Much as I enjoy a good scary movie or Stephen King book, it’s been nearly 30 years since I willingly paid for the privilege of having fake monsters jump at me from out of the dark.

I was one of those kids who loved all things scary. Chiller Theater. Twilight Zone. Campfire stories. Tales from the Crypt. And I was also one of those kids whose bedtime ritual included wearing a cross necklace, checking under the bed, and making certain the closet doors were closed tight (before sneaking in to sleep with her parents).

Until I was a teenager, the only haunted houses I’d visited were the school carnival kind with bowls of worms (spaghetti noodles) and eyeballs (peeled grapes) and a vampire with glow-in-the-dark plastic teeth and shoe-polished hair. And so, as a high schooler whose date wanted to visit a haunted house a local radio station was hosting, I happily agreed, expecting it to be cheesy, but fun. 

Instead, it was an experiment in personal bladder control.

One that was just barely successful.

Somewhere close to the exit in that long-ago haunted house was a section of hallway with a false wall. Behind said wall, low to the ground, were a couple of guys laying in wait for ankles to approach that they could grab. I provided such ankles. And oh so very nearly dampened those hands. 

It was my last haunted house. 

Until last weekend, when my daughter Celeste’s friend, Madison Suppa, convinced me a haunted trail would be an enjoyable way to spend our Saturday night.

Disparate from the childhood version of me, Celeste does not much like scary things.  But Madi does. And somehow, Madi made being scared sound appealing and fun.

It had been dark for about an hour when we arrived at the trail to wait our turn in line. We shivered in the cold as we watched groups of about a dozen at a time head off into the woods with their lantern-toting guides, listened to the distant screams, gunshots and chainsaws, until it was time for our group to go. We were the last three in line, directly behind a teenager who was one of the guides.

Madi, a veteran of haunted trails and houses, was unimpressed by the creatures jumping out of the woods, and Celeste grew more and more bold as we made our way down the path. As for me–I was surprisingly calm and confident, having emptied my bladder before starting our walk. Still, I was anxious about my ankles. I knew if they were touched, all would be lost, that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from stomping violently and repeatedly on whatever made contact with my skin.

And so it was with a mind preoccupied with personal ankle security that we rounded a bend and found ourselves in the midst of a group of screaming, chainsaw-wielding, mask-wearing boys. It wasn’t frightening so much as it was painfully loud, and as we hurried past, the guide who had been directly in front of us paused to say something to one of the guys. She was only gone a few moments, but in the commotion, she lost her place in line to another teenage girl of similar build.

And as we (and the other teenage girl of similar build) soon learned, the guide had that specific place in line for a reason. 

Along that next straight stretch, two masked werewolves were hiding, and when they spotted their mark, they pounced, knocking her to the ground as one fake-stabbed her and the other gnawed at her legs. 

“Stop! You’ve got the wrong person!” our guide yelled. 

I doubt a silver bullet would’ve worked faster. The werewolves immediately stopped their assault and apologized profusely as they helped their good-natured victim to her feet. She was shaken, but laughing. And impressively dry. 

But if she’s anything like that ankle-obsessed woman behind her on that trail, it’ll take about 30 years before she goes there again.          

For those who missed it, I was taken to task last Sunday in a letter to the editor.

“I resent Fuller’s degrading and disrespectful comments concerning Ohio drivers,” wrote one of my fellow South Charleston residents. “I think Fuller should recognize these utterances for what they are: stupid, tasteless, erroneous and prejudicial.”  (To read that column, click here.)

Consider the lesson learned. I hereby recognize that Ohio has more to offer than its bad drivers. It’s apparently also keeping pace with the rest of the country in churning out those who are easily offended. 

Before I’m further accused of not liking Ohio, let me clarify that while I might not passionately love Ohio, I’m quite fond of the state. My brother, nieces and nephew live in Ohio, and it’s home to one of my favorite places in the world (Hocking Hills). Seriously-what’s not to like about a place that would adopt “Hang On Sloopy” as its official state rock song? 

But what I really don’t like has nothing at all to do with Ohio other than that the letter from its peeved defender started my wheels turning, causing me to marvel over people who are so rapidly outraged.  

I was recently told about a father who was sitting quietly on the bus while his three small sons ran wild, annoying the other passengers with their loud voices and squeals. The passengers kept shooting annoyed looks at the dad, but he did nothing to rein in his boys. Finally, one snapped, harshly scolding the dad for the wildness of his children.

“I’m sorry,” said the father. “We’re on our way home from the hospital. Their mother just died.”

It’s easy to jump to conclusions and think the worst of someone without pausing to consider what might be behind their words or behavior. There are more positive things to do with our time than spend it scouring the world for signs that someone has breached the boundaries of our sensitive sensibilities. By being the first to find and cry foul, do we get to claim victim status? And does choosing to feel offended somehow obligate the “transgressor” to grant some form of compensation?  

My ancestors are Polish, I grew up in Nitro, I’m the quintessential woman driver, and I was once married to an often-controversial sportswriter, so trust me-I’m used to the jokes. Comfortably accustomed, as a matter of fact. Back when I was a scrawny junior high student, getting picked on and called names on a regular basis, I learned that by making the joke first, by developing a self-effacing sense of humor, I not only took the power of their cruel intentions away, but developed a thick enough skin that words didn’t hurt.  

When we cry foul over every transgression, real or imagined, we cause others to stop caring one way or another. The list of potential offenses has increased to a point of complete saturation, to a point where some of us are starting to say, “Fine. Be offended. See if I care.”

