The Young One happened to glance at the title of this post, and said:
“Uh…no – there isn’t.”
I will accept any and all praise you care to shower upon me regarding the fact I have not killed this child yet.
At any rate, the subject of this week’s Spin Cycle is “quirks.” Not quarks, as I had originally read it and, frankly, rejoiced – writing about sub-atomic particles phases me not a bit. But quirks? My quirks? Ye gods – how much time do you have?
For somewhere there is a therapist’s couch with my name on it. I may never repose upon it, but that doesn’t matter: it’s there. Waiting. Knowing I have stories to tell that will get its owner not only published in prestigious psychoanalysis journals, but garner them a sweet movie-of-the-week deal, as well.
If my kids start blabbing, that couch’s owner may find himself paired up with Oprah several times a month.
Anyhoo…quirks. My quirks. Oh, there are a few of them, but for brevity’s sake I’ll narrow it down to one. Yes, I know you’re all exceedingly grateful; I’ll let you know where you can send donations later. As for my offspring and spouse: anyone who decides to use the comments section to expound, expand, illuminate or enumerate on or about this topic in any manner other than one that is completely and irrevocably favorable will find themselves the subject of The Wrath of Mom. And you really don’t want that, do you?
I didn’t think so.
So. Anyhoo. I think it’s fair to say that I am not an organized person. In fact, saying I am not an organized person is a bit of an understatement. I don’t know why and after 46 years it’s pretty obvious there isn’t anything I can really do about it. Both of my sons have inherited this trait (sorry, boys). Perhaps it skips a generation; my mother was incredibly organized and so is Darling Daughter. Hmmmm…now that I think about it, that’s not the only character trait they share. Wow – there’s a post lurking in there somewhere.
I am, however, very methodical. To the point of being OCD methodical. If you teach me to do something in a certain order, I will do it that way until doomsday (or I have to stop doing it, which ever comes first). It will irritate me if I cannot, for whatever reason, do that task in that order – and it will irritate me if YOU don’t do that task in that order. Driving is a good example – once I drive somewhere, I will take the same route to get there for the rest of, well, forever. It’ll get to the point to where I get in the car and say to myself, “Okay – going to work. Yes. Good.” Then I go completely on auto-pilot – I’m so used to driving to work using the same route I’ll often pull up in the parking lot with absolutely no memory of driving there. I drive that same route so often that I don’t have to think about it, so I think about blogging cooking sex just about anything else.
Beloved, on the other hand (who is, yes, a member of the Organized Tribe) never drives the same route twice if he can help it. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know, although if forced to speculate I’d say it’s because he has a penis and is compelled by that completely male desire to shave 3/10 of a second off of his driving time so he can claim he truly knows the shortest route to Home Depot. This is bad for me in more ways than one: it completely foozles me because I also have an absolutely non-existent sense of direction. I never learn how to get from point A to point B by driving somewhere with Beloved.
Another good example is turning on my computer. I have applications I use, without fail, every day – most notably my email client, my web browser, QuickBooks, Photoshop and Dreamweaver. When my computer is booted up, I open these applictions in the order I just listed them, and they stay open in that order until I turn my computer off. If one of these applications crashes and I have to open it up again, it irritates me that it is not open in the place it should be, and I have to fight off an impulse to save all of my work, close all of the other applications and then reopen them in the “correct” order (sometimes the impulse wins).
I could go on and on – this quirk of mine really takes over in the kitchen and I could write entire essays about which pan is used to cook which dish, but I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say no one f@%!$ with my omelet/crepe pan and if you’re going to fry bacon in my house you’d better bigod know how to go about it. Nor will we go into (in any detail, anyway) my incredibly anal grocery shopping habits; not only must I shop each aisle in a certain order, but in a certain direction as well.
So there you go. Courtesy of Sprite’s Keeper, you now know what a complete nutjob I really am.
Not that you didn’t have a pretty good idea already.