Phobia is such a pretty girl when she smiles.

"I'm obsessed, thank you very much."

When Kirby said that to Dale, I could identify. Obsession, fear, phobia...these are words that speak to me.

And when I don't take the pretty pills, I speak to them.

Disclaimer: That was a joke, kids. This OCD Chick does not take pretty pills. I prefer to crawl up on my crazy board and ride the waves of madness wherever they may take me.

As summer is dang near upon us and my son, AKA Big Dog, gets out of school this week, that means vacations are soon to follow.

In the words of the great Charlie Brown, "ugh".

I say "ugh" not because I don't enjoy trip taking, 'cause Lord knows no one appreciates a good trip like me. I say "ugh" because with vacations come obsessions and with obsessions come fear and with fear comes compulsions. It's like being on a mental merry-go-round with Jack Nicholson running the ride.

One of my biggies are malls. Don't like them, don't like people who do like them. In my opinion, no good can come from a mall.

It's not that I have anything against a nice Orange Julius and a Payless BOGO. Who doesn't love paying $8.00 for a watered down drink made just for you by an acne covered 17 year old boy who thinks that sign warning employees to wash their hands before returning to work only applies if the number two is involved?

Its just that malls were created by Satan, that's all.

My beautiful son wants with his whole heart and soul to see the Mall of America this summer. Damn the Travel Channel anyway. He is captivated by the idea that we can buy a shirt, ride a roller coaster and walk underneath sharks without ever having to leave one building.

While he envisions days of retail glee, I see days of tics, queasy stomach and wondering why I didn't get my doctor to give me a xanex Pez dispenser with a Freud head.

Some weeks ago my Kitten and I went shopping in a mall that although large for the land of milo and RV's simply would not compare to the Mall of America. For about the first thirty minutes, everything was going famously. I was dutifully following her into stores and even picking up a few things myself. I thought maybe I'd been cured by one of those late night evangelists when I touched the TV screen.

That was until we went to the second floor. I don't care for second floors, nor do I care for any floors above the second. I'm a first floor kind of girl.

While she was looking at a size double zero pair of pants in a store that was packed wall to wall with other double zero girls, I felt the floor move. I did. I swear. I immediately knew something had to be horribly awry with the construction of the mall as there was no way all those double zero girls collectively weighed enough to make anything shake.

I was sure the whole jalopy was going to come tumbling down and I was going to die feeling fat and old and without ever having known how a person becomes so skinny that their clothing sizes start actually going in the negative numbers.

Forget for a minute the fact that buildings more than one story don't make logical sense and will eventually all fall to the ground. Malls are breeding grounds for germs. Think about it. Hundreds or even thousands of people all closed up tight in a giant cement and glass bubble.

People sneezing and coughing and spitting and rubbing their noses and touching hand rails and hangers and doors.

Again I say, "ugh".

So how does this obsessive-compulsive Mom who loves her son more than pretty dang near anything (but entirely equal to my Kitten) tell him he can't go to the Mall of America? How do I tell him that instead of taking trips and staying in hotels and walking under sharks we'll stay in our one-story home, snuggle up and read the King James version of the Bible?

How 'bout this?

Dear Son,
The Mall of America fell down. Pop some corn and wait for me in the recliner.
Love,
Mom





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