While sorting through my garage the other day, I found a penis magnet. By penis magnet, I don’t mean a picture of myself, either. (read: sarcasm) It was a genuine, bonified penis magnet. Literally, bonified. A refrigerator magnet with small plastic penis attached to it.

(by the way, did you know that I can not spell refrigerator without the help of spellcheck? I always put a ‘d’ before the g.)

Anyway, you might be thinking, ’shame on you, why do you own a peen magnet?’ And that’s a fabulous question. Truthfully, it’s not mine, but my husbands.

Which might worry you, but the truth is I purchased the peen magnet for him as a practical joke years ago. Some friends and I had ventured to a dirty store (in the middle of redneck country), and while in there, I saw it and decided it would be hilarious to give to Adam as a gift. After all, he’d have to hang it up on the refrigerator in his super manly house amongst all his man gear. And if he didn’t hang it up, it would be like a snubbing a gift. And you can’t just snub a gift.

The walls of the Man House Kitchen were adorned with the most masculine of decor. There were antique boxing gloves hanging on one wall. Old framed photos of some of the first MLB teams lined a wall adjacent to the refrigerator. Antique signs stating other random manesque things (yes, I made that word up. but manesque sounds nice to me). Surely the penis magnet would fit in well on the fridge?

Adam did not see the humor in hanging the penis magnet up. He had male friends over all of the time, and neither he nor them thought it terribly hilarious that a plastic penis was hanging on the refrigerator in the middle of a man-cave. But he hung it up anyways. Mostly because when he took it down, I hung it back up. But I tell myself he did it voluntarily, because he treasured my gift so much. (Tell me no different.)

To some degree, the peen magnet did stir up some trouble. Because when the house was on the market around a year later, Adam showed it to many a person. They would all enter the kitchen and adoringly nod at the gorgeous colors, cabinetry, and tile work until their eyes got to the refrigerator. Because when they began focusing on it, they immediately noticed the plastic penis amongst the decor.

It just stood out, pun intended.

Adam caught several funny looks. And he didn’t realize why. The magnet had been up so long and had become a regular fixture in the kitchen. He had forgotten how strange it was to have a phallus covered fridge, until one of the men looking at the house approached him about it. It was a man that polite words would only allow me to describe as country, and he looked at Adam and said, " Son, I sure like your house. But you got a dick hangin’ from your fridge."

Adam turned red with embarrassment, and probably had hallucinations about strangling me. The peen magnet was long forgotten to him. After that, he hid it from me. (bastard.)

He should have thrown it away.

But don’t you worry, because I found that bad boy, and I’m hanging it back up.  I’ll teach him to hide penis magnets from me.  I hope my mother-in-law enjoys it.  *insert evil cackle*

This is probably officially the first time since I started blogging that I had true intentions of sitting down to write a post, but had absolutely nothing to write about. I have 22 draft posts for times like this. Back up posts for if I’m dead behind the eyes and can’t think one up. Like today.

But really, I don’t want to use them. Instead, I’m going to be a copycat. Recently, several blogs I read, especially this one , have pulled the ‘ask me a question, any question (within reason)’ game. And well, I’m pulling it also.

So ask me a question, any question within reason and I’ll answer it in a post.   Make them fun or inquisitive.  Actually,  I don’t care what you ask. I’m not picky.  Just ask one already!  Seriously, I did this many moons ago, and got asked one question.  just one.  So bring them on!

"You don’t really understand human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his parents every time around - and why his parents will always wave back. " ~William D. Tammeus.

I think some people dive into motherhood knowing what to expect, or at least thinking they know what to expect. And well, I’ll be the first person to admit that I had not a single clue. A lot of people leap into motherhood expectedly, and I think that probably has a lot do with it also.

It didn’t come as easily for me. My pregnancy with Allie was not planned. And to be honest, I was one of those people that claimed I was never having children. As far as I know, I had no intentions of ever doing so.

