You can’t really argue. We’ve all got them. Insignificant telltale signs which make us unique. These very personal oddities don’t require a label or diagnosis from a highly educated professional. We’re perfectly fine. Really. Except for a few crazy quirks.
I’ll start. One of my Mom’s favorite colors was orange. For a time during the 1970’s she had orange kitchen cupboards, plus loud curtains and bedspreads sprinkled liberally with orange, lemon yellow and avocado. I like orange too. My high school colors were orange and black. I can picture a couple of tops in my closet right now that are orange.
When we moved to Jackson 4 years ago, we had our bathroom gutted and remodeled. I couldn’t decide on a color scheme for accessories. Rugs, towels. I’ve never embraced the theme of bath, hand towels, wash cloths, with matching rugs. It’s just too much. Wash cloths are my downfall. I can’t buy matching ones because they’re usually way too plush and thick. So my bath towels are deep plum color and match nothing. My stack of hand towels are stripes of grey/turquoise/black/tan striped with another couple along the same line but with periwinkle/maroon/black/tan. (I am a hater of any bathroom accessories containing white. Think make up, dirty hands, shoes, feet and toothpaste). Then I bought a dozen colorful wash cloths-just for my face. Robust, bright colors, not too plush, but just the right thickness. Because I’m worth it. Yellow, lime, hot pink, lavender, aqua and orange. But I had an immediate aversion to the orange wash cloths. Makes no sense. Whenever I open the cupboard for a clean wash cloth and an orange one is sitting on top, I gently place it on the bottom of the pile. This way I have several preferable colors before I have to turn away one of the 2 orange ones. The easy way out is just to remove the 2 orange wash rags from my rotation, yet I’m compelled to leave the two offensive orange ones with the rest of their siblings. They never get washed so remain a bit brighter than the others. This my friends is one of my quirks. But I’ve accepted this handicap and moved on with my life. For now.
Facebook posts. Not so much memes friends post, most of them make me laugh out loud. (Not even going to start on the political crap-for now-I’m still ignoring them). Stay strong Neese, scroll right on by or hide those suckers from your newsfeed. Don’t get pulled in, there is no chance of reasoning or winning. Ever. But once in a while someone posts something so vague, I can’t imagine what they need, or are even trying to say. These are different than when a member of your family is facing a serious health issue they’re not ready to share, thus only prayers are requested without any details. I’m fine with this vagueness. The posts that trip my trigger will read something like this: “Well, that made me feel like shit today.” No explanation, nothing further. Do you give it a thumbs up, a heart, a wow? Any comment is borderline crazy because you might really be indicating the wrong thing. So you’re left out in the nether regions with a furrowed brow thinking, why even post something like this? What are they trying to achieve? Makes no sense. Makes me nuts (maybe that was their goal all along). Ha, guess they showed me. Well played vague Facebook post. This is one of my (many) irks.
Some of you must have issues with robo calls. Most of these calls will originate from your own area code. Their rationale is you’re more likely to answer the call if it’s local. My robo call randomness seems to go in spurts. One day I might get 6, then nothing for a day or 2, followed by a phone feeding frenzy from everywhere. I haven’t had a call from intimidating, female monotone “courthouse official” saying they’re issuing an arrest warrant for me in a while, so that’s been a pleasant respite. But I have had a half dozen calls from freaking Liberia. What in the world is that about? I’ve pretty much accepted there are approximately 2 dozen people in the world who might want or need to call me occasionally. Everyone who’s actually friend or family knows of my hearing loss. So they text, iMessage or use messenger. (A note about me and my friend the messenger. I like to think of it as a means to have a private conversation with someone (or several someones) without using an actual phone. I’m not crazy about memes sent to me to be forwarded. I don’t and won’t. Isn’t that what Facebook’s about? Wanna talk to me, use iMessage or messenger. Want me to see something funny, post it on Facebook. It’ll be on my newsfeed, not to worry. I follow all my friends). I guess our government is tired of hearing folks complaining about robo calls and is looking for ways to stop them. Yup robo calls are a definite irk.
I might have a problem with toilet paper. Sigh. Since I’m the one who removes and replaces the roll (it has to be Northern-does this qualify as a quirk? Asking for a friend). I place the roll going under with the paper against the wall or cabinet. It’s just the person I am, although I’m in the minority on this from what I hear from the haters. Everyone else in the world puts the roll on ass backwards over the top. I’m not trying to change anyone else’s mind, but as for me and my house, the roll shall remain ‘going down under.’
So I made a small turkey (with all the fixings) last Sunday because it’s Landon’s favorite meal (he leaves for Holy Cross soon). There were 10 of us but I’m discounting Jovi, the Hubs, Landon’s girl friend Lainie because she’s never been to our house before, (therefore uninformed of my toilet paper rules), and me from this dastardly incident. One of the remaining 6 suspects replaced the toilet paper roll-GOING THE WRONG WAY. In my own house. Yup, that’s the thanks I get for cooking a great meal including fresh peach cobbler and strawberry pie. I’m thinking of hiring Liam Neeson, including his phone. He will find you. You’ve been warned. Irked-up a notch.
Little did I know 4 years ago when I attended Landon’s first varsity basketball game that I was starting a tradition that would require absolutely no changes in the way I kept stats on the kid during his prolific high school career. I bought this small, neat leather journal to use. At the time I didn’t know how much information I wanted to keep so part of his freshman season is a bit sparse. But I got better at counting his minutes of playing time and some stats I didn’t deem very important but others do. Like assists, rebounds, turnovers, fouls. I was all about the minutes played and points. But I got in a certain rhythm with his stats. I’d chart the date, opponent, if he started on top. Draw dividing lines (not always very straight) to track each quarter. Down the left side I’d start with LU (layup), J (jumper), 3 (3 point shot) and FT (free throw). Skip a couple lines and follow with the rest that didn’t get tracked as well, adding minutes and the score. Twice in 4 years I veered off course with some disastrous results. Once I forget the journal at home and had to use a scratch pad. Number 3 had an off kilter game, plus they lost when they should have won. The second time I messed up I filled out this sheet at home on the afternoon of the game. Wrong. I needed to do this while I watched him warm up right before tip off. Duh. Not good for Landon’s game. My fault. Sorry dude. Quirk.
Inanimate objects. My anger has no boundaries. Dumb stuff like dropping the end of a radish or a lid on the floor. Missing when I try and scoop it up. Twice. Or not paying attention and miss the doorknob hauling in 3 bags of groceries. Certainly all these little blips from life are my fault-maybe that’s why I get so irked. But from failing to snag a Kleenex to trying to start a grocery list when the first 4 pens will not write-truly drives me nuts. Irk.
What remains? Oh right, still my # 1-irk of the decade. Driver’s who camp out in the left lane. How can it be so hard to pass a car and return to the right lane? Do you feel threatened when someone wants to drive faster than 68 or 71? Not your fault or responsibility. Let them get the ticket. Laugh when they get pulled over. It’s the small joys that give your life meaning. Give them (me) some space and move over…