Ryno the Wyno's Cabinet of Curiosities

Listen. I think it’s come to everyone’s attention that I am a weirdo and I am not here to defend myself on that point NOT THAT ANY OF YOU PROBABLY HAVE ANY ROOM TO TALK. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve embraced this quality about myself. And you’re all still here (unless all the views are coming from Tammi opening the link from different IP address – if so, THANKS TAMMI). 

Please note that the links below just take you to previously written content, so don't click them unless you haven't been reading. If you have to click them, reevaluate your life choices and read the previous entries.

Exhibits A and Turtle: I take elaborate, dramatic selfies of myself and my animals to make it appear as though I am suffering because I only have over 40 candles when I could have over 1,000.

Exhibits 2 and also Spaghetti: I take old, innocent family photos and I turn them against the people who raised me and are probably no longer leaving me anything in the will except for some Bath and Body Works candle BECAUSE IT’S FUNNY TO VICTIMIZE THEM LIKE THAT.

Exhibit Red: I peruse Missed Connections and then make up captions about them and redub them “Missed MacGuffins” because CraigsList personals are like reading the “funnies” in the newspaper.

Exhibit Tyrannosaurus Rex: I have meltdowns over Americanized Thai cuisine.

So, faithful readers, let’s get one thing straight before proceeding here. We’re all on the same page. None of what follows should be shocking to you.  

I was getting a pedicure a few weeks back. The nice lady had used a zester on my foot after my feet pruned up for an hour in the pedicure bath and she had moved on to tapping my legs and feet to communicate her expectations, like she just assumed that I knew the pedicurist’s Morse code and would bend at her will. She had tickled my foot by accident, which nearly resulted in a kicky kicky to her face. Not because I wanted to physically assault someone, but because that’s just my natural reflex. And then it happened. The worst of all my compulsions was triggered: the nice lady touched the tips of my toes.

That’s when I started thinking about all my weird phobias, compulsions, habits, and things I simply do not like. In honor of my least favorite day of the year - April Fools Day - I present to you a small sampling of my weirdness.

Toe tips.

Let me start by saying that no one regularly comes around touching the tips of my toes. I just wanted to get that question off of your mind.

HOWEVER, there are certain people who have either (a) assumed they are comfortable enough with me to do so LOOKING AT YOU, HUSBAND or (b) believe that I have paid for such a service to take place.

Let me be clear here – neither a legally binding contract to love each other NOR a payment for a toe clipping and massaging constitutes my consent to have the tips of my toes touched. I don’t know why I hate it as much as I do, but I do. I really, really do. It makes me feel trapped and uneasy and I don’t trust anyone with the tips of my toes.

Sidonglobophobia.

This one’s so real I just discovered that it actually has a name.

Have you ever encountered something that makes you want to cry, vomit, rip your fingernails out, and rub your face against a cheese grater at the same time? I have. The touch, the feel, the fabric of our HELL – cotton balls. I HATE cotton balls.

My first memory of loathing cotton balls was during C.C.D. (for all those who don’t know, this is the peasant version of Catholic school). We were making these innocent looking lambs because, Easter and Jesus, and we had to glue the cotton balls onto blue construction paper. Pretty standard arts and crafts. But the glue got on my fingers, and that’s when all hell broke loose. The cotton balls got stuck to my fingers. I tried to pry them off, but that only led to more stuck cotton hell. It was an actual nightmare. I don’t remember how it ended because, honestly, I don’t think it has ever truly ended.

I now find myself unable to open certain containers of medicine because demonic entities insist on covering the medicine with a layer of cotton hell. My friends torture me by either putting cotton balls under my sheets or making me dig through them for a Christmas gift. Cleaning my ears is torture because of Q-tips. I can hear the disgusting little fibers when people have the audacity to rip a cotton ball apart. I gag if I ever have to touch it and, NOT KIDDING STILL, have the compulsion to rip off my fingernails.

Don't even think about it.

Bottom’s down.

Picture yourself on a hot summer day, slurping down a nice cold lemon and vodkaade. It’s refreshing. It mostly dehydrates you. Your teeth suddenly feel grimy because, 7 cups of sugar. You wonder if this is what Pine Sol tastes like. Ah, yes, nothing like it. You think all of these happy thoughts as the ice cubes hit your face as you try to get down the last bit OF BACKWASH IN THE BOTTOM OF THE GLASS BECAUSE YOU ARE DISGUSTING.

Back wash. GROSS. I know what you’re thinking – basically after the first sip of any beverage, you’re drinking backwash. Rationally, I know this. Irrationally, I don’t care and will keep thinking otherwise, thank you very much.

If you haven’t noticed yet, it is VERY rare that I finish any beverage – there is almost always a little bit left at the bottom that I just throw away (with the exception of wine and beer, as God its non-gendered self did intend). I cannot physically bring myself to finish the bottom of most beverages because it just really makes my gag reflex go out of control. I just can’t keep myself from thinking about what’s floating in highly concentrated forms in that warm liquid.

