I am a terrible cheek kisser. Aside from my natural inability to predict other people's movements and general awkwardness with affectionate greetings, I am particularly bad at the cheek kiss. From watching others, I've seen how fluid and effortless it can be.
Step.
Lean.
Kiss cheek with one hand their shoulder.
Step back.
Simple, right? Four basic steps to a heartfelt, cute hello or goodbye.
Here's how the steps work for me.
Step and land on opposite person's foot.
Lean and almost smash into their face.
Get kissed on the cheek and somehow kiss air instead and make the annoying "muah" sound while fumbling for their shoulder.
Step back and stare at the ground.
Socialite of the year, I am not. I can't understand how I always end up kissing air when I try to lean in for a normal kiss. Is it because Americans are real cheek kissers who actually put lips to skin as opposed to the hoity-toity European double air kiss? Or maybe people get this idea that I'm just socially graceful enough that they can expect me to commit to a skin kiss but, actually being painfully awkward, I go for the air kiss instead so I don't slobber all over them. Perhaps at my next cheek-kissing opportunity I will try and go in for the full fledged skin kiss. My only other fear regarding that situation, is that in going for the cheek, I will totally miss and end up hitting lips. Gross. Let's hope that doesn't happen, readers, because really the last thing that you want after a fun-filled day at el-bfers house is to accidentally kiss his mom on the mouth. Yikes!!!! I'll keep you guys posted on that one.
Today's Phobia of the Day is: Accidentally-liplocking-with-kind-of-older-people-phobia.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Fear Of: Perpetual Adolescence
As I coaxed myself out of sleepiness this morning watching Laguna Beach, I realized that I have an unusual joy for all media things typically labeled "young adult" or "teen." Like, Britney's Circus Album, or the Hills, or the Real Housewives of NYC/NJ, and who could forget The Twilight Saga. Because, OMG if you haven't seen the New Moon trailer where Taylor Lautner has his shirt off, then you are totally missing out on like, this season's best trailer ever.
Which all begs the question: since I love my some teen romance, and I love me some mad trashy tv and bad pop music -- am I stuck as a sixteen year old girl living in a quarter-century woman's body? Or is it that all adults, people we'll call them, retain some aspects of their youth throughout their lives?
For instance, my mother is by far one of my style icons. It happened both consciously and subconsciously that her likes and dislikes began permeating my own aesthetic palate. But, obviously there are some sharp points of divergence -- aka, she wears neon colors that cause epileptic seizures, and I try to save the elders and small children of the world by wearing only lame ass neutrals. Okay, but really, she has a much more adventurous sense of style than I do, excepting when we're talking about housewares. What fascinates me, though, is that even though she'll often find these beautiful, vibrant pieces that I would never think to pick out and that she always wants to wear, she rarely ever does. Like, for example, one of this season's hot colors is a blingingly bright red. Momma See found one such awesome purse hanging out in a sale section at Nordstrom's. This low shoulder slinging See by Chloe bag is literally the type of purse I would pick out for maybe myself, but much more likely my teenage cousin. Yet, it's still versatile enough that anyone could use with the proper amount of confidence. Momma See scooped it up off the table and promptly decided that it had all the attributes she'd been looking for in laid back, fun-times, everyone gets to dance like we're in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants bag, and bought it. After unpacking and packing it multiple times and parading in front of our hallway mirror, three days later, she promptly returned it to its sad, unloved place on the Nordstrom's sale table where it was surely cannibalized by some eighteen year old with Daddy's mastercard. Now, the quick turn around on acquirement and then disposal of the Red Bag could be a product of my mother having too much stuff (<3 you, mom!). But, strangely, I find it more likely she still retains this youthful piece of herself which, no matter how much she'd love to partake in it, she can't bring herself to cross into that realm.
