Best Christmas Gift Ever!

BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER

So, I realize that when I label this particular book, "The Best Christmas Gift Ever," it's kind of like putting a big "L" on my forehead.  But I've been a loser for years and if you, perchance, think you haven't, just meander through the first few chapters of this book and you will discover that you are a mess as well.

After careful reading and scoring my initial surveys, I now know I qualify as having a Co-Occurence of Anxiety Disorders:  generalized anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, panic disorder, an animal phobia, and obsessive disorder (no compulsions along with it.)  You may notice that this book does not have the word "depression" in its title, for if it did I may just be calling the local crazy house.

If anyone out there did not yet believe I was an Undun individual, I now have somewhat-less-than-scientific proof, but proof none-the-less.

The good news about this book is that it enables you to outline your own recovery program - just the thing for a control freak like me to wrap my arms around and begin to undertake. 

That Ponzi knows her mother alright!

Thank you for the gift, Ponz,

A Mouse-a-Phobic Exposed!

I want to talk a little bit about "exposure".

You see. . . the exercises in the dreaded book are all aimed at getting the unknowing victim to experience prolonged exposure to a feared animal so that they become desensitized and are no longer afraid.

But even the word "exposure" scares me. . . and it keeps getting all twisted around in my brain.

I think we've established by now that I'm a semi-sane-and-intelligent adult.  And I'm no stranger to words. . . we all know that for sure.  But that blasted word keeps playing tricks on me.

I guess my trouble all comes down to this:  Which preposition is following the word?

Am I exposed "to"?

Or am I exposed "by"?

Because, even though they intend me to be exposed "to" rats and mice by these exercises, I can't help but feel that I'm the one being exposed here. . . that it's me who has placed myself in a vulnerable position and been exposed "by" these exercises.

Not only that. . . I am exposing myself to fear. . . exposing myself to terror. . . and exposing myself to my own internal pain and humiliation.

And it's interesting - is it not -  that the word "exposure" is also associated with having uncovered a certain truth that someone would like to keep hidden.  

And what's more. . . I think one can die of  "exposure". . . can they not?  Yes, I'm quite certain that I've seen it as a cause of demise on a death certificate. . .  the dear deceased died from EXPOSURE. . .

I do not like that word, Mr. Cat.

I think I like the word "desensitization" much better.

'Cause I get that.

I know how not to feel.   In fact, I've made a living out of THAT word.

And I'm almost positive that no medical professional has ever been forced to list "not feeling" as a cause of death. In fact, the term "not feeling" is usually the result of death, not the cause of it.

Case cured. . .

The Color White

 Just in case you were wondering, the following are just some of the reasons I like the color white:

It's Clean.

It's Pure.

It's Spotless. . .and Honest.
Simple.

And Illuminating.

White is Immaculate.

Unblemished.

Bright.
Uncomplicated.
Incorruptible.

Cleansing.

Comforting.
Calming.

Enlightening.

It's Antiseptic.

Empty.

Pristine and Purifying.

White is Uncontaminated. . . Uninfected. . .Unsullied

As a matter of fact, it's "un" a lot of things!

I like white.

I think it even smells clean.  I dare say it almost tastes so too. .  .

And if you had to assign an intelligence to colors, I would say that white is the color with the highest IQ. . .for what other color has the aptitude to avoid being corrupted by the other colors around it?  White knows that its very essence derives from the absence of color and so it repels any attempt to contaminate it.  Unlike (I might add) a color like brown - whose very being is the result of a jumble of every other color in the universe being dumped on its palette.

I suppose that may just be the reason why I find the color brown to be unpalatable.

Maybe I'm not a Mouse-a-Phobic after all.

Maybe I'm just a crazy White-Freak!

Switched at Birth

Went to a different pet store for another mouse viewing again yesterday. . . this time my husband came with me.

And it got to be almost blase.

Ho hum.

Boring.

I stood by and watched dutifully as the employee pulled out the aquariums, stuck her hands in there, and gave each of the little critter-things a water bottle.  And I was ever-so-close to asking her if I could hold the "fancy" mouse (for if you had to hold a mouse wouldn't you want it to be a "fancy" one???) when a rude little girl came and stole the pet shop lady's attention away from me just because she wanted to hold a hamster. . .