I’m tired of walking on eggshells, of agonizing over every simple sentence I type trying to anticipate if this choice of phrasing or that attempt at humor might rub someone wrong. Even more, though, I’m finding that the Easily Offendeds are beginning to draw to the forefront the annoying little sister in me.

Aha! There’s your sore spot!  Now I’m going to poke it. 

That doesn’t mean I won’t feel a bit of discomfort the next time I’m taken to task for needling someone over something I feel is fair game-like how Ohio requires its new drivers to complete 50 hours of training before being licensed (how bad does that means their drivers must be before they start if they still drive that way after all those hours of training?)-but the way I see it, the Easily Offended are choosing to be a victim.  

And I choose not to let myself be bothered by that. 

We have some unusual traditions in our family. 

If you glance away from your food, someone takes it.

Clothes left on the stairs get tossed onto the porch.

We delay starting the washer until someone’s in the shower.

And we occasionally wave goodbye using only one finger.

But my favorite tradition involves what my daughter and I do shortly after the close of a show she’s been in.

It started with tights Celeste had to wear for a dance recital when in the second grade. One pair was too short, making her walk like a penguin. The other pair was too long, bunching so much at her ankles they looked like a Shar-Pei’s. Since there was no size in between, she suffered through the performances, making certain not to miss a single opportunity to voice her annoyance. She was hardly a trouper.

After the show ended, we decided to have a ceremonial burning of the tights. With much fanfare, we placed them on the grill and set them on fire.

It was most satisfying for both of us.

Nearly every show since then has included at least one Item of Constant Aggravation that we’ve enjoyed incinerating after the close. In this latest show, though, her costume was perfect, her shoes comfortable, her socks tolerable. Her only complaint was over the ice-cold and stinky gray hair paint that helped her look like an old widow.

Three of Celeste’s friends, Madi, Melon and Alexia, were standing nearby when I began spraying her hair before the last show.

“I wish we could burn what’s left of that hair paint,” Celeste said, not wanting to break post-show tradition. “Hey! Can we use what’s left on your hair?”

I agreed. Not realizing I’d bought several more cans than we’d needed.

After the show, Celeste, her friends and I returned to our house, where I sat in our yard, flinching at the cold spray as they turned my hair crunchy and gray. (Along with my ears, forehead and neck.)

“I dare you to go somewhere in public like that,” one of them said.

They didn’t even have to make it a double-dog dare. I was game. But I had one condition: They had to look goofy, too.

Years of dance and children’s theater and yard sales have supplied us with an impressive collection of strange apparel, clip-on hairpieces and makeup, so it wasn’t long before their creative makeovers outshined my crisp hair.

Since I’d been wanting to buy a few mums anyway, we headed over to the farmers market.

I suppose I should’ve anticipated that the four preteens would soon leave me, as they were intent on finding people to interview for a Web show they were making. What I didn’t anticipate was how strange I would feel walking around with a hairdo befitting a mad scientist.

I could hear the girls talking loudly a few booths down as I paid for some mums.

“I bet I know which kids are yours,” the man said as he stared at my hair.

I pretended not to know what he was talking about. “I don’t have any kids.”

(Years back, when I was in my last trimester of pregnancy and resembling a whale, my favorite thing was for a stranger to ask when I was due. I’d tell them I wasn’t pregnant.)

The man looked from my hair to the kids and laughed. “I’m not sure I’d claim them either,” he said. “It’s no wonder you’re gray.”

In this case, Mother Nature had a head start on the girls with sending me down the road to a gray-haired tradition, but I expect Celeste and her friends will keep finding ways to speed it along.

According to a press release issued by “America’s best-known hypnotherapist, John Morgan,” it’s now possible for dog owners to create the perfect pet through hypnosis thanks to Morgan’s “inexpensive, easy-to-use CD that provides a safe and effective way for any dog of any age to reach the essential first step in training, which is calmness and relaxation.”  

The CD “is the result of nearly three years of research by Morgan,” who apparently must now find a way to justify having played with his dogs for the past three years.  

Although skeptical, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by Morgan’s claim that “dog owners can magically change their pooch from a terror into a calm and relaxed pet.” Since our dogs put the terror in terrier, I figured what could it hurt to give it a try?  

Being a responsible pet owner, I first prepared myself by engaging in exhaustive research on dog-hypnosis techniques through the numerous instructional videos available on YouTube. Armed with my newfound knowledge, I put on some soothing music, dimmed the lights, and began talking to Murry and Chewie in an even-toned voice.  

There are precautions one must take when attempting to perform hypnosis on animals. For a session to be successful, it’s imperative that sarcastic, wisecracking individuals be removed from the immediate area. All potential distractions (such as food, sneering cats, television shows that feature the sound of a doorbell, and the ever-enticing hind end) should be considered and removed, when possible.   

Much to my surprise, I learned I’m a natural at dog hypnosis. My two subjects were quickly lulled into a state of calmness so thorough that if I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn they were sleeping.   

When I felt confident both dogs had achieved the adequate level of relaxation, I began to repeatedly recite my desired behavior modifications.    

The vacuum cleaner is your friend.   

Toilet water is yucky.   

Cat food is for cats.   

I will not bark at acorns, falling leaves, or bugs.  

Unfortunately, so deep was their hypnotic state that neither dog was able to retain my suggestions.   I went back to the Internet, determined to learn all there was to know about hypnotic techniques. As I’d already exhausted the subject of animal hypnosis, I expanded my research boundaries to all things hypnosis.    The results of my study and subsequent experiments have been varied.