A friend posted on Facebook that Phish played a 35 minute version of Tweezer live. She said it was her personal hell.

Chatting with my Aunt we joked about my mother’s fancy dinner party tomorrow night. I already made her head spin by threatening to bring the British soccer coaches (their late arrival to Logan and customs makes this impossible.) I teased my aunt that she should respond to my mom’s invite with a yes and she will be bringing her two sisters and their families. Random (as compared to tightly selected) dinner party guests. My mother’s nightmare.

My older son hates performances. He might be the first kid to ask to leave Cirque du Soleil. Like 1,000 times. Sitting still, keeping quiet, and watching someone else’s art is Oliver’s worst possible day. If it could be in a hot and crowded place that would just be icing on his cyanide Sundae.

Leo finds many things objectionable. Particularly being given instructions. Anything that reminds Leo that he is 6, and not really in control of his fate makes him crazy. You know what the worst is? Camp. Camp is the worst. Sometimes you have to hike (gag). Often you have to settle down (misery). Always someone else picks the activity (the opposite of fun.) Leo thinks that paying for camp is a cruel cruel joke.

Steve’s torture would be having to add things to a car that I have packed haphazardly while drinking a big business beer. Particularly if the boxes were packed with mayo and pickles. If you ever need to prank steve it should involve pickles.

Me? It really depends on the day. (or week.) Yesterday the Shelburne fireworks seemed like hell. Picking through throngs of people, most of which I know and like, and somehow managing to hide my grumpy self from all of these people. That would suck. So I stayed home with Leo and wrote texts that said ppppooooooooooooooooppp. Somehow more fun. On another day the fireworks would have been my jam. Probably though some long, hot walk in a city, where I can either wear my puffy coat and over heat or carry it. There would be no bathrooms. There would also be dragging whiny children. And we wouldn’t know where we were going. Maybe my phone could be out of batteries. That would be worse.

What about you? What is your version of torture?

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Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble, Parent.co, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at annarosenblumpalmer.com.

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