Even at twenty-four, I'm beginning to wonder where the expiration date lies for me on enjoying the current day pop culture ephemera. Is it me who's tagging on longer than my expiration date? Or is it my cousin who is embarking on an adult existence far earlier than her age? Yet, there's something so fascinating about hearing el bf-ers Aunts singing "I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady" to Beyonce's Single Ladies in the kitchen over Easter weekend, or sitting at the dinner table and finding out his mom knows more of Lady GaGa's songs than I do. It's both empowering for them and for me. Partially because I feel a sense of connection, and admittedly can't pull the wool over the eyes any more, but more because it forces me to view them as equals in a world where I think hitting forty means losing touch. Which is probably why, in the end, I love talking to my mom about fashion, and designers, and why I actually encouraged her to buy that red See by Chloe bag that day. There's something charming and wonderful about allowing yourself a small space to be that sixteen year old girl who loves Yves Saint-Laurent, or the sixteen year old boy who can't ever play enough Counter Strike. Everyone is always racing to grow up and have everything in check as quickly as they can in their mid-twenties, when ironically we don't realize that even the awkwardly attempted pop culture references our parents and their generation make, really do make a difference to us. Not only because we see them as both hilarious and informed, but because the no man's land of teenage vs. parent interests has been crossed. Their effort to meet us halfway, helps bring them and us forward.
Today's Phobia of the day is: Forever-watching-reruns-of-Laguna-Beach-with-acne-and-pining-for-that-senior-guy-phobia
Which all begs the question: since I love my some teen romance, and I love me some mad trashy tv and bad pop music -- am I stuck as a sixteen year old girl living in a quarter-century woman's body? Or is it that all adults, people we'll call them, retain some aspects of their youth throughout their lives?
For instance, my mother is by far one of my style icons. It happened both consciously and subconsciously that her likes and dislikes began permeating my own aesthetic palate. But, obviously there are some sharp points of divergence -- aka, she wears neon colors that cause epileptic seizures, and I try to save the elders and small children of the world by wearing only lame ass neutrals. Okay, but really, she has a much more adventurous sense of style than I do, excepting when we're talking about housewares. What fascinates me, though, is that even though she'll often find these beautiful, vibrant pieces that I would never think to pick out and that she always wants to wear, she rarely ever does. Like, for example, one of this season's hot colors is a blingingly bright red. Momma See found one such awesome purse hanging out in a sale section at Nordstrom's. This low shoulder slinging See by Chloe bag is literally the type of purse I would pick out for maybe myself, but much more likely my teenage cousin. Yet, it's still versatile enough that anyone could use with the proper amount of confidence. Momma See scooped it up off the table and promptly decided that it had all the attributes she'd been looking for in laid back, fun-times, everyone gets to dance like we're in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants bag, and bought it. After unpacking and packing it multiple times and parading in front of our hallway mirror, three days later, she promptly returned it to its sad, unloved place on the Nordstrom's sale table where it was surely cannibalized by some eighteen year old with Daddy's mastercard. Now, the quick turn around on acquirement and then disposal of the Red Bag could be a product of my mother having too much stuff (<3 you, mom!). But, strangely, I find it more likely she still retains this youthful piece of herself which, no matter how much she'd love to partake in it, she can't bring herself to cross into that realm.
Even at twenty-four, I'm beginning to wonder where the expiration date lies for me on enjoying the current day pop culture ephemera. Is it me who's tagging on longer than my expiration date? Or is it my cousin who is embarking on an adult existence far earlier than her age? Yet, there's something so fascinating about hearing el bf-ers Aunts singing "I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady" to Beyonce's Single Ladies in the kitchen over Easter weekend, or sitting at the dinner table and finding out his mom knows more of Lady GaGa's songs than I do. It's both empowering for them and for me. Partially because I feel a sense of connection, and admittedly can't pull the wool over the eyes any more, but more because it forces me to view them as equals in a world where I think hitting forty means losing touch. Which is probably why, in the end, I love talking to my mom about fashion, and designers, and why I actually encouraged her to buy that red See by Chloe bag that day. There's something charming and wonderful about allowing yourself a small space to be that sixteen year old girl who loves Yves Saint-Laurent, or the sixteen year old boy who can't ever play enough Counter Strike. Everyone is always racing to grow up and have everything in check as quickly as they can in their mid-twenties, when ironically we don't realize that even the awkwardly attempted pop culture references our parents and their generation make, really do make a difference to us. Not only because we see them as both hilarious and informed, but because the no man's land of teenage vs. parent interests has been crossed. Their effort to meet us halfway, helps bring them and us forward.