So when the various symptoms of pregnancy showed up, I didn’t even realize what they were. Which sounds stupid. But believe it or not, to a person not expecting to get pregnant and not expecting to look for the symptoms, they’re not easily recognizable. Boy, I thought to myself, when I was queasy, it sure is odd to get the flu in June. Seriously, who gets the flu in June? And why in the free world did the flu make my boobs swell and ache this time? And why was it making me puke every day?

Later, after contemplating this phantom flu, I realized that my always by the clock period was late. And then it dawned on me.

I was pregnant.

PREGNANT? I thought. Surely not. Not me.

To ease my fears and convince myself that I was not in what my grandma had called ‘the family way’, I ventured to the local K-mart to procure a pregnancy test. I scanned the aisle for what seemed like hours, hoping to find the one that would be negative. At the time, I needed that negative. I couldn’t have a baby, I thought. I had never even held a newborn baby. I had never wanted to hold a baby. They pooped on themselves and expected you to clean it up? How rude is that? A tiny creature that pooped on itself? No thanks.

What was I going to do with a baby? I didn’t even know any lullaby’s. I mean, sure I remembered some, but I didn’t know all of the words. And I am by far the worst singer on the planet. Would I sing it Red Hot Chili Pepper songs? Would the child appreciate Under the Bridge or Scar Tissue? Would he or she cry when they heard my voice attempting a melody? Because It makes me want to cry sometimes.

After perusing pregnancy tests until my eyes were nearly crossed from reading the details of the pink lines with the altering directions, I finally just picked one. A pee stick was a pee stick, I figured. I paid for it, and I took it home.

My friend A. came over and stayed while I took the test. And believe me, it took a while to convince myself to go take it. Because before I even did the pee-stick maneuver, I just knew. I just had that feeling. Still, I went into the bathroom and began. (Unbeknownst to me, that was the first of many times I would spend in a bathroom peeing on or in some apparatus for a test.)

I remember thinking the whole time, ‘Please just say no. I know I’m probably pregnant, but you could just say no? I like to plan things. I like to make lists and organize my life. This isn’t planned? Please, please, just let me be in charge of this.”

But when I saw the result, positive as indicated by the lines, my stomach dropped to floor. At first I thought that the test might be wrong, though it was telling me what my body already knew, I hoped it was wrong. But the box had said light pink lines would appear, and mine were the brightest pink I had ever seen. Fluorescent, almost. But I was still shocked. Even when you expect a certain outcome, it’s sometimes still a surprise.

Soon, my surprise turned into a tornado of nausea. Do you know that feeling you get when you’re really nervous? Maybe your hands shake, or maybe your eyes tear up, or maybe you really have to poop, or maybe you feel like you are going to burst out of your skin and run to the nearest looney bin. It w as all of those things in one. It was as if a cyclone of nerves, a combination of those feelings, was whirling around in my body and beckoning my sanity.

I let the news sit for a while. I took a long bath. A looooooong bath. The longest.bath.ever.

I cried for a while. I laughed for a while. I wondered how the Birth Control, which I thought was similar to Alcatraz in security, had failed me, or how I had failed it. I wondered a lot of things. I wondered for so long that I probably contemplated who killed JFK? And how many licks did it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? And who actually liked the color orange? And why? It doesn’t even rhyme with anything. And why me? There were people all over the world hoping and praying for babies. There were women in desperate need of my outrageously flagrant fertility, and why did it have to show off? Did my reproductive system think it was in a talent show? And why was it trying to win? Freaking overachiever.

Then, after loads of contemplation, I was calm.

Somehow, someway, I was calm. And everything became okay. Now, I realize that a sudden state of calm ensuing sounds sort of crazy, but calm always rescues me that way. It just creeps up and crawls over me like a fog. A thick, but well received fog.

You see, maybe I hadn’t been planning on having a baby anytime soon or even ever, but I knew that this was my baby. It was our baby. I knew there was a reason for her being. She was given to me for a reason. It wasn’t just my reproductive system trying to impress the free world.

