On why I'm a sissy.

Some things gross me out. I’m weak. I’m queasy. All right, I’ll say it: I’m a sissy (and probably a codfish too, although I’ve never really understood what that means….) (I use a lot of parentheses....I blame ADD.... Does it bug you?)

I blog-stalk this hilarious person who I’ve never met before, (I found her on facebook and thought she was someone else, but she turned out to be totally hysterical and fun to blog-stalk anyway, so I’ve been proudly (secretly parentheses in the parentheses? Is that even legal outside of algebra?) blog-stalking her for more than a year now…that is another topic for another day) and she happens to live in Egypt (not the kind of blog you read to feel better about your normal life). She has this incredibly cool and very fascinating life and is always doing something exciting.  Today I happened to read this post and my stomach turned over after the first picture. I was very afraid of losing my lunch (which was really good today by the way. I love taco bar! OK now this is just ridiculous....), but I kept reading anyway.

Against my better judgment I read the whole post. Now I feel sick. I just can’t handle blood. Or needles.

Know what else grosses me out?

Fingernails. Josh loves me so he cuts his fingernails when I’m not home. I love him so I paint my toenails when he’s not home (He can’t handle the smell. But not because he’s a sissy (which he’s not, even if he did love Teddy Ruxpin. Aundrea told me Teddy Ruxpin is actually not that sissy-ish), but because he can’t breathe). I hate fingernails so much that I NEVER cut my nails. Luckily I have what I think are actually fairly attractive long nails, but I never cut them off, because the leftovers gross me out. When people cut their nails in public, I want to throw up on their faces.

Yicky-creepy-old-men. Seriously, if you’re cute like a grandpa and say “sweetie” or “honey” or “punkin” to me, that’s fine. But if you just think you’re cute like a grandpa but in fact you are a yicky-creepy-old-man, please just call me by my name. You gross me out. And don’t ever, EVER touch me. Ever.

Pens which have been chewed. ‘Nuff said.

Snot. Sometimes I feel like I’ll be an OK mom when the time comes. But one thing that assures me that I’ll be the mediocre-est mom ever to roam the face of the earth is my aversion to snot. I really can’t handle it. It makes me gag. Every time. I don’t care how cute the child underneath it is. Or how much I love them, I really puke a little in my mouth when I see it. Forget about touching it.

In spite of all the things that make me go “buuuuuhhh” (Ron White shudders), I’m a little brave about some things. Like paint fumes, toilets, and stuffed animal heads. So, I figure it all evens itself out. Right?!?!?!