Today's Phobia of the day is: Forever-watching-reruns-of-Laguna-Beach-with-acne-and-pining-for-that-senior-guy-phobia
Friday, June 5, 2009
Fear Of: Pooping in Public
I hate the 'plop' that poop makes when it hits the water. There is nothing more privacy inhibiting, more wince inducing or more upchuck worthy to me than hearing poo dropping into a toilet. For some reason, not only does it cause supreme aural discomfort, it also prevents me from feeling comfortable in any way with taking care of my own business. There's something so perverse to me about bodily function sounds. Like, isn't that the last thing you would want to share with anyone? Because, p.s. Cosmopolitan just featured a little ditty on how the last thing you should ever do in front of your BF is, you got it, taking a pee or a poop. So unsexy. But if you can't do it in front of someone who loves you, how are you supposed to do it in front of complete strangers?
Flatulence I can handle. Okay, correction, flatulence with pants up I can handle. But think about all those times you've just run in for a quick number 1, and all of the sudden the stall next to you lets out an explosive, soppy sounding blow of the buttocks. Is there anything more humorous, or disgusting, than knowing that the person next to you has a stomach which firmly protests everything that they just ate? Strangely, I would rather hear a woman vomiting than pooping, (I'll blame that on four years of hyper-familiarity with binge drinking in college) because even if it's coming out of her mouth and her nose is unfortunately close to the toilet water, nothing is coming out as bio-degraded smelly brown junk.
Which, of course, means that if I can't even hear other people do it, how could I possibly force my own pathetically vomit inducing sounds on them? This isn't to say that I won't ever use a public toilet, just that I'll avoid one if possible. If I walk into the bathroom, and find someone else jauntily dropping a number 2, I'll leave them to it -- unless it's a really dire situation, in which case, I could give a flying monkey what anyone else is doing. It's particularly bad in those small bathrooms. The ones you find in bookstores or medium sized restaurants where, if it's busy, there's a long line and a steady stream of customers entering and exiting. With only a few stalls, there's nowhere to run if you have an emergency. But, what's worse, is knowing that your shoes are showing and there's probably at least one person who will glance beneath the stall door as you let loose a trumpet like sound so they can smirk at you when you return to your table. Those are the absolute worst. However, in bathrooms filled with 10 or more stalls, I am happy to find one in a far off corner and do whatever I need to do. Is that a fear of intimacy? (Hyuk.) A fear of sharing myself with others? Or is that a fear of someone discovering my coveted secret and badmouthing me to the world? Hrmm, in retrospect this is probably my middle school, toothpaste filled oreo eating self running in terror from the big bad bitches of 7th grade.
My friend recently called me out on my poo hesitancy. While visiting her in LA, a few friends and I were all crashing in her apartment. 24/7 with your closest friends means there's no hiding when you've got to do your grossest deeds, and it also means that at any time during the day you will have a conspicuous absence from conversation assuming that you're relatively regular.
I disappeared for a short period of time one evening -- this is where they would all tell me my "short" is everyone else's "long" -- and attempted to tend to my needs as quickly as possible. Upon stepping back into the living room where everyone was conversing pleasantly, one of them turned to me and promptly said, "take a poop?" Here is where my dilemma arose, dear readers. I could tell them the truth, and say "why, yes! And it was quite a good one indeed." OR I could slink away and mumble beneath my breath that I'd been flossing, brushing my hair, and putting on make-up (which I never wear). Choose your own adventure, kiddies. Which did I go for?
"uhhhhhhhhhhh......"
Neither, apparently. I just froze in place. Which is when my other friend promptly stated, "Awww, See, you're a shy poo-er!" And I blushed, and we all laughed, and I realized that I have a serious problem with publicly taking care of my business as they all regaled me with their own stories of public humiliation at the hands of their sphincters. (That's the type of stuff that friends of 10 years can talk about. Or really, scarily open people talk about over drunken dinners.)
