Wikipedia - the bible of all definitions and explanations - describes Hell as the following:
Interesting, but mostly wrong. And I would know. Allow me to explain.
Today I personally witnessed Hell. I was bound to end up there at some point, right? But since I've now been there and you have not, I fancy myself a bit of an expert and feel it important to clear up a few pieces of misinformation.
It is not below the ground, but rather about three steps up into a cookie cutter building. It is not fiery but it is indeed painful, particularly in the ear canal. There is much suffering, however; that part is certainly true.
The innermost circle of Hell is not a frozen lake of blood and guilt (who thinks this stuff up? How does one add guilt to a lake of blood anyway?), but rather a Plexiglas enclosure full snot and screaming. It is indeed populated by demons: short and noisy ones who can't sit still for very long.
Today, my lambs, I spent 90 minutes visiting Hell on earth, and it was in the form of a McDonald's birthday party. It was Pixie's son's special day and I don't think any of us quite knew what we were in for. While the children had a great time I think the parents (those brave enough to stay, like yours truly who is one of those amazing mothers you hear about and wish you could be like) will most likely be decompressing this evening with a hot bath, a few glasses of wine, or a bit of heroin. I, of course, like to blog my stress away.
I can handle a lot of noise, you know. I have three boys. I'm capable of tolerating levels of insanity that would cause most people's brains to implode. But nothing prepared me for the chaos of nine boys caught in the perfect storm of processed deep-fried food and the uncontrollable instinct to climb and conquer a playstructure at any cost. This experience changed me on a fundamental level and solidified my decision to stick to three children. Also, I now fully comprehend the meaning behind the term boisterous, although I think it should be spelled boysterous.
I'll contact Webster on Monday.
After taking five years off my life in 90 minutes, I drove a tired Gutsy home and made my way across the city to have a late lunch with XUP, Nat and Alison. They had been planning this get-together for a while and it just sort of worked out that if I timed my trip from the party to the pizza join exactly right I could hang out with some very cool chicks.
I had no idea how much I would need that lunch. I also had no idea I would stare death in the face on a Saturday afternoon.
I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I have an onion allergy. No, seriously. I really do. It's bordering on life-threatening at this point and my doctor says I need to start carrying around an Epi, just in case. Raw onion is my nemesis. If it's very well cooked I can eat it, such as in pasta sauce or chili. If it's fried for a very long time it's also acceptable to my body's immune system. If it's somewhat cooked I might get big lips and a numb mouth, but that's about it as long as I don't ingest too much. Once we get into the completely raw category I'm looking at some throat swelling and such. Not a good thing, just so we're clear.
So, I'm ordering the vegetarian pizza and I specifically mention my onion allergy and tell the server to make sure there are no little deadlies on my lunch. The pizza arrives, I lift up the topping on the first slice just to make sure it's Maven friendly and it looks clean. Fantastic. I dig in.
I start on the second piece. It's as delicious as XUP said it would be. At least, it was, until my tongue started to feel tingly. Then it started to feel a little bigger, too. I peek under the cheese. There they sit, little bits of layered death. Damnit. I start picking them off and keep eating. Not smart, but I'm really hungry. Nothing more happens to my tongue so there's no need to take any major measures. I'm feeling a bit woozy but I have a wall to lean on. And seriously, the pizza is really good.
I could have raised a stink and had a new pizza made on account of it possibly killing me, but I didn't for a number of reasons. The most important one was that I didn't feel like dying while waiting for a new plate of food. You know, just in case, the onions were slowly doing me in and I didn't know it. I'd rather live my last few moments looking like I was practicing portion control instead of not ingesting pizz that could cause my untimely demise.
Like my mother always says, go out with a bang, or at least with the appearance of being in control of your diet.
Okay, she's never said that, but I thought it looked better coming from her.
When the server went to wrap up my pizza to take home,\ she realized there were little white chunks piled up in the corner of the plate. Mortified, she went to speak with the cooks. She tore a strip into them when they insisted there were no onions in my food. She then came back to our table extremely apologetic and upset about the entire incident. I was just happy I wasn't dead and could finish my pop.
People make such a big deal about things. I tend to just take most of those same things in stride. If it were my child with an allergy and that had happened I would have exploded into a mad rage and called my lawyer (I don't really have a lawyer, but I would act like I did and punch random numbers into my cell phone). Then, I would go into the kitchen and personally blend the cooks into an energy drink.
But this wasn't about any of the gremlins. It was about me. And I was fine, and this has happened more times than I can count in restaurants and in other people's homes where 'onion' isn't a dirty word. It was an honest mistake. They said they were sorry. And the world is mean enough without me adding to it.
I'm such a great person, aren't I? I mean, really. It takes a great deal of maturity and tact to handle delicate situations such as this.
Put out good karma and the world gives it back. My world became balanced once again when I was gifted a free lunch by the restaurant and our amazing, sweet, adorable server. All just because their food could have killed me. How sweet of them. And, in the end, I was able to use my would-be lunch money at Fourbucks to get myself a big ol' latte in honour of the day when I made it out of Hell alive and lived to tell about it, even after a botched pizza.
The moral of the story everyone has been waiting for: When life gives you a numb tongue, check under the cheese for onions.
I bet you feel terribly enlightened now. You're welcome.
