Good Eeeeevening and welcome to the Extreme House of Horrors… otherwise known as Moms Tunnel of Everyday Terror.

If you suffer from anxiety, OCD, panic attacks or PTSD, this exhibit is not for you.

You’ve been warned.

This Halloween themed attraction is FRIGHTENING in caps simply because it’s the real deal.

None of the featured subjects have been staged.

This is my actual home.

I shit you not.

Fortunately, it took a few years to compile this unique chilling collection. The following is not a complete depiction of scary activity found in the Extreme House of Horrors, these are simply the highlights.

Ready?

Extreme Cousin It will be your tour guide!

Enter my offsprings bedroom where we discover a once healthy and refreshing glass of apple juice that was taken over by sinister fuzzy green goblins while the family slept. Nobody knows where they came from.

Fortunately, Ghostbuster mom was able to defeat the fuzzy green goblins with bleach. Ghostbuster Mamacita kicks ass.

Here we have the Blob Monster. He started out as a nutritious glass of vitamin D fortified milk. Nobody knows how he managed to penetrate security and slither into this unsuspecting glass.

Next up is this lovely plaster of Paris sculpture Wednesday is currently constructing for her 3D art class. We’re not sure whose heart she’s attempting to recreate, but we’ve all decided to be extra nice to her…. just in case.

If you didn’t notice, Wednesday is sculpting on my unprotected cherry finish dining room table with razor sharp tools, because… that’s how she rolls. It seems rather obvious that she accidentally consumed the apple juice from the above photo and fuzzy green goblins immediately ate her brain. It’s the only logical explanation. And, it’s also why I can’t have nice things.

Below is Wednesday dressed as herself for Halloween. She still has the headless doll, Marie Antoinette which used to be a lovely decorative Amish doll that-I-did-not-need-anyway.

In addition to sculpting, Wednesday enjoys wood carving on the living room coffee table.

These harmless fuzzy green visitors are frequent guests in our kitchen.

All I have to say is… What your family doesn’t know can’t hurt them.

Spaghetti… it’s what’s for dinner. It’s also evidence that I do sometimes use the stove.

I also hate doing dishes. I left these for Wednesday. Her other name is on the traffic cone because it’s her chore.

The kitchen isn’t always scary.

Sometimes we play games.

This is Tim, the winner from the Jenga game featured above.

This is also him.

Let’s get some fresh air and venture out to the back deck.

Nope, this is not a giant rat. This look-alike is actually a decaying banana. I can only assume that Pugsley aka Tim left it for the flying monkey’s who are due to fly overhead any minute now on their annual migratory trip to the Devil’s Triangle.

My children are dedicated ambassadors of wildlife preservation as well as fierce protectors of exotic creatures. They’re givers from way back.

Whooooopsy!!

Look out below.

ThatGodamnedCat apparently bagged another flying monkey. Mum is the word. We don’t want that testy green-faced bitch whose strung-out-on-MaxwellHouse to find out about it. She has an ug-ly temper.

It’s always seems to be something with ThatGoddamnedCat. He’s a murdering machine who obviously needs a new bell collar.

Meet our Extreme Pets

This scary guy has glowy eyes, but he’s actually pretty harmless. I heart him.

The brainless one… we’ll call him Spot.

Dumb with a capital D.

This asshole feline is the star of many of my posts. Most people know him as ThatGoddamnedCat.

Has anyone seen spot? It’s Eddies turn to brush him.

Sometimes, we play with pet fur for fun.

The following scary bedroom attraction is admittedly lame.

I’ll admit, waking to find a 3.5 pound femur in your bed covers is nothing compared to finding the entire bloody horse head. We’ll give this unwelcome body part an honorable mention.

Credit to Spot, the brainless family canine who can’t resist a delicious midnight snack.

Wednesday cuddling with her horse head.

Speaking of bed covers, It’s time to wash the horsy-femur-sheets.

The following is random stuff I found under my bed.

When Gomez speaks French I tend to get frisky…

or maybe I’m just a fun mom hoarder of unusual stuff .

Also tucked away in my extreme jewelry box…

I actually own this and yes I’ve worn it to work.

Bathrooms can be scary for many reasons.

This one is definitely possessed by twin demons called PMS, which incidentally stands for Pretty Mutherfcking Scary.*

I try to stay out of this room.

I recently painted the powder room a lovely shade of Exorcist Pea-Soup Green, because I crack myself up… or possibly I’m cracking up.

Same difference.

This genius color serves to camouflage any unholy venomous regurgitation spewed by the girls as they are primping for school.

You might be a witch if… you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle.

*Note to self – order firewood.

My Extreme family also enjoys painting with toothpaste and making arts and crafts in the bathroom. The toothpaste thing really happened. Quite frankly, I was too baffled to investigate and the perp got away scott free..

You have to choose your battles carefully.