This only became worse when I was at a Borders bookstore earlier this week, and after entering the ladies room to wash my hands, I was confronted with a resounding "pppppppppfffffftttttttttt!" Embarrassed for her and for myself, I did a quick sud and wash session then looked around wildly for a hand dryer. Because I know the only thing that would make me comfortable with continuing on my poo adventures if I were her, was if a sound was there to cover it up. Alas! There was no hand dryer in sight, and I could tell that since it'd been a good few minutes between my entrance and her last flatulence release -- and not a flush or move for the toilet paper at all -- she was nervous and doing her best to prevent another unfortunate butt alarm from popping out. That's when I heard it, the peep of farts, the blippy-like "pft!" and I ran for the door just in time to avoid blippy-fart's older brother from appearing, explosive diarrhea.
The moral of this story, friends, is that poop shy folk are all around you. If you are not among our masses, I commend you on your power and strength in owning your bodily functions. If you're reading this and emphatically nodding your head in agreement, trust me, I know where you're coming from. Do not be afraid of your fear, for you are not alone.
Today's phobia is: poopie-plopping-in-water-phobia.
Flatulence I can handle. Okay, correction, flatulence with pants up I can handle. But think about all those times you've just run in for a quick number 1, and all of the sudden the stall next to you lets out an explosive, soppy sounding blow of the buttocks. Is there anything more humorous, or disgusting, than knowing that the person next to you has a stomach which firmly protests everything that they just ate? Strangely, I would rather hear a woman vomiting than pooping, (I'll blame that on four years of hyper-familiarity with binge drinking in college) because even if it's coming out of her mouth and her nose is unfortunately close to the toilet water, nothing is coming out as bio-degraded smelly brown junk.
Which, of course, means that if I can't even hear other people do it, how could I possibly force my own pathetically vomit inducing sounds on them? This isn't to say that I won't ever use a public toilet, just that I'll avoid one if possible. If I walk into the bathroom, and find someone else jauntily dropping a number 2, I'll leave them to it -- unless it's a really dire situation, in which case, I could give a flying monkey what anyone else is doing. It's particularly bad in those small bathrooms. The ones you find in bookstores or medium sized restaurants where, if it's busy, there's a long line and a steady stream of customers entering and exiting. With only a few stalls, there's nowhere to run if you have an emergency. But, what's worse, is knowing that your shoes are showing and there's probably at least one person who will glance beneath the stall door as you let loose a trumpet like sound so they can smirk at you when you return to your table. Those are the absolute worst. However, in bathrooms filled with 10 or more stalls, I am happy to find one in a far off corner and do whatever I need to do. Is that a fear of intimacy? (Hyuk.) A fear of sharing myself with others? Or is that a fear of someone discovering my coveted secret and badmouthing me to the world? Hrmm, in retrospect this is probably my middle school, toothpaste filled oreo eating self running in terror from the big bad bitches of 7th grade.
My friend recently called me out on my poo hesitancy. While visiting her in LA, a few friends and I were all crashing in her apartment. 24/7 with your closest friends means there's no hiding when you've got to do your grossest deeds, and it also means that at any time during the day you will have a conspicuous absence from conversation assuming that you're relatively regular.
I disappeared for a short period of time one evening -- this is where they would all tell me my "short" is everyone else's "long" -- and attempted to tend to my needs as quickly as possible. Upon stepping back into the living room where everyone was conversing pleasantly, one of them turned to me and promptly said, "take a poop?" Here is where my dilemma arose, dear readers. I could tell them the truth, and say "why, yes! And it was quite a good one indeed." OR I could slink away and mumble beneath my breath that I'd been flossing, brushing my hair, and putting on make-up (which I never wear). Choose your own adventure, kiddies. Which did I go for?
"uhhhhhhhhhhh......"
Neither, apparently. I just froze in place. Which is when my other friend promptly stated, "Awww, See, you're a shy poo-er!" And I blushed, and we all laughed, and I realized that I have a serious problem with publicly taking care of my business as they all regaled me with their own stories of public humiliation at the hands of their sphincters. (That's the type of stuff that friends of 10 years can talk about. Or really, scarily open people talk about over drunken dinners.)