And after that, my whole view and world changed.

Truthfully, I have been and will always be ever-so grateful to have her in my life. There are nights when I tiptoe into her room to peak in on her sleeping, and she’s so sound and peaceful. So honest. I crawl into her twin bed and lay next to her tiny body, rest my head near her shoulder, run my hands through her curly red hair, and I thank the powers above that she is mine. Ours.

For me, this unexpected gift was the best I’ve ever received. And in the three years, two months, and four days since I pushed Allie into this world, she has been my saving grace, the light at the end of the tunnel.

When she laughs, the world is peaceful, calm, and true. Everything just makes sense.

I have learned more from this tiny soul than I ever have from any other source. I learned how to change diapers, kiss boo-boos, potty train, play in the rain, and hold a baby. I’ve learned to tolerate children’s songs, laugh freely and loudly, and how to deal with a little shadow, a minor mimic of major proportions.

Each stage of her life thus far has been a blessing. Though the latest is my favorite. I’m convinced that if I ever became a hoarder, instead of being a crazy old cat lady, I would just hoard potty-trained three year olds and talk to them all day. Listen to the things they came up with and laugh loudly and joyously with them.

Maybe I didn’t plan to be a mother, but I am. I love it. And I’m damn good at it.

Since I began blogging many of my posts have contained stories or jokes which my husband was the butt of. (Like this one ,this one , this one , and this one ) Some of you have jokingly expressed concern for him. And let me assure you that this is not a one sided joke fest. Our heckling is equally reciprocated.

In fact, it’s safe to say that he relates stories and makes an ass out of me as frequently and as much. I’ll provide a fabulous example for those of you worrying about him.

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with Cracker Barrell or not. However, it’s a restaurant that specializes in impersonating down home type foods. Outside of the restaurant area of some Cracker Barrels there is a small general store of sorts that sells a variety of items that vary from candles to toys. Generally, after eating, I peak around in there for quite a while. After a few minutes of me sniffing every Yankee Candle within reach, Adam became quite impatient.

Come on, he said.

I’m not ready yet, I replied.

How many more of those Candles are you going to sniff? he asked.

All of them, if you don’t leave me alone, I shot back.

Then, because he knows me so well, he had to scheme up a true plan to get me out of there before I was ready to leave.

So he begins announcing, to anyone that would listen, that his privates were itching.

“MY PRIVATES ARE ITCHING!” he shouted in the direction an older woman hobbling by with a cane and a chartreuse cardigan.

I stopped sniffing whatever candle I had my nose buried. And looked up and gave him the stink eye, hoping that it would either stop him in his tracks or induce third degree burns.

Apparently, it had neither of those effects. Because soon he began shouting even more loudly, “BUT MY NUTS, MY NUTS ARE ITCHING!”

Then, my face turned a shade of red that upstaged any stop sign in a fifty mile radius. But I still held my ground. I wasn’t letting his imaginary crotch itch stop me from sniffing candles. Because I LOVE me some candle sniffing.

But no. He wasn’t finished.

“I’M HAVING A HERPES FLARE UP! A REALLY BAD HERPES FLARE UP! MY NUTS ARE ITCHING!!”

I lost my breath and nearly passed out. Was he faking an STD just to get out of Cracker Barrel? SERIOUSLY? Was that last sniff of Clean Cotton worth it? Who knows.

After that, I left. If the man had gone and faked an STD, he must really want to go. Besides, if you’ll act like you have herpes just to get out of the Cracker Barrell. Well, you probably need to leave.

Because I love him, I let him ride in the car with me. Which was very generous, if you ask me.

Allie loves being outdoors. However, she was blessed with parents who are not outdoorsy. Whatsoever. No doubt about it. We are not one with nature. But we try. We really try for her sake.

