Category Archives: Bizarre

Things that make me woozy

You know, sometimes it’s a wonder I can function in normal society. In addition to aviophobia, claustrophobia, coulrophobia and atychiphobia, I also suffer (not surprisingly) from acrophobia — fear of heights.

OK, so I’m not really afraid of clowns. That’s more a nod to my good fiend Stoney. But back to me.

Of the aforementioned, I’d say only two are bona fide “phobias,” meaning that I have a persistent, unrealistic, irrational fear that causes me significant anxiety. That would be my fear of suffocation and fear of heights (although a more accurate description might be bathophobia — fear of falling from a high place).

Are you surprised that aviophobia didn’t make the short list? That’s because while I hate, hate, loathe flying, I will do it if I have to, on occasion. That is, if there is absolutely no other remotely feasible way for me to reach my destination other than going 30,000 feet in the air, I’ll take a plane. But you’ll never, ever, ever in your long-legged life get me to walk a ledge, or even get close to one. Been there, done that, hated it.

I’ve jerked to consciousness from dreaming about it, and I’ve shaken off thoughts of it while awake. It’s insane.

I came across a collection of awesome old photos from New York City this morning that pretty much illustrate my fear. Check these out:

Ew. I also hate crossing suspended bridges, which I suppose is an extension of the fear of falling from high places. I’m not as bad as this poor gal, but I do not enjoy the experience.

Some people have giggled at my weirdness, saying things like, “Hey, when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go,” and “You could fall from three feet up and still die.” Yeeaaaaaaaaaah BUT…I have no interest whatsoever in aiding and abetting the eventuality. Knowm sayin’?

All right, I’m off to breakfast with Mavis. At Friendly’s, where everything’s at ground level.

Happy Sumday!

Hard to believe

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…that these advertisements took place in the last 50-70 years. Illustrates how much we’ve learned in a very short time, comparatively. I think they’re kind of funny, in a tragic sort of way.

Remember when smoking was allowed everywhere? When people smoked on airplanes, in movie theaters, in the grocery, the bank, and in schools? When doctors smoked in their offices?

This isn’t a nicotine bashing, and I’d prefer it not turn into that. Lots of people I love have been and still are smokers, so please temper your comments about it; we all know it’s an unhealthy habit. Rather, my point this morning is to illustrate how long it took for modern medicine to figure out that smoking was bad, especially since folks have smoked for over 200 years.

So that is what I wonder this day. Forty-eight more hours, forty-eight more hours, forty-eight more hours…

Honestly.

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I mean, cripes. Who really thinks these are attractive?

Seriously. It’s like stilettos with great horrible growths. Wicked Witch of the West shoes. Man kickers (ouch). Sorry fiends, but they are just butt ugly to me. So are the pumpy versions:

How these could be marginally flattering to any kind of foot is beyond my apparently limited comprehension.

I know, I know. Men have an inherent weakness for pointy heels, and maybe that affinity leaks over into pointy toes as well. Personally, I see machete-sharp, leather outcroppings jutting from underneath dress slacks (or worse, jeans, ugh) and I think, “Ew. Antithesis of sexy.” Don’t get me wrong: I like to wear sassy, smart shoes and boots. But I fail to see how these monstrosities could be considered even remotely feminine or flattering. I wear a size 5, and they’d make my feet look gargantuan. I can’t imagine them on a size 9 foot. Just write PT-73 on ’em.

But hey. If you want fancy leather cake servers sticking out from under your pantaloons, you just knock yourself out. I’ll be over here, relaxing in my moccasins.

Hoo-ah. Had a great night with Justin and Jake last night. Justin’s still sawing logs, and Jake is relaxing with Dora the Explorer at the moment, so Grammie is taking a few minutes to read and write. Later today is the marathon candy-making jamboree at the Fink house, where I will be joined by Helen, Hannah, Mavis, Jane and Simone. Fun will be had, and chocolate will be taste-tested. Yay for Chocodiles. We won’t have the heavy yellow cake, but Twinkies will do the trick, I’m thinking.

Radiation, anyone?

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I must tell you I knew nothing about this until I ran across it last night. Aside from its carcinogenic benefits, it had to be the greatest marketing ploy anywhere. The text from a radio commercial, circa 1948:

We know that once you buy shoes that are scientifically fitted, you will shop at <<STORE NAME>> all of the time.”

I’ll bet. Of course, we’re talking about the Shoe Fitting Fluoroscope — a contraption into which a customer slid his feet to view the bone structure inside a new pair of shoes. Children and women used it most, along with the salesmen, all of whom were blissfully ignorant of the dandy effects of scatter radiation.

The latest use of this gadget predates me by about 10 years, but I’m surprised that I never heard about them from the adults in my life (especially since I lived in Milwaukee, where many of the things were manufactured). Mavis, do you remember anyone ever talking about them? I don’t.

Anyway, the salesperson would fill out a card on each customer, thereby enabling him/her to recommend the right shoe. Again, brilliant marketing. If you could get a Fluoroscope in your store, the trap was set. All you needed to do was wait for the fish to take the bait.

Many of the comments I’ve read about them come from people now in their 60s and 70s, who thought it was fun as kids to line up in the shoe department and play on the Fluoroscope while Mom shopped. I imagine it would have been a hoot back then to look into the viewfinder and see your foot bones — like you were Ray Milland in The Man With the X-Ray Eyes, a movie that scared the snot out of me when I was ten years old.