I hate llamas

Got a special request for blogging this evening. Apparently I don't blog enough about what a wuss I am in some areas.

Areas like... I don't know... burning buildings. I can't want that. Yes, I work for a fire department, but, see, I'm an HR manager. I'm not a fire fighter. I've never once thought about becoming a fire fighter. Ever. (Although I had thought about becoming a police officer... until I realized that I just really liked police officers. Something about the gun and night stick... But, I digress.) I just am not all that intrigued by fire, and, if I'm being perfectly honest, fire scares me. I like it nicely contained in a brick enclosure - otherwise known as a fireplace. I even don't mind if it's contained within a little wall of mud and/or rock, as in a campfire. But once it's on the loose, I don't like it. The thought of being burned alive is just far too vivid for me.

If you must know, I frighten far too easily. I always have. Yes, I was a tom-boy growing up. Yes, I beat the ever living crap out of a dude in the 5th grade (he had it coming). Yes, I like mud and dirt and grease and football and beer and cage fighting and a lot of other typical man stuff. I can be pretty tough. But with all that said, I'm a big weenie when it comes to things like scary movies, massive spiders (that have devil's horns and look like they're about to jump on your face), and the thought of someone sneaking in my window and stealing one of my kids. (Hey, it happens!)

I think this started way back when I was a kid. My sinister (yes, I stated that correctly) had (and still has) a horror movie fetish. She loves to be scared. I don't know why. She's just sick like that, and not necessarily in a good way. She used to rent (back in the day of actually renting VHS tapes) a bazillion horror movies and just sit and watch all day long. Being the little sister I was, I just wanted to hang out with her - with absolutely no regard for the consequences. (I think my mom probably tried to shield me, but she wasn't always around, and, thus, I put myself in curious predicaments.)  So, I, too, would sit and watch these awful movies. To the point where I could not fall asleep at night, or if I did, I'd wake up screaming in terror. No joke.

So, here's my loving sinister... all nurturing and kind (**gag**)... who would wait for me to go to the bathroom and shut the door.  I'd just be minding my own business (if you know what I mean) and open the bathroom door to find her with a freakin' nylon over her face and a massive knife in her hand. I mean, seriously? It scared the crap out of me.

Even to this day, if I watch a scary movie (which is very rare), I have to watch a comedy or something after to get my mind off of it. God forbid I have to pee during the movie! I refuse to go alone. And I don't mean a group of girls going to the bathroom together. I mean, I practically force my husband to actually sit in the bathroom with me. And, being the loving, supportive, kind and protective man he is, he always sees this as an opportunity. He'll start making noises or breathing funny, or scratching on the wall, or any other number of things just to completely freak me out. I think one time he actually made me cry. Or at least I wanted to.

Scott and I play Resident Evil (video game). While I seriously love this game, it scares the bajeebers out of me. Zombies are not right. There's this one point in the game where these zombie things walk all freaky-like at you and they're mumbling something. It sounds like they're saying, "Mummy after me." Yeah, that scares me. I actually have been known to hide my eyes in my hands... during a video game. Pathetic.

Almost any sound I can't identify makes me anxious. If it's a noise outside a window and I'm alone, forget about it. You can rest assured I'll probably be found in some corner of some closet sucking on my thumb in the fetal position.

I've always wanted to go skydiving. I hate heights. The thought of such an adventure sounds wonderful. But I know that I would probably have to be pushed out of the plane, and at that I will likely cry all the way to the ground. (And then I'll likely be found saying, "Let's do that again!") 

Nothing about this is cute.

I also hate llamas. I'm not afraid of them. I just hate them. They spit vomit at you. I don't like that. And, yes, I have been spit vomited at. There is not a smell in the world that could compare. Just ask my sinister. She thinks it's hysterical. (Once again, her nurturing and kind nature rearing its ugly little head.)

So, Jen, there you have it. I've blogged about the wussy side of me. I hope you're satisfied.