This only became worse when I was at a Borders bookstore earlier this week, and after entering the ladies room to wash my hands, I was confronted with a resounding "pppppppppfffffftttttttttt!" Embarrassed for her and for myself, I did a quick sud and wash session then looked around wildly for a hand dryer. Because I know the only thing that would make me comfortable with continuing on my poo adventures if I were her, was if a sound was there to cover it up. Alas! There was no hand dryer in sight, and I could tell that since it'd been a good few minutes between my entrance and her last flatulence release -- and not a flush or move for the toilet paper at all -- she was nervous and doing her best to prevent another unfortunate butt alarm from popping out. That's when I heard it, the peep of farts, the blippy-like "pft!" and I ran for the door just in time to avoid blippy-fart's older brother from appearing, explosive diarrhea.
The moral of this story, friends, is that poop shy folk are all around you. If you are not among our masses, I commend you on your power and strength in owning your bodily functions. If you're reading this and emphatically nodding your head in agreement, trust me, I know where you're coming from. Do not be afraid of your fear, for you are not alone.
Today's phobia is: poopie-plopping-in-water-phobia.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Fear of: Smashing into the Divider on the Freeway
While cruising in the fast lane of 101 in Northern California, it's particularly difficult to ignore the grey concrete dividers protecting you from oncoming traffic. Smooth, innocuous blocks are strategically placed in the center of traffic merely to remind you that you're a lot closer than you think to equally foolish drivers speeding along, heading in the other direction. They are there only for your safety, and should be viewed as perspective and panic attack providing on your trip down an otherwise overwhelmingly large highway. However, please attempt to overlook the realities of you driving in the furthest over left-hand lane at a healthy 85 mph while endless porous, mundane concrete slabs snap by, ever closer to your car door. Not to mention, you are but three seconds away from the sharp hairpin turn where everyone from your high school class (as far as you know) has encountered a follied death because they had to hear that 50 Cent song just one more time?! One uncontrolled twitch of your steering column and, ta-dah! Awesome you, hamburger meat you is pleased to make your acquaintance.
Everyone knows the feeling of terror that washes over them when they've looked down to attend to a small task. Changing the radio station, grabbing the drink, adjusting the fly. Then suddenly the car is veering too far to the left and the only option left is to jerk the wheel to the right in an attempt to safe (yes, safe) oneself! The clench in your throat and the rise of the hairs on your neck are only momentary, just long enough to cause complete silence in your brain so it can react without hesitation. You feel weightless. A complete suspension of reality begins and then quickly ends, where you're carefully watching a multi-dimensional you correct the course of your car just before you strike the wall. It's terrible, and fascinating, and absolutely addictive. In fact, that moment is almost liberating. But only if you approach it just right. Say, from the safety of your couch as you dive off yet another highway -- in Vice City. Or if you're an adrenaline junkie, with a nylon sheet and reinforced rope hooked to your shoulders as you "parachute" out of a plane at 15,000 feet. But, funny enough, even with all the freedom and calm that occurs in that split second, it's the moments after the adrenaline rush, the minutes when you can taste the acrid terror in your mouth and the sweat forming on the small of your back, which are the moments you remember the most.
I don't know about the rest of you, but every time something like that happens, I can't help but remember everything I wish I'd done and completed by that moment. It usually occurs as follows:
I want to be successful and rich beyond my wildest dreams. I want to be the next Anna Wintour, except with a soul and a really awesome family (oxymoron). It'd be kind of fun if someone pointed out I'm the next undiscovered Giselle Bundchen. While I'm at it, it'd be really fun if someone pointed out I'm the next Coco Chanel, too. I want my unwritten, unthought-of script to achieve worldwide acclaim without ever having put pen to paper (or more realistically, fingers to keyboard) and without any kind of production into a film necessary. I want to have children who I love and adore, and who I don't want to strangle slowly. I want two puppies who will grow old together, and then as they are wobbling on their bony legs into doggie old age, they will meet a new puppy who will fill the roll of "ickle one" who they shall care for and befriend. I want a beautiful graduation (for once), two wonderful weddings for both my brother and myself, and many other happy, unforgettable occasions for my family, friends, and even acquaintances who I will only write cards to and think of both fondly and rather un-fondly.
