I have been tagged by DD over at Knocked Up... Then Knocked Down. My brain always tells me to step back from the meme slowly and then dart off when it least expects it, but then my brain is still stuck in the you-can't-tell-me-what-to-do and this-round-peg-won't-fit-in-that-square-hole mentality of my late teens. I find that it's best to ignore my brain as a general rule.

Which brings me to the memey bit, which will be very hard on my inner twenty-year-old who's still stomping around in jack boots, a chelsea haircut, and rolling her own cigarettes. The thirty-something me that is sitting here in my bathrobe, though, is going to tag six of your asses at the end of this.

Six Weird Things About Me

1. When I go grocery shopping, I have to walk up and down every single aisle in the store in order from first to last. If I don't, I experience a claustrophobic panic that tightens my chest. If the Fiery One bypasses a couple of aisles to grab a carton of eggs, I will invariably say something like no, not yet and steer us down the next aisle in the proper order of aisles, which is very important, oh gawd, don't look over there, I see you thinking about heading over to the dairy section, what do you want to hurt my brain or something?!

2. Until I was about nineteen or twenty, I thought that my virgin wool sweaters came from sheep that had never had sex.

3. When someone says He's just like everyone else. He puts his pants on one leg at a time, I know how special I am, because I have always put my pants on both legs at the same time. Sometimes, depending on the pants and where I am, it can be a struggle that involves awkward squirming on the floor, but I'm a die-hard two-legger.

4. I just asked the Fiery One to tell me what is weird about me, and he says that the fact that I have to remove all jewellery except my earrings before we have sex is weird. In fact, he cocked his head and arched an eyebrow at me while he said Now, that's weird. Maybe I am just hyper-sensitive, but I find that rings and necklaces and whatnot become physically irritating when were stuffing the beaver (oh c'mon, I'm Canadian). They're like little gnats in my face at a picnic.

5. I go through phases in which I struggle with electrophobia. Ever since I was a teenager, I experience lesser and greater levels of the fear of electricity depending on my stress. It usually manifests itself in my inability to plug something in or to unplug something or to do either without becoming paralyzed with tension. A couple of weeks ago, I loaded up our portable dishwasher, wheeled it over to the sink, and froze. I was going to have to put that three-pronged plug, the scariest plug of all, into that outlet above the counter. It is always embarrassing to have to call the Fiery One over and have him witness my stiff pose with an electrical cord held out from my body, unable to walk away from the situation until something is done about the thing that requires electricity and the thing that will mediate between the devil fire from the wall and the object that toasts or washes or drips coffee. When I feel particularly anxious, even the alarm clock's possible fire-starting abilities can nag at my brain.

6. I pluck my nose hair. It is painful but effective at keeping those wiley little suckers from poking out in clumps and making me look more and more every year like those ball-cap wearing old men in small towns who seem to have more nose hair than they know what to do with.

Six of you are tagged, and six of you will likely not acknowledge the tagging, but I will not take it personally, because that would be stoopid:
The Mincemeat Vixen
Cactus Jelly
Working from Home Today