*For the easy version of this tampon ghost, just draw the eyes with a Sharpie marker, because not everyone can be an admitted hoarder of useless craft supplies like myself.

No scary mansion is complete without spiders, snakes, bats and toads.

Here are a few photos of me and my favorite creatures.

No, I’m not afraid of exotic house guests.

Awesome hair clip I scored at the Dollar Store.

Despite her cozy accommodations in my aloe vera plant, Anastasia only stayed with us for a week.

Other disturbing and intriguing finds…

Pugsley’s glasses…

And another pair…

I bought this nifty violet-light-powered beauty mask because nobody over 40 should have both acne and wrinkles, but mostly because it’s a fantastic way to embarrass my kids.

Thank you for visiting the Extreme House of Horrors!

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

Where I come from we get something like three-ish months of summer, which equates to MAYBE a meager 30 days of warm sunny weather- picnics, watermelon, fireflies, swimming and sandy flip flops.

In short, we have ONE summer month and… the REST of the year.

Eleven months of the grey season, which includes but is not limited to rain, drizzle, snow, ice and every other possible form of precipitation currently known to man.

So yes, when people (lets call them psycho-holiday enthusiasts) try to contaminate our sacred sunny month with Christmas pollution we tend to get a bit crabby.

Justifiably crabby.

I for one, happen to be a solar powered individual.

I get my energy from the sun and my reserves happen to be dangerously low these days.

The makers of Prozac can only do so much.

They’re like, “You’ve reached your limit lady… our hands are tied.”

“Go get some mood enhancing sunshine.”

And, so I do what I can. I soak in every single moment of summer.

The problem with winter-related holiday nonsense (no, I will not say the C word again) is that it’s like kryptonite for us who reside in the grey area.

The mere mention of the dark side during our sacred sunny sabbatical is enough to boot us out of our happy place clear into the fiery pits of hell, except in OUR hell, it’s snowing.

Resisting winter is a northern defense mechanism that’s been etched in our brains since the ice age.

To top it off, we broke records for cold AND snow in 2013.

I think we did. It felt like it anyway.

That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

It sucked Frosty’s longest hardest icicle if you get my drift, then to top it off, we shattered all previously set rainfall records.

It felt like it anyway… the record breaking part.

We did, however experience actual flooding.

Also, we made the big time meaning we were featured on The Weather Channel.

It was definitely a How-many-Yeti’s-can-you-fit-on-Noah’s-ark? kinda year.

Nobody really cares what the answer is.

The point is- when Yeti’s and Noah’s ark are mentioned in the same sentence you’re clearly fucked and there’s not a damned thing you can do.

Mother Nature is one moody bitch.

As a result, my people (those of us who reside in the grey area of CNY) have morphed into foul-weather warriors who’ve proven again and again that we can tough that shit out.

However, uninvited winter holiday hoopla in July tends to drive some of us right. over. the. edge.

For the publics safety we’ve established guidelines called…

The Northern Survivalist’s STRICT Winter Holiday Timeline.

Halloween– the fright fest officially begins Sept 30, although mums and pumpkins may be put out any time after Labor Day. (Note- generous leeway given, because I happen to be a mum fan)

Thanksgiving shall occupy the time period between Halloween and the C holiday.

The C holiday– not one bell shall jingle or hallway be decked prior to the conclusion of turkey day feasting.

This means the dishes are washed, dried and put away. Also, the turkey carcass is gone. I freaking hate the turkey-beast carcass with ever fiber of my being.

I would rather get a root canal than harvest meat from the leftover turkey any day of the week.

Make that two root canals and a pap smear.

(I threw that thing in there about the dishes, because I don’t care for the C holiday and I’m trying to keep it away as long as possible. Scrubbing a zillion dishes gives me a little breather)

Let’s call this- living in the goddamned moment.

Quit racing around like blind mice on meth preparing for the next three-ring circus that’s six months away.

Relax.

Breeeeeathe.

If you must shop or bake cookies in July, that’s your business. Just keep that premature holiday pollution off my facebook.

Also, I’ll be happy to taste your cookies.

I’m generous like that.

I may be a holiday bitch, but I’m an excellent taster of cookies.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about greedy in-your-face retail peddlers who prematurely puke holiday what-nots throughout the land.

Winter holiday whatchamafuks will start polluting stores in August.

It’s the devils way.

Not only do I look the other way. (and say bad words) I also refuse to buy anything.

They’re not getting one premature cent from me until The Northern Survivalist’s Strict Winter Holiday Timeline says it’s time.

When I wander into Home Depot on August 15th in search of charcoal briquettes and get blindsided by a 12 foot blow-up of Frosty-the-freaking-unwelcome-snowman, I will breathe fire.

This actually works out, because then I dutifully scoop Frosty up in a plastic cup and have something to chase my chocolate vodka with.