In Christianity and Islam, Hell is traditionally depicted as fiery and painful, inflicting guilt and suffering.[1] Some other traditions, however, portray Hell as cold and gloomy. Despite the common depictions of Hell as a fire, Dante's Inferno portrays the innermost (9th) circle of Hell as a frozen lake of blood and guilt.[2] Hell is often portrayed as populated with demons, who torment the damned. Many are ruled by a death god, such as Nergal, the Hindu Yama, or the Christian Satan.
Interesting, but mostly wrong. And I would know. Allow me to explain.
Today I personally witnessed Hell. I was bound to end up there at some point, right? But since I've now been there and you have not, I fancy myself a bit of an expert and feel it important to clear up a few pieces of misinformation.
It is not below the ground, but rather about three steps up into a cookie cutter building. It is not fiery but it is indeed painful, particularly in the ear canal. There is much suffering, however; that part is certainly true.
The innermost circle of Hell is not a frozen lake of blood and guilt (who thinks this stuff up? How does one add guilt to a lake of blood anyway?), but rather a Plexiglas enclosure full snot and screaming. It is indeed populated by demons: short and noisy ones who can't sit still for very long.
Today, my lambs, I spent 90 minutes visiting Hell on earth, and it was in the form of a McDonald's birthday party. It was Pixie's son's special day and I don't think any of us quite knew what we were in for. While the children had a great time I think the parents (those brave enough to stay, like yours truly who is one of those amazing mothers you hear about and wish you could be like) will most likely be decompressing this evening with a hot bath, a few glasses of wine, or a bit of heroin. I, of course, like to blog my stress away.
I can handle a lot of noise, you know. I have three boys. I'm capable of tolerating levels of insanity that would cause most people's brains to implode. But nothing prepared me for the chaos of nine boys caught in the perfect storm of processed deep-fried food and the uncontrollable instinct to climb and conquer a playstructure at any cost. This experience changed me on a fundamental level and solidified my decision to stick to three children. Also, I now fully comprehend the meaning behind the term boisterous, although I think it should be spelled boysterous.
I'll contact Webster on Monday.
After taking five years off my life in 90 minutes, I drove a tired Gutsy home and made my way across the city to have a late lunch with XUP, Nat and Alison. They had been planning this get-together for a while and it just sort of worked out that if I timed my trip from the party to the pizza join exactly right I could hang out with some very cool chicks.
I had no idea how much I would need that lunch. I also had no idea I would stare death in the face on a Saturday afternoon.
I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I have an onion allergy. No, seriously. I really do. It's bordering on life-threatening at this point and my doctor says I need to start carrying around an Epi, just in case. Raw onion is my nemesis. If it's very well cooked I can eat it, such as in pasta sauce or chili. If it's fried for a very long time it's also acceptable to my body's immune system. If it's somewhat cooked I might get big lips and a numb mouth, but that's about it as long as I don't ingest too much. Once we get into the completely raw category I'm looking at some throat swelling and such. Not a good thing, just so we're clear.
So, I'm ordering the vegetarian pizza and I specifically mention my onion allergy and tell the server to make sure there are no little deadlies on my lunch. The pizza arrives, I lift up the topping on the first slice just to make sure it's Maven friendly and it looks clean. Fantastic. I dig in.
I start on the second piece. It's as delicious as XUP said it would be. At least, it was, until my tongue started to feel tingly. Then it started to feel a little bigger, too. I peek under the cheese. There they sit, little bits of layered death. Damnit. I start picking them off and keep eating. Not smart, but I'm really hungry. Nothing more happens to my tongue so there's no need to take any major measures. I'm feeling a bit woozy but I have a wall to lean on. And seriously, the pizza is really good.
I could have raised a stink and had a new pizza made on account of it possibly killing me, but I didn't for a number of reasons. The most important one was that I didn't feel like dying while waiting for a new plate of food. You know, just in case, the onions were slowly doing me in and I didn't know it. I'd rather live my last few moments looking like I was practicing portion control instead of not ingesting pizz that could cause my untimely demise.
Like my mother always says, go out with a bang, or at least with the appearance of being in control of your diet.
Okay, she's never said that, but I thought it looked better coming from her.
When the server went to wrap up my pizza to take home,\ she realized there were little white chunks piled up in the corner of the plate. Mortified, she went to speak with the cooks. She tore a strip into them when they insisted there were no onions in my food. She then came back to our table extremely apologetic and upset about the entire incident. I was just happy I wasn't dead and could finish my pop.
People make such a big deal about things. I tend to just take most of those same things in stride. If it were my child with an allergy and that had happened I would have exploded into a mad rage and called my lawyer (I don't really have a lawyer, but I would act like I did and punch random numbers into my cell phone). Then, I would go into the kitchen and personally blend the cooks into an energy drink.
But this wasn't about any of the gremlins. It was about me. And I was fine, and this has happened more times than I can count in restaurants and in other people's homes where 'onion' isn't a dirty word. It was an honest mistake. They said they were sorry. And the world is mean enough without me adding to it.
I'm such a great person, aren't I? I mean, really. It takes a great deal of maturity and tact to handle delicate situations such as this.
Put out good karma and the world gives it back. My world became balanced once again when I was gifted a free lunch by the restaurant and our amazing, sweet, adorable server. All just because their food could have killed me. How sweet of them. And, in the end, I was able to use my would-be lunch money at Fourbucks to get myself a big ol' latte in honour of the day when I made it out of Hell alive and lived to tell about it, even after a botched pizza.
The moral of the story everyone has been waiting for: When life gives you a numb tongue, check under the cheese for onions.
I bet you feel terribly enlightened now. You're welcome.