But still. . .  I came home and felt like I had accomplished something.

Until.

Well until . .

Until Veggie stopped by and I told her about my "exposure" exploits and she said,  If you want "exposure" just come visit me at work and we'll go down to the subway together.  I see rats everyday!

SHE SEES RATS EVERYDAY!?!?!

The little girl I gave birth to SEES RATS EVERYDAY while waiting to ride to and from work in the New York City Subway stations!  And she hasn't packed up and moved to Montana?

You only have to look down at the tracks while you're waiting and you'll see them, she told me.  But they don't often climb up on the platform.   I only saw that happen once. . . . there were about eight of them - big ones - and they ran into an office and down a hole.

HOLY SHIT!  

WAS THIS CHILD SWITCHED AT BIRTH? 

AND JUST WHOSE DAUGHTER IS SHE ANYWAY???

There are no more words.  . .

Why Didn't I Bring My Carving Knife?

I got a sudden urge to see some mice today.

So I did.

Stupid?  The answer to that question, only time will tell. . .

Yes, against every recommendation in the dreaded book, I drove my car unsupervised to the pet shop.  You see,  I was supposed to have a "helper" who would have paved the way for me so that my exposure experience would have been controlled.

But instead I drove up willy-nilly and hopped out of the car without so much as a second thought.  I walked around the dog and cat stuff - all the while keeping  one eye on that "other" area of the store. . . you know. . . the part with the glass aquariums. . . the ones that don't hold fish . . .

And pretty soon I was walking by the hermit crabs. . .  and the parakeets. . . and the ferrets. . . and then came the aisle -THE aisle - that started with the guinea pigs.   And thanks to Archie I knew I could soldier on and try to find the pig-rodent-thing in its little igloo. . .

But over and down to the right were the things I came to see.

And when I say things, I mean THINGS!

Now they were white. . . I'll give you that. . . but there were about ten of them in the same aquarium and EVERY ONE OF THEM WAS IN MOTION AT THE SAME TIME!!!

Holy Shit, those things move!  Three of them were knocking each other over on the exercise wheel, one was crawling up the walls, and the others were in a constant state of frenzied motion crawling all over each other!

And the tails!

Oh how I wish I were the farmer's wive and had a carving knife at the ready!  (But then again, if the mice had been blind and if perhaps there were just three of them, they wouldn't have been so gross. . .imagine how that nursery rhyme would have changed if the poor woman saw a gaggle of SIGHTED mice. . .)

But you would have been proud of me.

I didn't run.   I didn't scream.  I didn't pass out from from terror.   I watched. . . trying to think of them like happy mice at a playground.

Happy, happy, mice :)

Then I calmly walked away.

And after about two minutes I decided to stroll back and watch the happiness once more.

At which point I wanted to throw up.

And so I quickly paid for my bag of dog food and left.

I think it's time to start carrying
a carving knife around with me. . .

Field of Mice Dreams

So in order to understand how a little church lady like me could have such a huge fear of mice, you'd have to know my history. 

Now, my entire life has been spent living in a suburban area where everyone will tell you are bound to get a little "field" mouse in your house from time to time.  Well for me they were more like Field of Dreams mice . . . for you know that  If You Fear Them, They Will Come.

And come they did. . .

To our kitchen breadbox one morning when I went to make toast. . .across our family room while I was watching t.v. . . . to my mother's bedroom slipper when she went to put her foot in it. . .

And then there were always the "presents" the cats would bring and leave at the doorstep, but at least they were dead.

And when I went off to college and moved to an off-campus beach house the saga continued; we set five traps the first night and caught five mice.   So we set five more traps the next and caught another five.   Our battle with the mice in that house went on for an entire semester.  When I went home for a long weekend, I returned to find mice turds on my pillow.   I slept on the top bunk.

And after graduation when I moved back home again I awoke one night to feel one crawling in my bed.

The encounters didn't stop after I was married and in a home of my own.   I went to the town diner for breakfast with my children and one was crawling on the water fountain.   I went to another breakfast joint and one ran across the floor as I entered.