In order to make up for our shortcomings, we decided to take her fishing today at a local lake. We didn’t really plan to catch fish, as much as we just planned to go soak up the atmosphere and go through the notions of fishing. So we purchased a cute little Dora fishing pole and other goods and headed on down.

Allie was game for this trip before it even began. After all, she had already told many an imaginary story about all of the loot she racked up from past imaginary fishing trips.

Upon arrival, there were two trails you could take at the spot we went picked that led to the lake. So we chose a path and started walking down.

(THIS is where I interject to tell you how terrified I am of the possibility of even seeing a snake. So as soon as I enter any sort of ground area that is not concrete, asphalt, etc. I immediately begin to scan for the slithery little creatures. IMMEDIATELY.)

Adam led the way while I followed behind holding Allie’s hand. When we were fully immersed in the woods Allie was fascinated and I was somewhat terrified. Not long after our entrance, Adam stops and pauses. He had heard what he thought was a snake.

Then, about a foot in front of him, a snake, peppered with black and yellow, sprang up from it’s hiding place.

I grabbed Allie, slung her over my shoulder, and ran like hell.

Fast and like hell.

I never truly understood what it meant to run like hell until I undertook such a task today. But if you’ve ever ran in such a manner, you know what I mean.

After safely returning to the non-snake infested pavement, I set Allie down. I looked at her, expecting her to be slightly terrified and prepared to explained what had just happened. Instead she cocked her eyebrow and said, “did you see dad? he ran like a girl when he saw that snake? just like a girl.” And then she giggled for hours. (We ended up taking the other trail to the lake.)

I can’t imagine what the people who saw us running out of the woods were thinking. All they saw was a lady high-tailing it with a redheaded toddler slung over her shoulder potato sack style, and a dark-headed man running like he’d seen the devil.

Unfortunately, the hard times for Adam didn’t end with the snake incident. Upon returning home from the mini-fishing adventure, we agreed that it was a perfect day to grill our dinner. Grilling out, of course requires starting the grill. So I stayed inside with Allie and prepared to chop up vegetables while he ignited it.

I heard him reasoning with himself about how he was going to start it. The igniter was messed up. Then, after a few minutes, I heard a very loud POOF.

Slightly terrified, I ran outside to make sure Adam was okay.

And he was, except for that his eyebrows and most of his the hair on his arms was all singed off.

I love this man, and I was so grateful he wasn’t injured. but it was really hard to not to laugh. really, really hard. So finally, I did. There’s just something about a person getting their eyebrows partially singed off that is comic gold.

As a teenager, most of my Summer jobs involved working at one of my parent’s businesses. Some of you that have not ever been employed by your own parents might be under the impression that this job was quite cushy. And well, no. That isn’t how it worked out. Your parents know when you can and can’t work. Knowing they relied on you meant no sick day.

One Summer, my mother decided that it would be best if I helped run one of her small restaurants. I was sort of disappointed, because I loved sitting on my ass watching tv and gossiping on the phone or going swimming at one of my friend’s pools. Who wanted a job?

It was an optional job. But I knew she needed me to help her, because the restaurant was a side venture of sorts. So she couldn’t be there due to her actual job, and needed someone there to ensure that things were running correctly.

Mostly, it was a tin can of a place close to a local racing track, a drive-in restaurant or sorts. Think Sonic, except without the speakers and roller skates. But we had pretty much the same menu: ice cream cones, milk shakes, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, etc. From here on out, I think I’ll just refer to the place as ‘The Tin Can’, because it has different owners now and they might not appreciate me dishing out what goes on there for the world wide web.

Anyway:

Every morning, I got up at the crack of dawn and headed over to the Tin Can. I would head home later that evening reeking of french fries, because that’s what being holed up in a small building with two giant deep fryers will do to you. The small building served as a kitchen since the cars either drove up to eat or parked and ate at a picnic table outdoors.

It went like this: A car would pull up, I would go out get the order, and then, I would return back inside to fix the order. I had to cook the orders, because our cooks were generally too lazy. Why not fire them, you ask?