Oh yeah, I want my Pulitzer.
I want to reconcile with old enemies, but not without telling them off first, and I want to stand up for something I really give a damn about and know that I've made a difference by either personally giving an organ, my life's work, or life's blood to them, and if not any of that, than millions of dollars (which by that time will be little to nothing in the great sum of my wealth). I want to have a full life, that no one can tell me is bad or wrong because even if they do, I will know without a doubt that I have done the best I can. And I want to get my mom that flat in Hong Kong that I've been promising her since I was 18, so she can live the high life she's always deserved and may frolic among the young, restless, and relatively pedantic socialites that I find so amusing.
In a moment, all those thoughts flash across my mind while my eyes jump from the road in front of me, to the divider at my side. For some reason, it still happens every time I do that momentary jerk with my steering wheel. Perhaps it's my familiarity with death, and loss, and fear that creates such a mish mash overload of images in my mind. Or perhaps it's someone's way of reminding me to be happy with what I have, and to appreciate the little things that make my life so wonderful everyday.
Phobia of the day: Smacking-into-hard-thing-phobia
Everyone knows the feeling of terror that washes over them when they've looked down to attend to a small task. Changing the radio station, grabbing the drink, adjusting the fly. Then suddenly the car is veering too far to the left and the only option left is to jerk the wheel to the right in an attempt to safe (yes, safe) oneself! The clench in your throat and the rise of the hairs on your neck are only momentary, just long enough to cause complete silence in your brain so it can react without hesitation. You feel weightless. A complete suspension of reality begins and then quickly ends, where you're carefully watching a multi-dimensional you correct the course of your car just before you strike the wall. It's terrible, and fascinating, and absolutely addictive. In fact, that moment is almost liberating. But only if you approach it just right. Say, from the safety of your couch as you dive off yet another highway -- in Vice City. Or if you're an adrenaline junkie, with a nylon sheet and reinforced rope hooked to your shoulders as you "parachute" out of a plane at 15,000 feet. But, funny enough, even with all the freedom and calm that occurs in that split second, it's the moments after the adrenaline rush, the minutes when you can taste the acrid terror in your mouth and the sweat forming on the small of your back, which are the moments you remember the most.
I don't know about the rest of you, but every time something like that happens, I can't help but remember everything I wish I'd done and completed by that moment. It usually occurs as follows:
I want to be successful and rich beyond my wildest dreams. I want to be the next Anna Wintour, except with a soul and a really awesome family (oxymoron). It'd be kind of fun if someone pointed out I'm the next undiscovered Giselle Bundchen. While I'm at it, it'd be really fun if someone pointed out I'm the next Coco Chanel, too. I want my unwritten, unthought-of script to achieve worldwide acclaim without ever having put pen to paper (or more realistically, fingers to keyboard) and without any kind of production into a film necessary. I want to have children who I love and adore, and who I don't want to strangle slowly. I want two puppies who will grow old together, and then as they are wobbling on their bony legs into doggie old age, they will meet a new puppy who will fill the roll of "ickle one" who they shall care for and befriend. I want a beautiful graduation (for once), two wonderful weddings for both my brother and myself, and many other happy, unforgettable occasions for my family, friends, and even acquaintances who I will only write cards to and think of both fondly and rather un-fondly.
Oh yeah, I want my Pulitzer.
I want to reconcile with old enemies, but not without telling them off first, and I want to stand up for something I really give a damn about and know that I've made a difference by either personally giving an organ, my life's work, or life's blood to them, and if not any of that, than millions of dollars (which by that time will be little to nothing in the great sum of my wealth). I want to have a full life, that no one can tell me is bad or wrong because even if they do, I will know without a doubt that I have done the best I can. And I want to get my mom that flat in Hong Kong that I've been promising her since I was 18, so she can live the high life she's always deserved and may frolic among the young, restless, and relatively pedantic socialites that I find so amusing.
In a moment, all those thoughts flash across my mind while my eyes jump from the road in front of me, to the divider at my side. For some reason, it still happens every time I do that momentary jerk with my steering wheel. Perhaps it's my familiarity with death, and loss, and fear that creates such a mish mash overload of images in my mind. Or perhaps it's someone's way of reminding me to be happy with what I have, and to appreciate the little things that make my life so wonderful everyday.