I awoke one night to a terrible racket in the kitchen only to discover that my cat was chasing a half-dead mouse around my kitchen. . . torturing it.

And then there was the movie theater where my husband and I watched a mouse run back and forth across the foot of the screen for a full two or three minutes before we got up and left the theater for good.

So tell me. . . ARE YOU AT ALL SURPRISED THAT A CHANCE ENCOUNTER WITH A CHURCH MOUSE WOULD SEND OUR LITTLE MOM ON SPIN INTO A "TAIL-SPIN" FROM WHICH SHE IS FINDING IT DIFFICULT TO RECOVER???

No, I have nothing against Mickey or Minnie. . .  or even Mighty Mouse  . . .  or Tom . . . or Jerry (whichever one of them was the mouse. .  .) but I don't like the other ones.    The real ones.

I do not like real ones.

But don't you start thinking I want

any ghosts of dead ones

walking out of the woods at me either. . . 

Why I Wish My Name Were Veronica

So my husband reminded me of something during dinner last night. . .

In the middle of my Christmas-Mouse-Frenzy, I had a Guinea Pig as a house guest.

I've told you before how I think that the only way I survived my time in the mouse-house church building throughout the Christmas season was a repression technique that I assume victims of crime, abuse, war, and other horrid terrors employ so their brains don't have to think about the trauma.

And when I returned back home on Christmas Eve, after encountering that mouse,  I discovered that Veggie, returning for the holidays, had brought home with her Archie - a guinea pig that she had oh-so-sweetly volunteered to watch for a friend.  And I remember that particular daughter being quite upset when I insisted that the rodent take up residence in the basement instead of sharing a bedroom with her.  But somehow, despite the less-than-plush accommodations offered, the pig survived.  And I distinctly remember entering that basement on several occasions over the course of those days and seeing her younger sister holding and petting that pig from guinea with love and affection (for Trigger's never met an animal she didn't like. . .)

Archie.

My lovely daughter was holding and petting Archie.  And I blocked it all out of my consciousness because of my overwhelming fear.

I never made the connection between Archie and the church mouse until tonight. 

And if Archie lived in my house for three days with no harm done, do you think he could come back?  And maybe I could touch him.   'Cause, you know, he has a name. . .and a cage. . . and he only eats the food that he's expressly given . . . and he couldn't tunnel his way into a church if you paid him. . . .and people like my daughters love him.

Oh Archie. . .  where are you?  

I want to be your Veronica. . .

Words I Hate

 Once before, when I fancied myself a vocabularian, I wrote a post entitled The Language of Giggles. 

That post was all about the words I absotutely adore.

Now that I'm a Mouse-a-Phobic, I offer you instead the words that I adamently abhor:

Scurry. . .Scamper. . .Wriggle. . . Slither

Swishy .. . Nibble. . . Sneaky. . .Twitchy

Flurry. . .Tamper . . .Squiggle. . .Quiver
Fishy. .  .Dribble. . .Freaky. . .Itchy

Dirty. .  . Furry. . .Filthy. . .Stinky

Hurty. . .Blurry. . . Stealthy.. . Blinky
Hairy. . .Smelly. . . Putrid. . .Squatter
Scary. . .Yelly. . .Stupid. . .Fodder

Turning. . . Lying. . . Danger . . .Waver
Squishy. . .Squashy. . .Tumble. . .Tossy
Churning. . .Crying. . .Changer. . . Caver
Wishy. . .Washy. . .Bumble. . .Bossy

Frightened. . .Racing. . . Cower. . .Fleeing
Tightened. . Pacing. . . Anxious. . .Being
Panic. .  . Fearing. . .Trauma. . .Stumble 

Frantic . . Tearing. . . Drama. . . Crumble

Meaty. . . Muddy. . .Messy. . . Chewy
Beady. . .Bloody. . .Fleshy. . .Gooey
Cautious. . .Greyish. . .Oooey. . .Stewy
Nauseous. . .Preyish . . .Ratatouille!

And with that said, I lovingly remain. . .

p.s. Let me just state for the record that - although it conjures up a  messy and out-of-control image for me - I have not abandoned my affection for the word akimbo!