And well, they were usually people who rented houses from us and wouldn’t pay their rent. So they worked in return. By work, I mean they sat on the phone all day (long distance) with their boyfriends that were recently released from incarceration three states away and talk about getting a new perm or how enthralling the latest Harlequin Romance they were attempting was, or maybe they talked about how they spent their evenings watching stolen cable. Who knows?

I did this all of that particular Summer. And the air conditioning in the Tin Can was not very sufficient. Summer in southeastern Kentucky is beyond humid. I can not even being to explain how the air just swallows you when it’s hot outside. It’s thick, unbearable, and sticky. And miserable, to say the least.

As you can imagine, in an establishment of the Tin Can’s caliber there was some sort of adventure almost daily. So I think for the Summer, which has started for me today..even if it doesn’t officially begin until late June, I will post a series of things that occurred at the Tin Can.

Today, I’m going to tell you about the time some asshole kind soul launched his trash at me in the parking lot. Because one day, I was slaving away. Meanwhile, the cook was on the phone with her ex-con. Let’s call the cook Bessie. Anyway, Bessie was on the phone talking about dry humping and Jerry Springer, and I was making a grill full of burgers, when a van pulls up. The van was plastered with a company logo, and the driver was a smiling man that appeared seem rather clean cut and friendly.

(Clean cut and friendly was a very odd combination to receive at the Tin Can.)

I went out to take his order while Bessie segued into her portion of a debate that seemed to be centered around G-Strings vs. Cotton Thongs. Oh, how she educated me.

When I got to the van, the man barked his order at me and informed me he wanted no tomatoes on his hamburger. No tomatoes, check. I headed back inside, and on my way , he stopped me by yelling, " HEY TOOTS!". I walked back toward the van with a look that should have undoubtedly killed, but somehow didn’t and asked him what he wanted.

He just wanted to make sure that I (TOOTS) got the "no tomatoes" part.

So I ran back inside, catching the tail end of the Thong-G String debate, and cooked the order. (G Strings were Bessies choice, if you’re curious. And she was a large woman. A really, really large woman. Like, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape’s mother, Bonnie, large.)

When I brought the food to the man, he asked me to wait a moment before returning to the building. And since I had to wait for him to pay for the order anyway, I gladly obliged. So I stood there for a moment rolling my eyes while he fiddled with something in the back of his van. When he leans back toward me he paid me, but he had this huge bag of trash and an assemblage of discarded fastfood bags in the other.

"Toots," he said again, because one death wish wasn’t enough, "could you throw this away for me."

"No, " I replied, "it isn’t my job to discard your trash. It’s your job."

"You work here don’t you?" he snipped.

And well, de had a point. I did work there. But truly, discarding trash wasn’t my job. I had enough to do already. And at that point, pre-child, I threw no ones trash away but my own, unless it involved picking up litter. Also, my mother understood that handling the Tim Can by myself was tough. She had given me strict instructions to not let anyone walk on me. We had enough customers, and we didn’t need rude ones.

So I replied:

"Yes, I work here. But I’m waitress and a cook. Not a trash girl. Besides, you’re a big boy, you can throw it away. The trash can is only five feet away."

He grimaced at me. Because his mother had failed to teach him manners and probably hadn’t potty trained him either.

I turned around to walk back into the building.

As I was trotting back, proud of myself for standing up to him, I heard a strange sound and felt something slimy hit my back.

I turned around and looked down. The bastard had launched the trash at me. As I looked up to give him a third evil glare and possibly spit fire in his direction, he was pulling out at full speed and driving off.

Even covered in trash juice, as a somewhat believer in karma, I knew it would come back to haunt him one day. Which is why when he came into my husband’s office one day to do business several years later, I smiled at him.

He looked at me like I was someone he once knew.

"You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

"Sort of," I replied, "You launched your trash at me at the Tin Can about 8 years ago. Thanks, by the way."