Phobia of the day: Smacking-into-hard-thing-phobia
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Fear Of: Being Attacked by a Suburban Creeper in the Middle of the Night
I've always had an inherent fear of the night time since I was little. Not a terrified I hate everything to do with the night, but definitely a "I'm not sure what could attack me in the darkness, so let's turn on every light in sight." The origins have never been totally clear, but I'm going to guess an over-saturation on bad vampire lore, my brother locking me in the basement, reading goosebumps (because yes, those books honestly terrified me), a round of terrible nightmares in college and other general random bump in the night things.
So after the 6 hour long drive from LA back to San Francisco, I arrived at my mom's suburban sanctuary (seriously, if you saw her backyard garden you'd agree), I was totally amped to lie in my own bed and cuddle up to the best teddy bear in the world. If there's one place in the entire world where I (usually) feel safe, it's definitely my room at my momma's.
But, as I'm standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, out of nowhere I hear this scratching in and then ostensibly yelling coming from the backyard. At which point, I promptly proceeded to freak out, call el bf-ers, and decided to find the nearest bat-like appliance to ream a dude in the face if he tried to attack my beloved mother and our home.
When I was a teenager, I can remember this utterly paralyzing fear developing where the slightest sound or scratch on the skylight of my bathroom, would stop me in my tracks. For about 10 seconds, I would stand there clutching the sink, too afraid to look up or out the window next to me in the event that I would see a man peering in with a devilishly evil grin on his face. The same satanic-faced man would appear in awake-mares throughout my adolescence, while I was lying in bed unable to fall asleep at night, while I was washing dishes in an empty house, or while I was running downstairs to grab the last batch of laundry before I headed off to bed. Regardless of time, place, or situation, if there was night involved and me being alone involved, I suffered through an interminable panic attack. But, as the years have gone by, I've gone from being completely frozen in place at the slightest indication of someone outside, to a more courageous bat-wielding banshee who will take you out at your left temple if you try to mess with me.
Suffice to say, the night man outside never turned out to be a situation of any merit. After acquiring the bat and finally turning on the back porch light -- and maybe yelling out "i'll kill you!!!!!" a couple times before I looked outside -- there was not a soul to be seen.
The first ever phobia of the day is: alone-in-house-and-shanked-by-rando-phobia.
So after the 6 hour long drive from LA back to San Francisco, I arrived at my mom's suburban sanctuary (seriously, if you saw her backyard garden you'd agree), I was totally amped to lie in my own bed and cuddle up to the best teddy bear in the world. If there's one place in the entire world where I (usually) feel safe, it's definitely my room at my momma's.
But, as I'm standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, out of nowhere I hear this scratching in and then ostensibly yelling coming from the backyard. At which point, I promptly proceeded to freak out, call el bf-ers, and decided to find the nearest bat-like appliance to ream a dude in the face if he tried to attack my beloved mother and our home.
When I was a teenager, I can remember this utterly paralyzing fear developing where the slightest sound or scratch on the skylight of my bathroom, would stop me in my tracks. For about 10 seconds, I would stand there clutching the sink, too afraid to look up or out the window next to me in the event that I would see a man peering in with a devilishly evil grin on his face. The same satanic-faced man would appear in awake-mares throughout my adolescence, while I was lying in bed unable to fall asleep at night, while I was washing dishes in an empty house, or while I was running downstairs to grab the last batch of laundry before I headed off to bed. Regardless of time, place, or situation, if there was night involved and me being alone involved, I suffered through an interminable panic attack. But, as the years have gone by, I've gone from being completely frozen in place at the slightest indication of someone outside, to a more courageous bat-wielding banshee who will take you out at your left temple if you try to mess with me.
Suffice to say, the night man outside never turned out to be a situation of any merit. After acquiring the bat and finally turning on the back porch light -- and maybe yelling out "i'll kill you!!!!!" a couple times before I looked outside -- there was not a soul to be seen.
The first ever phobia of the day is: alone-in-house-and-shanked-by-rando-phobia.
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