Gag me with a wooden spoon!

I find it hard to believe that I've now had two people in my life confess that they hate sock feet.

My friend, Sara, as well as my roommate, Katie, despise socks if they're filled with feet. They also despise feet that are covered in socks.

Katie recently said that she really tries to be understanding when someone wants to wear socks around their own home, considering it is their home and not hers. However, she doesn't like it.

Upon such confession, my other roommate, Emily, admitted that the way Katie feels about socks is similar to the way she feels about the chocolatey shell of a Dairy Queen chocolate dip cone. It just rubs her the wrong way.

My sister, Ashley, hates wooden utensils. She has such a hatred for them that it is truly more a fear than a distaste (which is funny because you could not pay her to taste anything on a wooden utensil, not even on a popsicle stick). If you approach her with a wooden spoon, she will run.

What is it that causes such aversions? Is it something that happened to us when we were younger and we just don't realize it?

Although I admit that there are a number of things I prefer to steer clear of, the most common is unstirred cottage cheese (though a very close second is sweet potatoes). It almost makes me queasy just typing the words. Something about it just does me in.

I was thinking about this scenario the other day, and I decided it would be terrible. Imagine if the queen came over for dinner and Ashley and I had to serve her cottage cheese. However, upon entering the kitchen, which we could not leave until we served her, we discovered that the cottage cheese was unstirred and the kitchen was equipped with only wooden utensils.

We can't phone a friend because we have no cell phone service. We can't even create smoke signals because we're enclosed in the kitchen. And, on this one, unusual day, my telepathy seems to be failing me entirely.

If Ashley were to stir it with her hands, it would be unsanitary, and the queen deserves a properly sanitized meal.

Even as a seasoned FPS participant, I feel completely at a loss. We'd probably have to ask the queen to stir the cottage cheese herself. And if we're asking the queen to do all the work anyway, she probably won't ever want to come back over for her daily lunch of cottage cheese (that queen is one light eater).

I realize that I will someday have to overcome my fear of unstirred cottage cheese. But it's not the worst fear in the world to have, and it's certainly easy to avoid.

Just imagine if you were afraid of the toilet. Or showering. Or bathrooms in general. That would be a crippling fear.

I think that Fear Factor should do an Average Joes episode, where they bring on people who are afraid of super common things.

And, Howie Mandel, from Deal or No Deal can be a celebrity guest, since he is afraid of being touched.

It would be a really big hit, because no one would understand why, exactly, Sara and Katie are afraid of sock feet. They'd have to have a duel, wearing socks and no shoes, and they'd have to cover their hands with socks too. Just to make it even more intense.

By the end of the show, Ashley would be serving me sweet potatoes and unstirred cottage cheese.

The queen can come too.

George Herman Ruth and John Chapman don't sound nearly as cool as Babe Ruth and Johnny Appleseed.

John Mellencamp made it cool to grow up in a small town. But, what Mellencamp failed to cover was the difference between a town that is small and a real, live, small town.

In a small town, everything shuts down on Friday nights in the fall for home football games. You can't go to the grocery without seeing someone you know, and you're surprised when you see a new face. In a small town, people have tabs at local convenience stores or coffee shops.

Most importantly, a true, blue, small town, has a haunted spot. The actual story behind such spot varies from town to town, but they all run along a similar line.

Zionsville, Indiana, was very much a small town during the time I grew up.

Our haunted spot is the infamous Holiday Road. It used to be called O'Neal Road, but the name was changed in order to make it more appealing. In a way, though, the connotation surrounding holiday is similar to the scariness of clowns. There is just something a little creepy about it.

The actual story of why Holiday Road is haunted definitely varies. However, the story I have chosen to believe goes like this: One evening long ago, on prom night, a couple was driving into town for their senior prom. He was the captain of the football team and she was the head cheerleader. The couple would surely be crowned prom king and queen. They were driving over the bridge on Holiday Road, and the car slid into the water, killing them both. The couple still haunts the bridge, hoping to finally make it to their prom. (It's so Susie Q that it's scary.)