He turned red, and turned around to leave. He still does business with us, and I get a special pleasure out of how stupid he feels every time I see him.

What a piece of work.

Lindsay at Suburban Turmoil graced me with this beauty of an award.  I am the proud recipient of a Perfect Post Award for April 2008. This is the post. Check it out if you haven’t already.  It’s a guaranteed laugh.  You should also head over and check out the rest of the recipients!

Tonight, my husband and I were embracing our inner child being mature and playing dodgeball with one another in our basement. It’s finished,carpeted, and empty at the moment. So it makes a fabulous playroom, for all three of us.

So we’re playing dodgeball, and I’m winning (of course). During the course of things, Allie was playing on the other side with her dolls. Suddenly, Adam takes his turn and launches the all at me. In slow motion, it came within inches of Allie.

Adam and I gasped and ran as quickly as we could to ensure it didn’t.

After we all breathed a sigh of relief, Allie looks up at me and says,

"shew, mom, I thought that ball was gonna kick my ass."

In order to emphasize the curse word coming out of her tiny, gorgeous mouth, she drew it out for as long as possible.

"asssss."

It took everything I had not to laugh at her. Because honestly, I thought the ball was going to kick her ass too.

While it was hilarious, we have to stop cursing around her.  I rarely, if ever, do.  But man, her little ears catch everything.  It’s amazing.

My husband’s parents have been married for 33 years now. Meanwhile, my parents have both been through what seems like a plethora of relationships. While Adam was raised learning what you do in a relationship, I was raised learning what you do not do (by example). And somehow, this combination works for us.

My parents divorced when I was a very little girl. I believe I was at the tail end of 3, nearing 4. Even at that age, it was so difficult.
At some point during the split, my father accepted a job some distance away. Prior to the divorce, I remember my father being my main caretaker. My mother worked full time and was a full times student with classes at night. So my father took care of me at night while my mother was in class.

So the new arrangements which involved my father living separately from us were very difficult for me.
Within a short amount of time, my father was offered a very important promotion an hour and half away from where we lived. He took the promotion and made the move. The move began the first of many shuffled road trips.
Since I am, and was, very prone to car sickness the rides were increasingly difficult to me. The ride there was always exciting because it had usually been about two weeks since I had last seen my father. However, the rides back were quite arduous.
When they would meet, my parents always exchanged me in the parking lot of a local Shoney’s. While they generally got along, they needed neutral ground for them and the parking lot there seemed to work. So after a long weekend with my father, usually filled with dinner at Showbiz Pizza and other fun activities, I was ushered back to the parking lot and exchanged from car to car again outside of what is possibly the shittiest buffet restaurant in the world.
For years my mother drove an older Oldsmobile with velor upholstery on the seats, said upholstery held heat like a kitchen in July. I always felt it cooking my legs.My mother knew that the ride was difficult for my brother and I. After all, it was difficult for her too. So she tried her best to cheer us up with enthusiastic cassette tapes that played children’s songs and stories.
The songs were sang by chipper children with voices so high pitched dogs would howl from miles away. I usually ended up crying long, lonely tears. Because there I was, stuck in the back seat of a two-door car, roasting on the velor seats, body aching from nausea induced from a combination of car sickness and broken-family syndrome, and forced to listen to ‘The Little Engine That Could’.
Can I please tell you how much I hate that story? How much I hate the moral of the story? And not because it lacks meaning. More so, because to me, it represents that trip back home as child, after being exchanged from parent to parent like a shared commodity.

