt, I decided that it would inevitably be better to just fess up and face the music.

As I stepped out of the clothes rack, I remember very clearly thinking that I needed to make myself look as sad and pathetic as possible.



It did not work.

Needless to say, after my mother got done ripping into me, she let the security guard take a turn.  And nothing makes a child cry faster or harder than when a strange man with a badge and a 80’s porn ‘stache berates you for scaring the shit out of your mother.

And that is the tale of the time I pretended I had been kidnapped.