Monday, May 9, 2011

Heebie Jeebie Belles

Unusual phobias.  Peculiar.  Quirky.  Odd.  Nucking futs. 

Well, you had to know it was coming after the first post on phobias.

I will admit that I have some deathly fears that might not be shared with a great portion of the populace.  That doesn’t mean that a great portion of the populace doesn’t harbor some bizarro and irrational fears of their very own—I’m just more honest about it. 

What’s my biggest oddball fear?  I have so many, but those of you who are my Facebook friends  should be shouting out “pressurized biscuit cans!”  Some folks have phobias about balloons because they can pop so suddenly and unexpectedly—well, that’s the start of my problem with biscuit cans.  Back in the day, those darn things could really blow and the simple act of getting one out of the fridge could be enough pressure to make it go off.  Mind you, I haven’t gotten close enough to one to verify, but they appear to have a bit more structural integrity than cans of old seeing as Scott really has to whack them on the counter to pop them as I look on from 15 feet away.

Before I recount the rest of this story, I need to clue you in on the fact that I have absolutely zero pain tolerance.  I am a wuss.  When the doctor came in to tell me that I was pregnant with my first Baby Belle, I asked if I could have an epidural.  He told me that I was getting ahead of myself in that I had nine months to think about a birthing plan.  I had to clarify that I wanted an epidural right then and there for the next of those nine months up to and including delivery.  He unfairly denied my request. day when I was about 10 years old, my mom was cooking dinner and she asked me to grab a tube of Pillsbury crescent rolls (I remember them exactly).  I grabbed a can from the fridge and, when I went to hand it to my mother, the can suddenly exploded in what sounded like the force of a grenade.  Furthermore, one of the ends of the can whacked the inside of my wrist and caused a bruise.  I realize that some of you are thinking, “Gee, a bruise?  What a wuss!” and I therefore refer you to the previous paragraph.

As further validation for my fears, I turn to the scientifically thorough Mythbusters.  I’m sure most of you have heard the urban legend about the lady who went to the grocery store on a hot day, threw her grocery bags in the back seat and then climbed in the driver’s seat.  There was a loud explosion from behind and the lady felt something on the back of her head.  When she reached back, she felt a gooey mass that she mistook for brain matter and immediately thought she’d been shot in the noggin.  Come to find out, a pressurized biscuit can that she purchased at the store exploded as a result of the high heat in the car.  The explosion was mistaken for a gunshot and the uncooked biscuit dough was mistaken for brains.

For those of you who weren’t breathlessly tuned into the aforementioned Mythbusters episode like I was, I will have you know that those weird looking dudes found the myth to be...wait for it...plausible.  They were able to successfully recreate the scene.  The reason they found the myth plausible rather than straight out confirmed is because they were unable to verify when or if the “shotgun biscuit” situation actually occurred.

Ha!  Validation.  Now, on to the next weirdness...

Raw meat.  Blech.  Gack. 

What kind of raw meat?  It doesn’t matter, I’m not discriminating when it comes to my phobia.  Red meat, chicken, fish—you name it, I get the gags.  If I go to hell when I die, I will likely be forced to spend eternity mixing up meatloaf while simultaneously having to solve algebra problems.

As a matter of fact, if I dwell on the thought of raw meat too long, I’m not able to eat it when it’s cooked.  I prefer to eat steak and chicken slightly charred so there is no doubt that that the meat is cooked thoroughly.  I keep a box of surgical gloves in my kitchen so that, on the very rare occasion that I cook and am required to handle raw meat, I can get through the process with a modicum of dignity.  Shockingly, 95% of all meat cooked at our house is grilled by Scott. 

I have more eccentric phobias, but I think I’ll only treat you to two since I’m already more than weird enough.  Instead, I’ll clue you in on some other folks.  Please note that the names have been withheld in the hope of not getting disowned, divorced or burned in effigy:

  1. Picture a mattress.  Picture a mattress like it comes in the store—without sheets or a cover or anything like that.  There is an individual in this world of ours that gets completely wigged out by a “naked mattress.”  If the sheets happen to come off of the bed during the night, said individual cannot handle it in any way, shape or form. 

  1.  Hair.  If the hair is attached to a head, the person of whom I speak doesn’t have a problem.  If the hair is loose in the shower or on a hairbrush or otherwise not attached to a scalp, screeching ensues.  Mind you, I’m not talking about hairs in food or something that would justifiable gross anyone out, I’m talking about hair where you expect to find hair.

  1. Jewelry.  Earrings, necklaces, rings, anklets—anything you can fathom that might act as an adornment.  I don’t know the reason for this phobia, but it is deeply disturbing.  I do feel compelled to mention in this particular instance that the person with this phobia is female which makes an aversion to jewelry completely mind-blowing.

  1. Milk.  (I have nothing to add.)

  1. Eggs.  (Ditto)

Although I am taken aback at the randomness and weirdness of the items on the above mentioned lest, I am also heartened that I might just not be the craziest person on the planet (shut up).

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