I had to listen to that damn cassette tape for years. Mostly because my younger brother loved it. The narrator was a lady with a voice that could have cut through the strongest of titanium. It was raspy and sharp. And I swear, she would draw the story out for what seemed like hours. And the whole time, I would attempt to hold back tears and vomit, hoping the damn cassette tape would spontaneously combust or be eaten by the tape deck. All I knew was that if I had to hear that damn engine complain ONE more time, I was done.
Why is this significant? I’m not entirely sure that it is. To you, anyway. But I had sort of blocked these trips out of my head. A few days ago, Allie brought me a book from her many piles and asked me to read it to her.
Of course, it was The Little Engine That Could. And I couldn’t read it.
I just threw the damn thing away (when she wasn’t watching), and asked her to pick out a new book.
It’s so stupid. But it’s almost as if the story represents that period in my childhood for me. And I can’t hear about it or read it without feeling like my legs are on velor seats and my body is wrecked with nausea. And how did I ever forget memories so vivid? And why does that stupid book trigger it for me?
To top this off, I can’t eat at Shoney’s restaurant. Aside from being scared that I’ll come down with food poisoning, it just represents something else for me. I feel like if I go to Shoney’s I’m going to be exited out of my car and put into another for my visit. No Shoney’s for me.
Tonight my husband wanted to eat at Shoney’s, and it was total no-go for me. (And seriously, Shoney’s? how nasty.)
Things like this are sometimes hard to explain to him. Not because he doesn’t listen, but because he doesn’t understand what it was like.

Luckily, I tell very humorous recounts of random encounters with the counterparts of my parents and their families. I have thousands of funny stories about meeting a new person one of my parents was dating and how strange they were or what they were wearing. Or I have a funny outlook on most things of that nature. For him, it’s like a set of stories to hear about. But for me, it was reality.
I suppose it’s just funny when you think about it. How two people from completely different background and families can fall in love and it just works.
I’m so grateful for that.

(also, I tried to fix the spacing on this entry like 8 times.  But Wordpress would not allow it. Sorry it runs together.)

Okay, I’ll admit it. I am not scared of buttons. However, there are people who do have this fear. Some can’t be around buttons for fear of them popping off and some just can’t wear them on clothing. I was listening to a radio show this morning and after they mentioned it, a lot of people called in that were afflicted with this phobia. Some of the people couldn’t be in the same room with a button.

As far as I go, I spend my time swept up with other phobias. I haven’t located a name for it yet. But I am beyond scared of having my mouth covered.

The fear is slightly outrageous and seems to be boundless. Anything over my mouth results in me jumping the sanity ship. I even freak out when my daughter jokingly puts her tiny, three year old hand over my mouth. When that happens, I can’t sit still and anxiety builds up in my chest. (I know if you don’t have kids you are thinking, ‘why is that girl putting her hand over her mother’s mouth?’. And well, I have no answer. That’s just how kids roll. Sometimes they want to put their tiny hands over your mouth. It happens.)

I can’t explain it. But having anything over my mouth simply terrorizes me. I can’t even wear masks.

Yeah, I just re-read that, and it sounds ridiculously dorky. Why would I want to wear a mask in the first place?

Does anyone besides me remember Kelly Ripa freaking out because Clay Aiken covered her mouth with his hand a while back? No? Well, I do, and I totally understood that, and not even because it was Clay Aiken and he’s attrocious. I would freak out if David Beckham covered my mouth with his hand. And I don’t mean the kind of freaking out that you’re thinking of, the dirty kind. I mean a genuine attack of fear and nausea.

To accompany the previous fear, because who can have just one (read:sarcasm), another phobia of mine is fear of having my arms confined and not be able to move them. Something about the thought of being unable to move or control my arms do to restriction of some sort is terrorizing. Once when I was a child, my older cousins thought it would be hilarious to tie my arms behind my back. And I nearly burst a lung screaming.

Basically, I’d much rather be covered with snakes and shoved in a dark room than ever have my mouth covered or be unable to move/use my arms.

But not that I think about it, I’d rather be scared of those things any day than be Allodoxaphobic (scared of opinions).

What about you? Do you have a totally irrational fear? Do you have a fear that is common? I’d love to hear about any of them. After all, I did go to school with a guy who was scared of mustard.

EDIT: I just hopped over to The Cheaty Monkey and she has a fabulous post up about celebrity phobias .  Check it out also!