Parental Dictionary: Wool

While watching the Oscars…

Mom: Why doesn’t Woody Allen ever go to the Oscars?What’s his problem?

Tootsie: I’m not sure, I think he’s angoraphobic so that might be it.

Mom: “Angora”-phobic?

Tootsie: Yeah, “angora”-phobic.

Mom: “Angora”-phobic?

Tootsie: Yes! What?! That’s a word! Angoraphobic! Fear of crowds!

Mom: That’s a-g-o-r-a-p-h-o-b-i-c! What’s “angoraphobic?” Fear of sweaters?

Tootsie: Bitch.

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Bear Attack!

I have an irrational fear of bears.

I wish I could explain it to you better than that but I can’t.

And not only am I afraid of bears, but I am afraid of them in the most irrational places. Those irrational places being EVERYWHERE.

Taking a delightful stroll at sunset in my non-bear-inhabited neighborhood? BEAR ATTACK.

Walking in and out of the non-bear-inhabited gym? BEAR ATTACK.

Riding “It’s a Small World” in Disney World? BEAR ATTACK.

Looking for tuna in the supermarket–uh-oh bears like fish don’t they–? BEAR ATTACK!

I am constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure a hungry grizzly isn’t lurking in the background, which is quite stressful! I can’t go to the zoo or follow Chicago-area sports! And until I get over this unpleasant phobia I will continue perfecting the slowly walking away, and helicopter arm-swinging I am told will put an aggressive bear in its place if they ever approach me. I guess it’s my cross to bear.

Or my bear to cross.

And now some music, courtesy of Grizzly Bear, “Two Weeks.” (I’m sorry, I thought the song would be about a Grizzly Bear, how misleading…)