Now, the challenge is to drive onto the bridge, turn off your car, take the key out of the ignition, and restart it. The activity is considered especially successful if you are with your high school sweetheart.

Loving to be scared as I do, I of course, had to partake in the challenge.

So, one cold January's eve, my friend Jenna and I, along with about six boys, drove out to the bridge. Just as we were going down the last hill before the old bridge, I drove over a patch of ice, slid into a ditch and hit a tree. We spent the next hour or so pushing the huge SUV out of the ditch, absolutely freezing.

The next day, I was talking to my sisters, Courtney and Ashley, about the whole debacle, and Courtney said, "Well how big is the dent?" I said, "Oh, not that big." And she said, "How big was the tree?" And I said, "Not that big, more like a twig than a tree..."

Ever since then, Courtney has proceeded to call me Twigs (this nickname very well may be the only positive outcome of Holiday Road.)

My sisters, like myself, understand the importance of a good nickname. I really judge whether a relationship will last on the quality of nicknames.

I once dated a guy and I had the best nickname for him. Unfortunately, all he came up with for me was "Whit". I knew we probably we're not soul mates. He lacked the initiative and creativity necessary to propel the relationship forward with a good nickname.

My entire extended family embraces nicknames; even if we don't all go by incredibly original nicknames, we shorten everything. We're too efficient for crazy two syllable things like Whitney, it's always Whit.

During the height of my Jackie obsession, I told my mom I wanted to one day name my daughter Kennedy (judge me). Instead of confessing that this idea was a little weird, she took a different angle. She said, "Well, what would we call her? Ken? Or Ned?"

Right then and there, I knew the name needed to be forgotten.

Although the dented-SUV has long since been retired and Jenna and I have parted ways, the nickname certainly stuck.

I guess it's only appropriate that Holiday Road has also been shut down for safety reasons. It seems symbolic that Zionsville is growing so quickly that it can no longer be called a small town and we no longer fulfill the mandated criteria of a haunted spot.

Luckily, my mom still has a tab at the coffee shop on Main Street. Once they take that away, I'll be concerned that Zionsville is trying to morph into New York City or something.

You can't sit with us!

"You can't wear a tank top two days in a row and you can only wear your hair in a ponytail once a week. So I guess you picked today. Oh, and we only wear jeans or track pants on Fridays. Now, you break any of these rules, you can't sit with us at lunch." Mean Girls

I'm a rules person.

Not in the sense that I don't talk in libraries or that I abide by the fasten your seatbelt icon on airplanes. Those rules are a little silly. However, I am a fan of self-induced rules, especially in the pursuit of a goal.

For example, one year, I was planning on going to New York with my friend Callie. So, for a month before the trip, I made a rule that I couldn't use my credit card at all. And if I did use it, I wasn't allowed to buy anything on the trip and I had to buy Callie dinner.

Another time, I wanted this new Lacoste shirt, so I made a rule that I had to do 30 push-ups every day for a month in order to purchase it. If I missed even one day, no shirt.

The more extreme the goal, the more extreme the rules. And, the rules do not have to be in pursuit of something (ie: The Two Week rule for shirts in middle school.)

My roommate, Katie, taught me a rule for relationships.

She recently met a boy who told her about his friend who inspired a new rule to be created. (Recap: Boy A is friends with Boy B. Boy A had a traumatic relational experience that inspired Boy B to create a new rule. Katie met Boy B who taught her said rule.)

Boy A met a girl at a Super Bowl party. Maybe it was the chips and salsa, maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the football spirit, but Boy A and the girl fell in love quickly.

They dated for the rest of the winter and spring, got engaged quickly, and were married before the following football season began.

Unfortunately, the poor girl didn't realize just how obsessed with football Boy A was, as the couple was too busy trying to keep up with Dale Earnhardt Jr. to notice.

Throughout football season, she became so frustrated with Boy A for his pigskin passion that she had to file for divorce. The young couple was divorced before the following Super Bowl.

So, Boy B made a rule for his relationships. He said that you should always date someone for all four seasons before committing to them.