And now you can't, either.

Candy canes.

This one’s embarrassing because of the weird looks I get whenever I talk about it or, God forbid, do it in front of other people. Having said that, it’s also probably the only legitimate thing on this list because it is likely a super bizarre manifestation of OCD.

As you know, my mother’s name is Tammi and I have talked about her from time to time on this blog. Contrary to what you may have concluded, I do love my mother. She’s the Lorelai to my Rory AND I AM NOT SORRY FOR THE GILMORE GIRLS REFERENCES. But she also put me into trash bags and, unrelatedly, is the reason why I fear candy canes.

Yes. You read that correctly.

Once upon a time I was a weird looking kid going through his 15-year (and still going) “awkward phase” and I was scared of everything. I’d watched The Exorcist at a friend’s house when I was almost to double digits age-wise and I was convinced I was going to go full on head rotation and pea soup vomit at some point in my life. This caused me to be paranoid about basically everything.

So one day Tammi tells me to be careful when I’m eating a candy cane because, and this is going to escalate quickly, EATING PLASTIC WILL RESULT IN A TOTAL BLOCKAGE OF YOUR AIR PASSAGEWAY AND YOU WILL DIE. I’m BARELY exaggerating here, y’all. Tammi told me that the plastic on a candy cane – one of the few innocent things in this world – was out to kill me if I didn’t watch my back. Well, I wasn’t about to let candy canes be ruined for me like pea soup was ruined for me before I even had a chance to try it, so I came up with a solution: wash the candy cane after removal of the plastic and prior to consumption. I’m not kidding. I really thought that water would save my life from the candy cane plastic. YOU GUYS. I really thought I could die from candy cane plastic. I remember doing this in the half bath of my childhood home WHILE I CRIED BECAUSE I WAS SCARED THE CANDY CANE WAS OUT TO GET ME. I am seriously not exaggerating. This all actually happened.

I really do try to not do this anymore, but the compulsion is really hard to fight 90% of the time. I am still scared I didn’t get the plastic off completely and that I might die from eating the candy cane. Most of the time, I just avoid them completely, living a life without candy canes.

THANKS FOR NOTHING, TAMMI.

Mint.

Before you ask, no I don’t hate mint. I do, however, have a strange habit that involves mint.

There are few things in life that you can try before you buy. Maybe some cheap meatballs while you’re perusing around Sam’s Club. Or maybe any flavor of Coke Freestyle because who’s going to stop you really? How about at the local FroYo with those cute little cups and spoons for samples? Or Jimmy John’s free smells? Your grandmother’s jewelry that you hope she leaves you in the will but you want to make sure goes with your complexion first? Okay, so there are a lot of things you can try before you buy, but don’t you want to know about another one? You do.

Well, let me tell you. Another one is Life Saver Mints. Any variety. And no, this does not involve theft. You don’t even have to open the bag.

Instructions for taste testing unopened Life Saver Mints:

1. Pick a flavor, any flavor.

2. Pick up the bag.

3. PUT YOUR WHOLE FACE ON IT WITH YOUR MOUTH OPEN.

4. Breathe in. Taste the fray-esh-ness.

Go forth and prosper. YOU ARE WELCOME.

People liking their own status updates.

WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN. No, that is not a question even though it is clearly written as one because, ~creative license~. Listen, I get it. Okay, I lied, I really don’t get why anyone would ever like their own status update. It actually really bothers me. It takes all I have to not block these monsters and their terrible social media habits when I see it happen.

But I do get the sickness that is social media. We all try to validate our lives through social media. Like everyone else, I routinely cry in a corner, rip my hair out, and eat Ben and Jerry’s from my dog’s bowl if I don’t get at least 20 likes on a post about the blog and at least 150 views. YES, 20 LIKES AND 150 VIEWS IS ALL IT TAKES TO BUY MY LOVE AND ADORATION. But, you guys. HAVE SOME DIGNITY. At least in public, anyway. I know that’s probably weird for me to say given this blog, but whatever. I preach, don’t practice.

Here’s the bottom line: the fact that someone even posted the status in the first place should indicate that s/he like it. We’re all smart enough to put the pieces together to understand that much I HOPE. If you ever feel the need to like your own status, please, wait for at least three other people to like it first. We'll all still judge you, but at least less so. Maybe. Probably the same amount. Just don't do it.

People who sit directly behind, in front, or to the side of you in an otherwise empty movie theater.

Listen. I know life is full of tough choices. But when the world is your oyster aka the movie theater is empty except for me and whoever I came to the movie with, your choices are pretty much limitless and not difficult. I don’t know you and now I don’t like you because you make bad decisions. I want to like you. That maybe isn’t true, but I do want you to make better choices so we can both benefit from it. So please:

I’d say that I was going to work on overcoming these things, but realistically I don’t want to and/or it's going to be really costly to hire that specialist, and I could spend that money on candles instead.