Are You More Nervous Than A Fifth Grader?

Well, yes, I am, thanks for asking.

I’ve mentioned - often - that I am of a delicate disposition. Most things upset me. I am easily thrown into a tizzy. I panic. I sweat. I worry to the point of exhaustion. 

I am super super concerned about everything all the time. Other than my personal appearance, apparently.

But, yah, so I’m a scaredy-cat. Established.

I’m so tense that Brian and I had to stop watching Breaking Bad after the second season because I couldn’t handle the tension. Even if I went ahead and read an online episode guide so I knew what was going to happen - I’d still be freaked out by the non-stop, unrelenting dread and anxiety that the main character was enduring. Then I’d be awake all night trying to solve the fictional character’s problems. Including his cancer. 

Not at all restful.

The same thing is starting to happen for me with The Walking Dead, the show with the most decaying flesh and sermons per capita on the idiot box these days. I have to leave the room if things are getting too intense (which is often). It’s not like I don’t know that there will be at least one gnarly zombie grabbing at a moderately loved character per episode.  I know it’s coming.  I can hear the scary music just like the rest of you. But I still crap my pants every time. 

Ok, it's pretty much across the board ninny-dom.

This is not new - I’ve been a scaredy-cat pants crapper all of my life.

When I was little and my mom would read stories to my brother and me, she’d have to read the mildest, most bland Teletubby type stories while I was in the room because anything more stimulating would send me into apoplexy. If I was all concerned about the well being of a character in a story book I’d get all saucer eyed and say “Duckies and Chickies” which meant I could only handle stories about duckies and chickies. And they could not be harmed or endangered or anything but coddled and snuggled by their mommies at any time. My poor brother. He had to wait to hear the sordid and thrilling adventures of Green Eggs and Ham, or Go Dogs Go. Too much mayhem for his vibrating, terrified little sister.

When I sort of grew up and was an adult, my mom, my brother and my niece and I went to our family cabin near The Pas, MB. It was not a fancy place, to put it mildly. Walls were basically just paper, and the ceilings were open to the roof, so you could hear a pin drop in the next room. My mother was reading to my then 10 year old niece a story called The Hatchet, about a young boy who gets stranded in the Canadian northern wilderness after a plane crash. The kid only has a hatchet to survive with, and he runs into all sorts of mayhem.

Ok, I had to ask my mom to keep her voice down while reading it because it was stressing me out too much. I was 35 years old.

I was freaking out over a kid’s book. My 10 year old niece was nonplussed.

My inability to tolerate stress has been a joke in my family and a source of income for therapists nation wide. But this extreme sensitivity must be adaptive in some way. Maybe people like me will end up ruling the human race because we avoid conflict and danger so completely that no harm can befall us. Fewer lion maulings, sky diving mishaps, gardening accidents, twisted ankles while running from bears, fewer horror movie induced heart attacks - all means more nervous people to breed and take over the planet.

The totally meek and antsy will inherit the earth?

Makes sense.

Unfortunately, I have not had children. I failed to produce more psychologically fragile and nervous humans. I am afraid of childbirth. And children. 

Once again, my plans for world domination are thwarted by my inability to handle anything beyond snuggly teddybears and cookies.

Unless the teddybears are evil and come to life. And the cookies are poison.

Damn.












PS. Just found THIS on the internet and it totally rounds up much of my frustration with Walking Dead. Spoiler alert.

More Random Crap

Oh Em Gee, I have to write a blog for tomorrow, but I’m going out tonight to a stitch and bitch and I have to walk Sam and finish cleaning up around here, and oh the humanity.

So what to write about? Nothing. I’m just going to leave you with some random crap because I’m far too busy doing absolutely nothing to write anything useful or amusing.

I apologize if I bore you.

When I was very young I was terrified of a character I saw on a Huckleberry Hound cartoon. 

I can’t remember the story line. I think it was a big potato or sausage or something. In my memory, it is bright red. I did have a nightmare about it, but I don’t think I got much sympathy when I went to my parents’ bedroom and said “Mommy, Daddy, I had a bad dream about a huge Sausage Monster who was trying to kill me”. 

I called with the same complaint as an adult and the awkward silence from my parents was almost as uncomfortable as the silence between myself and the guy lying next to me.

To this day, I’ve drawn this character over and over again as a representation of scary evil. 

My needlepointed nightmare

I can see that it’s not bright red. It’s bright yellow. Sometimes the truth is too scary.

I took Italian lessons from Berlitz for 3 months in 1995. I remember nothing. My teacher’s name was Nick and he wore a bugs bunny tie on several occasions. We would chat in painfully slow Italian back and forth, mostly about train stations, shopping and how much I loved bagels. I had pretensions of living in Italy. I still do. 

I get up to pee a minimum of 3 times at night. Between 10pm and 6am. Three times. Small bladder. When we were on our way to Cuba a couple weeks ago, I went to the bathroom on the plane 6 times. Everytime I went I counted it out for the flight attendant. She looked at me wide eyed and horrified each time, but eventually laughed. She touched her own hair pretty much compulsively, ate a red pepper like an apple (I do that, too, so you'd think she would have liked me better) and she was reading a TOTAL bodice ripper.  The other flight attendant did not find me funny at all and said things like “Too Much Information” and held up his hand as if that was going to stop me in any way. Don’t people realize that not finding me funny is only going to make me try harder and harder? It’s safest just to laugh politely and then I’ll be satisfied and the awkwardness can stop. 

But seriously, I peed 6 times in a three and a half hour period.


I believe that I have a nose that is made out of elastic bands. Elastic bands formed into the shape of a potato. On my face. It is extremely flexible, but that isn't necessarily a good thing.

And I can’t help but wonder why there is only ONE FARM in the entire United States that is habitable on the show Walking Dead. 

The only farm left on earth

Surely there’s a farm next door, or down the road a ways. If you don’t watch the show, I’m not going to explain. Just understand that there are a lot of questions that need answering about THAT particular post apocalyptic society.

Ok, I have to go walk the dog now and then get ready to go to my stitch and bitch. Thanks for taking the time to read. Have a nice day. Be careful. Have two pieces of fruit and don’t worry, you look fabulous!