I think this is actually an incredibly smart rule.

I mean, what if you get married without ever spending a summer together, and you don't realize that you, the Olympic swimmer, is actually married to someone who is allergic to chlorine. What are you going to do when it's 1000 degrees out and he won't go to the pool?

Or, what if your favorite holiday is Grandparent's Day, and your husband is so estranged from his grandparents that he won't let you celebrate it?

Paris Hilton, a real rule follower if you ask me, watched a graphic video about animal rights. Afterward she said, "From that point, I've never worn fur and I never will. I also haven't eaten any meat since. I just survive on pasta and stuff like that. I was grossed out. It was disgusting."

I hope that Paris and Benji Madden might consider my rule before taking anything to the next level. They've already been together for four months, so they're about one third of the way there.

Can you imagine what would happen if they get married this summer, and Paris doesn't realize that Benji has been eagerly awaiting National Meatloaf Appreciation Day on October 18? It could get pretty intense.

I think Paris could come to terms with it though, as she has previously expressed a conflicting opinion about animals: “Every woman should have four pets in her life. A mink in her closet, a jaguar in her garage, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass who pays for everything.”

She does tend to push the rules.

I totally rejected that 11&12-cabin-snack-boy.

I walked into a building today that smelled exactly like the cabins at Camp Eberhart. The smell, combined with the extreme heat, took me directly back to the hot summer weeks spent there when I was young.

The memory triggered most clearly by this olfactory sensation was of nap time, the period of the day between lunch and afternoon activities. Seeing as most of us were between nine and fourteen years old, nap time was really for the counselors.

You know? When you're little, you take naps because you need them to survive the intense day of growing, playing and imagining. After that, for a good six years, you hate naps. Then, the average person (my family not included) learns to enjoy naps again. So, the beloved nap time was really for those college kids.

I remember we would lay in our beds in the 100 degree cabins, writing letters home (we were gone for six whole days, now) and waiting, just waiting for the snacks to be delivered.

We'd whisper quietly, only to be hushed by the counselors trying to sleep, and stare out the windows.

Every camper had an account at the store that their parents paid off at the end of the week, so you could pretty much order anything you wanted at the store. My personal favorite were the Sour Skittles.

Some lucky person was assigned the job of going to the store to get the snacks that day. It was a coveted job for a few reasons: 1) You got to be outside during most of nap time. 2) You got to talk to the other snack people. 3) (Most importantly) You got the snacks first.

It was a little bit tricky because you actually had to journey quite a long distance with a heavy, blue plastic crate full of candy, chips and drinks for the entire cabin of hungry girls.

I remember one time, when I was the snack girl on Wednesday, the 11&12 cabin snack boy asked me to go to the dance with him on Friday. Unfortunately, I was only in the 9&10 cabin. I told him this, but of course, he did not believe me.

He said, "I know you're in 11&12, you just don't want to go with me to the dance."

And I said, "Actually, I'm in 9&10. I'm just tall. And we're having an ice cream social."

And then he probably was either (a.) Feeling rejected or (b.) jealous we were having an ice cream social, and all he got to do was go to the dance (alone, apparently).

I'd imagine he was probably more concerned about the ice cream. Luckily, the snacks were soon delivered, and he got a Drumstick, so his ice cream desires were temporarily satisfied.

To be completely honest, it scares me a little that I still have such a keen recollection of the entire saga, down to the ice cream he was eating (and the fact that it quickly melted and dripped on his red Nike shirt before we parted ways at the 9&10-11&12 split) .

But, that's the beauty of those olfactory bulbs. I'm just glad that the room I walked into this morning didn't smell like the infirmary at Eberhart, because the time I skinned my knee while playing capture the flag was the worst! I'm not trying to relive that.

*Note: I'd like to apologize for failing to blog on the 40th anniversary of Robert F. Kennedy's assassination. I understand that you may question my devotion the the Kennedy family due to this failure (Courtney, ahem), but I promise my oversight is not due to a lack of concern for their well being. I was just distracted by playing in the sun.