While not necessarily a scaredy-cat, I scare big-time about lots of little things. I’m not talking spiders (I get rid of them myself) or the dark (although I am cautious about tripping over my bunny slippers if I can’t see them); and I’m certainly not talking about life’s major issues. I’m referring to these odd, quirky, shared-by-some-but-not-by-most tiny terrors:
Stephen King novels. See above.
The anticipation of the sound of chalk scratching the blackboard.
The sound of chalk scratching the blackboard.
Cats. (Not enough to avoid petting them or being around them, but enough not to look in their eyes for too long or to be left alone in a room with them.)
People who love cats too much.
Reaching into an uncooked turkey to pull out the giblets.
The word “giblets.”
Flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz.
Flying monkeys in general.
Bats (sort of like tiny flying monkeys).
Mice (sort of like bats without wings).
Grown-ups who act like two-year-olds.
The silence when I pick up the phone and say “hello.” (Is it a crazed axe murderer checking to see if I’m home?)
The telemarketer’s voice when I pick up the phone and say “hello.” (Just kill me now.)
Taking the lid off a tub of cream cheese and finding mold inside.
Taking the lid off a tub of cream cheese and finding out we’re out of bagels.
Making this list.
Reading this list.
© 2013 Claudia Grossman