When I was little, I was terrified of the Grinch. Specifically, the part in the animated special where they show this totally realistic, wildly unnecessary X-ray proving his heart was two sizes too small. What were you thinking, Seuss??!! We were just kids. Not medical students.

To cope with the horror, I would fold myself into my dad’s lap, placing my hands over my eyes while I shuddered with fear. And yet I tuned in. Every. Single. Year. Apparently, I was willing to be emotionally terrorized in exchange for witnessing the Grinch change his evil ways.

One holiday season, my nana decided to be funny and pretend to be the Grinch. Without warning my parents—because why would she?—she called right after the show ended and told my mom to put me on the phone because she had a “surprise.” Handing me the receiver, my mom said, “someone wants to talk to you.”

I said “hello,” and my nana, who normally sounded like sunshine, channeled a three-pack-a-day chain smoker and growled, “Steffi … this is the Grinch.”

I screamed, dropped the phone, and ran to my dad because I’d just been threatened by a furry green man with a heart condition. My mom picked up the receiver and asked some version of WTF? And Nana, one of the sweetest humans to ever exist, instantly felt terrible. As she should.

My dad later called her to have a little chat. He was furious because I was hysterical and utterly convinced that, since the Grinch clearly had my phone number, he was obviously on his way over to finish the job. I mean, I did look a little like Cindy Lou Who as a kid. (Side note: I must have hated this bird because it looks like I vandalized the side of his cage.

Luckily, Nana’s lapse in judgment didn’t permanently fracture our relationship. She called back to apologize and explain that she thought she was being cute. She also promised my dad she would never traumatize me again. The story spread quickly throughout Whoville and my family, securing my reputation as the ninny who was afraid of the Grinch.

Years later, someone—whose identity is still unknown—decided to reopen the wound by sending me a talking Grinch doll when the Jim Carrey movie debuted. Nana had passed the year before, so we know it wasn’t her. And I donated that doll to Goodwill pronto because I’m 99% sure it would’ve murdered me in my sleep.

So imagine my fascination when I heard McDonald’s was releasing a Grinch Meal. For adults. With socks. And pickle salt. And a shaker bag specifically engineered for optimal salt-to-fries distribution. And (the best part) I’m braver now.

I decided it was time to reclaim my power and prove, once and for all, that the Grinch does not, in fact, run my life. Full disclosure: I ordered through the app so I didn’t have to say “I’ll have a Grinch Meal, please” out loud just in case accidentally summoning him is a thing.

I went with the Big Mac. I’ve had exactly one other Big Mac in my life, in 1992. I used the entire pickle salt packet, which became aggressively dilly toward the end. And I rate the overall experience a 10 and the food a strong 4.3. (I remain a Chick-fil-A girl at heart.)

I’ve heard people are going back to collect all the sock colors. I got red, btw. For me, this was a one-and-done situation—nostalgia in a bright little box and a chance to remember the legendary Grinch Kerfuffle of 1969 that inspired a minor family feud.

Side note: While writing this post, I hummed the Whoville “Welcome Christmas” song. Ever looked up the lyrics?

Fahoo forays, dahoo dorays
Welcome Christmas! Come this way
Fahoo forays, dahoo dorays
Welcome Christmas, Christmas Day

Welcome, welcome, fahoo ramus
Welcome, welcome, dahoo damus
Christmas Day is in our grasp
So long as we have hands to clasp

Huh? What’s going on here Seuss??!! I suppose it was the ’60s.

So tell me, do you have any childhood memories that followed you right into adulthood? Have you tried the Grinch Meal? And, seriously, what’s a fahoo ramus?