Phobias. Obsessive-compulsive disorder. You know you have them. You know it. Deep down in the dark recesses of your mind, you're afraid that you can't control the world. Or at least some little corner of it.
This is triply true if you're a mom and have to worry about things like your kid getting shanked on the school bus by some punk with a record (prayers going out to my friend Dawn right now).
It's nice to be able to control the small stuff.
Like Skittles. This is a blatant endorsement of Skittles here, folks. If you don't like them, step away from the blog. This is the only bag of candy that I actually purchased for Halloween (OK, so it was 50% off the day after Halloween, but that makes it all the sweeter, doesn't it?), because Skittles are delicious and nutritious.
OK, maybe not so much on the nutritious part. But there are fruit flavors and that makes them better for you than other things, like...
OK, so maybe they're just not good for you.
Moving on... I cannot eat them all hodge-podge and mixed up together. No-sir-ee. Can't do it. I have to eat the purple ones first... then the red ones... then the green ones... and then the orange and yellow last because they are by far the best. I do the same with Starburst and Jolly Ranchers. Orange and lemon are the best flavors for any sort of hard candy in my less-than-humble opinion. They just aren't allowed to mix.
It's a rule. And I follow the rules.
I'm also a little weird about this thing. That's right - the phone.
You'd think I'd have no problems using the phone since I used to be a reporter and was on the phone almost constantly for eight hours a day.
That's what you get for thinking.
I pretty much hate the phone when I have to be the one to make the calls. I'll answer calls all day long (if the Caller ID tells me I should), but making them is a whole 'nother story. Picking up the phone and dialing someone, especially someone I don't often talk to on the phone or - heaven forbid - someone I've never called before, is tantamount to death by firing squad. I have to clear my throat for fear of sound like a frog if they answer. My heart races. I get clammy hands. I'm never happier than when I hear the sound of an answering machine picking up.
Yes, I am a freak, thanks for asking.
So, just for the record, if I ever call and you're not one of a handful of people who know about my other quirks like smearing whipped cream over the entire piece of pumpkin pie before eating it, don't answer the phone. Let me talk to the happy little machine and call me back. Then I'll answer and be able to be human!
I'm sure all of this says volumes about my mental status, but that's another post for another day, don't you think?